‘Not since we put the cameras in.’ Stemmons was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, the arms of which he’d rolled up to his shoulders. He had long curling locks, maybe permed, but his hair was thinning and there were tell-tale lines down his face. He wasn’t much younger than Rebus, and the younger he tried to look the older he seemed.

‘Are you with Grampian CID?’

‘No.’

‘Thought not. We get most of them in here, good customers. Sit down, won’t you?’

Rebus sat down. Stemmons got comfortable behind his desk. It was covered with paperwork.

‘Frankly I’m surprised by your allegation,’ he went on. ‘We cooperate fully with the local police, and this club is as clean as any in the city. You know of course that it’s impossible to rule narcotics out of the equation.’

‘Someone was snooking up in the toilet.’

Stemmons shrugged. ‘Exactly. What can we do? Strip search everyone as they enter? Have a sniffer dog roaming the premises?’ He laughed a short laugh. ‘You see the problem.’

‘How long have you lived here, Mr Stemmons?’

‘I came over in ’78. Saw a good thing and stayed. That’s nearly two decades. I’m practically integrated.’ Another laugh; another no reaction from Rebus. Stemmons placed his palms on the desktop. ‘Wherever Americans go in the world – Vietnam, Germany, Panama – entrepreneurs follow. And so long as the pickings stay good, why should we leave?’ He looked down at his hands. ‘What do you really want?’

‘I want to know what you can tell me about Fergus McLure.’

‘Fergus McLure?’

‘You know, dead person, lived near Edinburgh.’

Stemmons shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, that name means nothing to me.’

Oh, Vienna, Rebus nearly sang. ‘You don’t seem to have a phone in here.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A phone.’

‘I carry a mobile.’

‘The portable office.’

‘Open twenty-four hours. Look, if you’ve a beef, take it up with the local cops. I don’t need this grief.’

‘You haven’t seen grief yet, Mr Stemmons.’

‘Hey.’ Stemmons pointed a finger. ‘If you’ve got something to say, say it. Otherwise, the door’s the thing behind you with the brass handle.’

‘And you’re the thing in front of me with the brass neck.’ Rebus stood up and leaned across the desk. ‘Fergus McLure had information on a drug ring. He died suddenly. Your club’s phone number was lying on his desk. McLure wasn’t exactly the clubbing type.’

‘So?’

Rebus could see Stemmons in a court of law, saying the exact same thing. He could see a jury asking itself the question too.

‘Look,’ Stemmons said, relenting. ‘If I was setting up a drug deal, would I give this guy McLure the number of the club’s payphone, which anyone might pick up, or would I give him my mobile number? You’re a detective, what do you think?’

Rebus saw a judge tossing the case out.

‘Johnny Bible met his first victim here, didn’t he?’

‘Jesus, don’t drag that up. What are you, a ghoul or something? We had CID hassling us for weeks.’