The next question used to be the one that counted; Rebus wasn’t so sure any more. ‘Did Allan Mitchison jump, or what?’

Shankley nodded. ‘We had our backs turned. Tony was taking the tools out, and I was just staring at them. The kid had a bag over his head, but I think he saw them. He got between us and went out the window. Must’ve been scared to death.’

Looking at Shankley, and remembering Anthony Kane, Rebus sensed again how bland monstrosity could be. Faces and voices didn’t give any clue; no one sported horns and fangs, dripping blood and all slouching malevolence. Evil was almost … it was almost child-like: naive, simplistic. A game you played and then woke up from, only to find it wasn’t pretend. The real-life monsters weren’t grotesques: they were quiet men and women, people you passed on the street and didn’t notice. Rebus was glad he couldn’t read people’s minds. It would be pure hell.

‘What did you do?’ he asked.

‘Packed up and shipped out. We went back to my place first, had a couple of drinks. I was shaking. Tony kept saying it was a mess, but he didn’t seem worried. We realised we’d left the hooch – couldn’t remember if our dabs were on it. I thought they were. That’s when Tony took off. He left me my share, I’ll give him that.’

‘How far do you live from the flat, Hank?’

‘About two minutes’ walk. I’m not there much; the kids call me names.’

Life can be cruel, Rebus thought. Two minutes: when he’d arrived at the scene, Tony El might have been only two minutes away. But they’d ended up meeting in Stonehaven …

‘Didn’t Tony give you any idea why he was after Allan Mitchison?’ Shankley shook his head. ‘And when did he first approach you?’

‘Couple of days before.’

Therefore premeditated. Well, of course it was premeditated, but more than that it meant Tony El had been in Edinburgh, preparing the scheme, while Allan Mitchison had still been in Aberdeen. The night of his death had been his first day of leave. So Tony El hadn’t followed him south from Aberdeen … yet he knew what Allan Mitchison looked like, knew where he lived – there was a telephone in the flat, but unlisted.

Allan Mitchison had been set up by someone who’d known him.

It was Jack Morton’s turn. ‘Hank, think carefully now, didn’t Tony say anything about the job, about who was paying him?’

Shankley thought, then nodded slowly. He looked pleased with himself: he’d remembered something.

‘Mr H.,’ he said. ‘Tony said something about Mr H. He clammed up afterwards, like he hadn’t meant to.’ Shankley almost danced in his seat. He wanted Rebus and Morton to like him. Their smiles told him they did. But Rebus was thinking furiously; the only Mr H. he came up with was Jake Harley. It didn’t fit.

‘Good man,’ Jack cajoled. ‘Now think again, tell us something else.’