‘Et tu, Siobhan?’

‘Afternoon, sir,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ears and cheeks reddening. It was about all Rebus needed. He grabbed his jacket, headed for the door.

‘John?’ Jack Morton called after him.

‘Catch me if you can,’ Rebus said. Halfway down the stairs, Jack did just that.

‘Where are we going?’

‘We’re going to a pub,’ Rebus told him. ‘We’ll take my car. You won’t be drinking, so you can drive me home afterwards. That way we stay the right side of the law.’ Rebus pulled the door open. ‘Now let’s see just how strong your Juice Church really is.’

Outside, Rebus almost collided with a tall man with black curly hair, turning grey. He saw the microphone, heard the man rattle off a question. Eamonn Breen. Rebus ducked his head just enough to catch Breen on the bridge of his nose: no power in the ‘Glasgow kiss’, just enough to let Rebus past.

‘Bastard!’ Breen spluttered, dropping the mike and cupping both hands over his nose. ‘Did you catch that? Did you?’

Rebus glanced back, saw blood dripping between Breen’s fingers, saw the cameraman nodding, saw Kayleigh Burgess over to one side, a pen in her mouth, looking at Rebus with half a smile.

‘She probably thought you’d prefer to have a friendly face around,’ Jack Morton said.

They were standing in the Oxford Bar, and Rebus had just told him about Siobhan.

‘Given the circumstances, I know I would.’ Jack was halfway down a pint of fresh orange and lemonade. Ice rattled in the glass when he tipped it. Rebus was on his second pint of Belhaven Best, motoring in fifth: nice and smooth. Sunday evening in the Ox, only twenty minutes after opening time, the place was quiet. Three regulars stood beside them at the bar, heads angled up towards the television, some quiz programme. The quizmaster had topiary where his haircut should have been and teeth transplanted from a Steinway. His job was to hold a card up to just below his face, read out the question, stare at the camera, then repeat the question as though nuclear disarmament depended on the answer.

‘So, Barry,’ he intoned, ‘for two hundred points: which character plays the Wall in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’

‘Pink Floyd,’ said the first regular.

‘Snout,’ said the second.

‘Cheerio, Barry,’ said the third, waving his fingers at the television, where Barry was clearly in trouble. A buzzer sounded. The quizmaster opened the question to the other two contestants.

‘No?’ he said. ‘No takers?’ He seemed surprised, but had to refer to his card to find the answer. ‘Snout,’ he said, looking at the hapless trio, then repeating the name just so they’d remember next time. Another card. ‘Jasmine, for a hundred and fifty points: in which American state would you find the town of Akron?’

‘Ohio,’ said the second regular.

‘Isn’t he a character in Star Trek?’ asked the first.

‘Cheerio, Jasmine,’ said the third.

‘So,’ Jack asked, ‘are we talking?’

‘It takes more than my home being raided, my clothes confiscated, and a suspicion of multiple murder hanging over my head to put me in the huff. Of course we’re fucking talking.’