I’m almost not here at all, he thought.

24

Rebus woke up and knew something was wrong. He showered and dressed and still couldn’t put a name to it. Then Jack came slouching through to the kitchen and asked if he’d slept well.

And he had. That was what was different. He’d slept very well indeed, and he’d been sober.

‘Any word from Ancram?’ Jack asked, staring into the fridge.

‘No.’

‘Then you’re probably clear for today.’

‘He must be in training for the next bout.’

‘So do we crack on with the decorating, or actually go to work?’

‘Let’s do an hour’s painting,’ Rebus said. So that’s what they did, Rebus keeping half an eye on the street outside. No reporters, no Justice Programme. Maybe he’d scared them off; maybe they were biding their time. He hadn’t heard anything about an assault charge: Breen was probably too happy with the video footage to consider any further action. Plenty of time to file a complaint after the programme went out …

After the painting, they took Jack’s car to Fort Apache. Jack’s initial response did not disappoint Rebus.

‘What a shit-hole.’

Inside, the station was a frenzy of packing and moving. Vans were already taking crates and boxes to the new station. The desk sergeant had become a shirt-sleeved foreman, making sure the cases were labelled and the moving crew knew where they were to go once they reached their destination.

‘It’ll be a miracle if it goes to plan,’ he said. ‘And I notice CID aren’t giving a hand.’

Jack and Rebus gave him a round of applause: an old joke, but well intentioned. Then they went to the Shed.

Maclay and Bain were in situ.

‘The prodigal son!’ Bain exclaimed. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Helping CI Ancram with his inquiries.’

‘You should have called in. MacAskill wants a word, toot-sweet.’

‘I thought I told you never to call me that.’

Bain smirked. Rebus introduced Jack Morton. There were nods, handshakes, grunts: the usual procedure.

‘You better go see the Boss,’ Maclay said. ‘He’s been fretting.’

‘I’ve been missing him, too.’

‘Did you bring us back anything from Aberdeen?’

Rebus searched his pockets. ‘Must have slipped my mind.’

‘Well,’ Bain said, ‘you were probably busy.’

‘Busier than you two, but that wouldn’t be hard.’

‘Go see the Boss,’ Maclay told him.

Bain was wagging a finger. ‘And you should be nice to us, otherwise we might not tell you what our snitches came up with.’

‘What?’ Local snitches: word out for Tony El’s accomplice.

‘After you’ve talked to MacAskill.’

So Rebus went to see his boss, leaving Jack Morton outside the door.

‘John,’ Jim MacAskill said, ‘what have you been playing at?’

‘Different games, sir.’

‘So I hear, and you’ve not proved proficient at any of them, eh?’

MacAskill’s office was emptying, but there was some way to go. His filing cabinet stood with its drawers gutted, the files themselves spread across the floor.

‘Nightmare,’ he said, noticing Rebus’s look. ‘How’s your own packing coming?’