‘Harry,’ Rebus said, ‘take those away.’ Harry lifted the two drinks, shaking his head.

‘I wish we could get a picture of this,’ he said.

Rebus slid the cigarettes along the bar towards the smoker. ‘Here, take them. And don’t leave them lying too close to me, I might change my mind.’

The smoker lifted the packet, amazed. ‘Payback for the singles you’ve nicked off me in the past.’

‘With interest,’ Rebus said, watching Harry pour the beer down the sink.

‘Does it go straight back into the barrel, Harry?’

‘So, do you want anything else, or did you just come in for a seat?’

‘Coke and crisps.’ He turned to Jack. ‘I’m allowed crisps, right?’

Jack was resting a hand on his back, patting him softly. And he was smiling.

They stopped in at a shop on the way to the flat, came out again with the makings of a meal.

‘Can you remember the last time you cooked?’ Jack asked.

‘I’m not that cack-handed.’ The answer to the question was ‘no’.

Jack, it turned out, enjoyed cooking, but he found Rebus’s kitchen lacking the finer tools of his craft. No lemon zester, no garlic crusher.

‘Give the garlic here,’ Rebus offered, ‘I’ll stamp on it.’

‘I used to be lazy,’ Jack said. ‘When Audrey left, I tried cooking bacon in the toaster. But cooking’s a doddle once you get your head round it.’

‘What’s it going to be anyway?’

‘Low-fat spagbog, with salad if you’ll get your arse in gear.’

Rebus got his arse in gear, but found he had to nip out to the deli for the makings of the dressing. He didn’t bother with a jacket: it was mild out.

‘Sure you can trust me?’ he said.

Jack tasted the sauce, nodded. So Rebus went out on his own, and thought about not going back. There was a pub on the next corner, its doors open. But of course he was going back: he hadn’t eaten yet. The way Jack slept, if Rebus ever wanted to high-tail it that would be the time.

They set the table in the living room – the first time it had been used for a meal since Rebus’s wife had left. Could that be true? Rebus paused, a fork and spoon in his hand. Yes, it was true. His flat, his refuge, suddenly seemed emptier than ever.

Maudlin again: another reason he drank.

They shared a bottle of Highland spring water, chinked glasses.

‘Shame it’s not fresh pasta,’ Jack said.

‘It’s fresh food,’ Rebus replied, filling his mouth. ‘Rare enough in this flat.’

They ate the salad afterwards – French-style, Jack said. Rebus was reaching for seconds when the phone rang. He picked it up.

‘John Rebus.’

‘Rebus, it’s CI Grogan here.’

‘CI Grogan,’ Rebus looked to Jack, ‘what can I do for you, sir?’ Jack came to the phone to listen.

‘We’ve run preliminary tests on your shoes and clothing. Thought you’d like to know you’re in the clear.’