‘Well, that’s all-fucking-right then.’

Rebus snorted into his drink, then had to wipe foam off his nose. ‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed nutting that wanker.’

‘He probably enjoyed the fact that the whole thing was being filmed.’

Rebus shrugged, reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lighter.

‘Go on then,’ Jack said, ‘give me one.’

‘You’ve stopped, remember?’

‘Aye, but there’s no AA for smokers. Come on.’

But Rebus shook his head. ‘I appreciate the gesture, Jack, but you’re right.’

‘About what?’

‘About looking out for your future. You’re dead right. So don’t cave in, stick to it. No booze, no cigs, and report my doings back to Chick Ancram.’

Jack looked at him. ‘You mean that?’

‘Every word of it,’ Rebus drained his glass. ‘Except the bit about Ancram, of course.’

Then he ordered another round.

‘The answer’s Ohio,’ the quizmaster said, no surprise to anyone in the bar.

‘I think,’ Jack said a little later on, halfway down his second pint of juice, ‘we’re about to hit our first crisis of faith.’

‘You need a piss?’ Jack nodded. ‘Well forget it,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m not going in there with you.’

‘Give me your word you’ll stay put.’

‘Where would I go?’

‘John …’

‘OK, OK. Would I get you into trouble, Jack?’

‘I don’t know, would you?’

Rebus winked at him. ‘Off you go to the bog and find out.’

Jack stood his ground as long as he could, then turned and fled. Rebus leaned his elbows on the bar, smoking his cigarette. He was wondering what Jack would do if he ran out on him right now: would he report it to Ancram, or would he keep quiet? Would he be doing himself any favours by reporting it? After all, it showed him in a bad light, and he wouldn’t want that. So maybe he’d keep quiet. Rebus could go about his business without Ancram knowing.

Except that Ancram had ways of knowing. The man wasn’t solely dependent on Jack Morton. It was an interesting point, nevertheless: a point of faith, apt enough on a Sunday night. Maybe Rebus would drag Jack along to see Father Conor Leary later on. Jack used to be a real hun, a blue-nose, maybe still was. A drink with a Catholic priest might send him scurrying into the night. He looked round and saw Jack at the top of the steps, looking relieved – in both senses of the word.

Poor bastard, Rebus thought. Ancram wasn’t being fair on him. You could see the strain around Jack’s mouth. Rebus felt tired suddenly, remembered he’d been up since six, and had been on the rack ever since. He drained his glass and gestured towards the door. Jack seemed only too glad to be leaving.

When they got outside, Rebus asked him, ‘How close were you in there?’

‘To what?’

‘Ordering a real drink.’

‘As close as I ever get.’

Rebus leaned on the roof of the car, waiting for Jack to unlock it. ‘Sorry I did that to you,’ he said quietly.