Rebus sniffed. ‘I know the lot,’ he spat.

‘And how much is that?’

‘The dope comes up from Glasgow, straight to here. You sell it, and ship it out to the rigs. Eve and Stanley collected the cash, Tony El was Uncle Joe’s man on the spot.’

‘Proof?’

‘Almost non-existent, especially with Tony El dead and Eve and Stanley on the run. But —’ Rebus swallowed.

‘But what?’

Rebus kept his mouth shut. Fuller flicked the bottle up and pulled it away. Rebus’s nose dribbled fresh blood.

‘Maybe I’ll just bleed you dry! “But what?’”

‘But it doesn’t matter,’ Rebus said, trying to wipe his nose on his shirt. His eyes were watering. He blinked, tears streaking both cheeks.

‘Why not?’ Fuller interested.

‘Because people are blabbing.’

‘Who?’

‘You know I can’t —’

The bottle flew to his right eye. Rebus screwed his eyes shut. ‘All right, all right!’ The bottle stayed where it was, so close he had to focus past it. He took a deep breath. Time to stir the shit. His big plan. ‘How many cops on your payroll?’

Fuller frowned. ‘Lumsden?’

‘He’s been talking … and someone’s been talking to him.’

Rebus could almost hear the cogs creaking inside Fuller’s head, but even he had to work it out eventually.

‘Mr H?’ Fuller’s eyes widened. ‘Mr H. talked to Lumsden, I heard about that. But it was supposed to be about the woman who got herself killed …’ Fuller busied himself thinking.

Mr H. – the man who’d paid Tony El. And now Rebus knew who Mr H. was – Hayden Fletcher, interviewed by Lumsden about Vanessa Holden. Fletcher had paid Tony El to take care of Allan Mitchison – the two men had probably met right here. Maybe Fuller himself had introduced them.

‘It’s not just you. They’ve been grassing up Eddie Segal, Moose Maloney …’ Rebus pulling out the names Stanley had mentioned.

‘Fletcher and Lumsden?’ Fuller said to himself. He shook his head, but Rebus could see he was halfway convinced. He stared at Rebus, who tried to look as beaten as a man could be – no great acting required.

‘There’s a Scottish Crime Squad operation coming,’ Rebus said. ‘Lumsden and Fletcher are in their pockets.’

‘They’re dead men,’ Fuller said at last.

‘Why stop when you’re having fun?’

A cold, wicked smile. Fletcher and Lumsden were for the future: but Rebus was right here.

‘We’ll go for a little ride,’ Fuller said. ‘Don’t worry, you did all right. I’ll make it quick. One bullet to the back of the head. You won’t go out screaming.’ He let the bottle drop to the floor and crunched glass on his way to the stairs. Rebus looked around fast, no way of knowing how long he had. The hook looked pretty solid – it had held his weight so far, no problem. If he could stand on a box, get some height, then he could unhook the ropes. There was the empties’ crate, not three feet away. Rebus stretched, his arms in agony, felt with his shoe, just touched the rim of the crate and started to drag it. Fuller had climbed up through a trapdoor, but left it open. Rebus could hear a voice echoing in the bar. Maybe Fuller wanted a bouncer, someone to witness the policeman’s demise. The crate caught in a dip in the floor, wouldn’t budge. Rebus tried to lift it with the toe of his shoe, couldn’t. He was soaked: blood, booze and sweat. The box gave, and he hauled it beneath him, climbed on to it and pushed with his knees. He freed the rope from the hook and brought his arms down slowly, trying to enjoy the pain, feeling blood tingle its way back along them. His fingers stayed numb and cold. He chewed at the knots in the rope, couldn’t budge them. There was plenty of broken glass around, but sawing through would take too long. He bent down, picked up a broken bottle, then saw something even better.