‘I travel light, sir.’

‘I forget, you’ve not been with us long. Sometimes it seems like for ever.’

‘I have that effect on people.’

MacAskill smiled. ‘Question one in my mind, this reopening of the Spaven case: is it going to go anywhere?’

‘Not if I have my way.’

‘Well, Chick Ancram’s pretty persistent … and thorough. Don’t depend on him overlooking something.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ve had a word with your boss at St Leonard’s. He tells me this is par for the course.’

‘I don’t know, sir, seems like I’m playing under a handicap.’

‘Well, anything I can do, John …’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I know the way Chick will play it: attrition. He’ll sweat the arse off you, run you in circles. He makes it easier for you to lie and say you’re guilty than to keep telling the truth. Watch out for that.’

‘Will do.’

‘Meantime, question one: how are you feeling?’

‘I’m all right, sir.’

‘Well, there’s not much happening around here that we can’t handle. So any time off you need, take it.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Chick’s west coast, John. He shouldn’t be over here.’ MacAskill shook his head, went to his drawer for a can of Irn-Bru. ‘Bugger,’ he said.

‘Problem, sir?’

‘I’ve gone and bought the diet stuff.’ He opened it anyway. Rebus left him to his packing.

Jack was right outside the door.

‘Did you catch any of that?’

‘I wasn’t listening.’

‘My boss just told me I can bunk off whenever I like.’

‘Which means we can finish doing up the living room.’

Rebus nodded, but he was thinking of finishing something else instead. He went into the Shed and stood in front of Bain’s desk.

‘Well?’

‘Well,’ Bain said, sitting back, ‘we did what you asked, put word out with our snitches. And they came up with a name.’

‘Hank Shankley,’ Maclay added.

‘He’s not got much of a record, but he’s game to make a few quid where he can, no scruples attached. And he gets around. Word is, he’s had a windfall and after a couple of drinks he was boasting about his “Glasgow connection”.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

Bain shook his head. ‘Bided our time.’

‘Waiting for you to turn up,’ Maclay added.

‘Have you been rehearsing this routine? Where can I find him?’

‘He’s a keen swimmer.’

‘Anywhere in particular?’

‘The Commie Pool.’

‘Description?’

‘Big building at the top of Dalkeith Road.’

‘I meant Shankley.’

‘You can’t miss him,’ Maclay said. ‘Late thirties, six feet tall and skinny as a pole, short fair hair. Nordic looking.’

‘The description we got,’ Bain corrected, ‘was albino.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I owe you for this, gents.’

‘You haven’t heard who it was spilled the beans.’

‘Who?’

Bain grinned. ‘Remember Craw Shand?’

‘Claimed to be Johnny Bible?’ Bain and Maclay nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a snitch of yours?’

Bain shrugged. ‘Didn’t want it broadcast. But Craw’s a big fan of yours. See, he likes it rough now and then …’