Rebus turned to Jack. ‘You going to grass me up?’

‘I should.’

‘Yes, you should. But will you?’

‘I don’t know, John.’

‘Well, don’t let our friendship stand in your way.’

‘That helps me a lot.’

‘Look, Jack, the water I’m in is so deep, I’d probably die of the bends coming back up. So I might just as well stay down here.’

‘Ever heard of the Marianas Trench? Ancram probably has one just like it waiting for you.’

‘You’re slipping.’

‘What?’

‘He was Chick before, now he’s “Ancram”. You better watch yourself.’

‘You’re sober, aren’t you?’

‘As a judge.’

‘Can’t be Dutch courage then, which means it’s plain insanity.’

‘Welcome to my world, Jack.’

They were headed for the back of the Infirmary. There were benches provided just this side of the perimeter wall. Dossers, travellers, down-and-outs … whatever you wanted to call them … they used these benches as beds in the summer. There used to be one old guy, Frank, Rebus saw him every summer, and at the end of every summer he disappeared like a migrating bird, only to reappear the next year. But this year … this year Frank hadn’t appeared. The homeless people Rebus saw were a lot younger than Frank, his spiritual children, if not grandchildren; only they were different – tougher and more frightened, wired and tired. Different game, different rules. Edinburgh’s ‘gentlemen of the road’: twenty years ago you could have measured them in mere dozens. But not these days. Not these days …

They woke up a couple of sleepers, who denied being Mick Hine and said they didn’t know who he was, and then hit lucky with the third bench. He was sitting upright, a pile of newspapers beside him. He had a tiny transistor radio, which he held hard to his ear.

‘Are you deaf or does it just need new batteries?’ Rebus asked.

‘Not deaf, not dumb, not blind. He said another copper might want to talk to me. Do you want a seat?’

Rebus sat down on the bench. Jack Morton rested against the wall behind it, like he’d rather be somewhere out of earshot. Rebus drew out a fiver.

‘Here, get some batteries.’

Mick Hine took the money. ‘So you’re Rebus?’ He gave Rebus a long look. Hine was early forties, balding, with a slight squint. He wore a decent enough suit, only it had holes in both knees. Beneath the jacket was a baggy red T-shirt. Two supermarket carrier bags sat on the ground beside him, bulging with worldly goods. ‘Lenny talked about you. I thought you’d be different.’

‘Different?’

‘Younger.’

‘I was younger when Lenny knew me.’

‘Aye, that’s true. Only film stars get younger, have you noticed that? The rest of us get wrinkled and grey.’ Not that Hine was either. His face was lightly tanned, like polished brass, and what hair he had was jet black and worn long. He had grazes on his cheeks and chin, forehead, knuckles. Either a stumble or a beating.