‘Only two quid, pal,’ the scarecrow called, but Rebus shook his head and kept walking.

The same nighttime sounds were around him: drunken whoops, whistles, and the birds who didn’t know how late it was. A prowl of woolly suits was questioning two teenagers. Rebus passed by, just another tourist. Maybe Lumsden was right, but Rebus didn’t think so. Aberdeen felt so much like Edinburgh. Sometimes, you visited a town or city and couldn’t get a handle on it, but this wasn’t one of those.

On Union Terrace a low stone wall separated him from the gardens, which were in a gully below. He saw his car still parked across the road, directly outside the hotel. He was about to cross when hands grabbed at his arms and hauled him backwards. He felt the small of his back hit the wall, felt himself tipping backwards, up and over.

Falling, rolling … Skidding down the steep slope into the gardens, not able to stop himself, so going with the roll. He hit bushes, felt them tear at his shirt. His nose gouged the earth, tears springing into his eyes. Then he was on the flat. Clipped grass. Lying winded on his back, adrenalin masking any immediate damage. More sounds: crashing through bushes. They were following him down. He half rose to his knees, but a foot caught him, sent him sprawling on to his front. The foot came down hard on his head, held it there, so he was sucking grass, his nose feeling ready to break. Someone wrenched his hands behind his back and up, the pressure just right: excruciating pain couldn’t overcome the knowledge that if he moved, he’d pop an arm out of its socket.

Two men, at least two. One with the foot. One working the arms. The alcoholic streets seemed a long way off, traffic a distant drone. Now something cold against his temple. He knew the feeling – a handgun, colder than dry ice.

A voice hissing, close to his ear. Blood pounding there, so he had to strain to hear it. A hiss close to a whisper, hard to identify.

‘There’s a message, so I hope you’re listening.’

Rebus couldn’t speak. His mouth was full of dirt.

He waited for the message, but it didn’t come. Then it did.

Pistol-whipped to the side of his head, just above the ear. An explosion of light behind his eyes. Then darkness.

He woke up and it was still night. Sat up and looked around. His eyes hurt when he moved them. He touched his head – no blood. It hadn’t been that kind of thwack. Blunt, not sharp. Just the one by the feel of things. After he’d lost consciousness they’d left him. He searched his pockets, found money, car keys, warrant card and all his other cards. But of course it hadn’t been a robbery. It had been a message, hadn’t they told him so themselves?

He tried standing. His side hurt. He checked, saw that he’d grazed it coming down the slope. A graze on his forehead too, and his nose had bled a little. He checked the ground around him, but they hadn’t left anything. It wouldn’t have been professional. All the same, he tried as best he could to trace the route they’d come down, just in case something had been left behind.