Rebus slipped off his stool and circuited the dance floor. The toilets were signposted down a passageway. He went inside and listened to someone in one of the cubicles snorting something. Then he washed his hands and waited. The toilet flushed, the lock clicked, and a young man in a suit came out. Rebus had his warrant card ready.

‘You’re under arrest,’ he said. ‘Anything you say –’

‘Hey, wait a minute!’ The man still had flecks of white powder in his nostrils. He was mid-twenties, lower management struggling to be middle. His jacket wasn’t expensive, but at least it was new. Rebus pushed him against the wall, angled the hand-drier and pushed the button so the hot air blew across his face.

‘There,’ he said, ‘blow some of that talc away.’

The man turned his face away from the heat. He was shaking, his whole body limp, beaten before they really got started.

‘One question,’ Rebus said, ‘and then you walk out of here … how does the song go? As free as a bird. One question.’ The man nodded. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘What?’

Rebus pushed a bit harder. ‘The stuff.’

‘I only do this on a Friday night!’

‘Last time: where did you get it?’

‘Just some guy. He’s here sometimes.’

‘Is he here tonight?’

‘I haven’t seen him.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Nothing special. Mr Average. You said one question.’

Rebus let the man go. ‘I lied.’

The man sniffed, straightened his jacket. ‘Can I go?’

‘You’re gone.’

Rebus washed his hands, loosened the knot in his tie so he could undo his top button. The sniffer might go back to his booth. He might decide to leave. He might complain to the management. Maybe they paid their way so busts like this wouldn’t happen. He left the toilet and went looking for the office, couldn’t find one. Out in the foyer, there was a staircase. The bouncer was parked in front of it. Rebus told the tux he wanted to speak to the manager.

‘No can do.’

‘It’s important.’

The bouncer shook his head slowly. His eyes didn’t move from Rebus’s face. Rebus knew what he saw: a middle-aged lush, a pathetic figure in a cheap suit. It was time to disabuse him. He opened his warrant card.

‘CID,’ he told the tux. ‘People are selling drugs on these premises and I’m a heartbeat away from calling in the Drugs Squad. Now do I get to talk to the boss?’

He got to talk to the boss.

‘My name’s Erik Stemmons.’ The man came around from his desk to shake Rebus’s hand. It was a small office, but well furnished. Good sound-proofing too: the bass from the dance floor was as much as you could hear. But there were video screens, half a dozen of them. Three showing the main dance floor, two the bar, and one a general view of the booths.

‘You want to put one in the bogs,’ Rebus said, ‘that’s where the action is. You’ve got two on the bar: staff problems?’