A cheap pink plastic lighter. Fuller had probably used it to ignite the whisky on Rebus’s arms, dropped it afterwards. Rebus picked it up, looked around. There was a lot of booze down here. No way out except the ladder. He found a rag, opened a bottle of whisky and stuffed it into the neck. Not quite a petrol bomb, but a weapon at any rate. One option: ignite it and toss it into the club, get the fire alarm going and wait for the cavalry. Supposing they came. Supposing that would stop Judd Fuller …

Option two: think again.

He looked around. CO₂ cylinders; plastic crates; runs of rubber tubing. Hanging on the wall: a small fire extinguisher. He grabbed the fire extinguisher, primed it, got it under one arm so he could carry the whisky bottle up the steps.

The club looked dead, dimly lit. Someone had left a glitterball turning, throwing glass jewels across walls and ceiling. He was halfway across the dance floor when the door flew open, Fuller standing there, lit from behind by the foyer. He had a set of car keys between his teeth, dropped them as his mouth opened. He was reaching into his jacket pocket when Rebus got the rag lit, tossed the bottle two-handed. It turned in the air, shattered in front of Fuller. A pool of blue flame spread across the floor. Rebus was still coming, fire extinguisher ready. The gun was in Fuller’s hand as the spray caught him full in the face. Rebus followed it up with a head-butt to the bridge of Fuller’s nose and a knee hard into the groin. Not exactly textbook stuff, but powerfully effective. The American sank to his knees. Rebus kicked him in the face and ran, pulled open the door to the outside world and almost fell into Jack Morton.

‘Christ Almighty, man, what have they done to you?’

‘He’s got a gun, Jack, let’s get the fuck out of here.’

They sprinted for the car. Jack got the keys from Rebus’s pocket. Into the car and accelerating away, Rebus feeling a bewildering mix of emotions, chief among them elation.

‘You smell like a brewery,’ Jack said.

‘Jesus, Jack, how did you get here?’

‘Took a taxi.’

‘No, I mean …’

‘You can thank Shetland.’ Jack sniffed. ‘That wind up there, I’ve got a cold coming. Went to get the hankie out of my trouser pocket … no car keys. No car in the car park, and no John Rebus tucked up in bed.’

‘And?’

‘And reception repeated the message they gave you, so I phoned for a taxi. What the hell happened?’

‘I took a beating.’

‘I’d say that was an understatement. Who’s got the gun?’

‘Judd Fuller, the American.’

‘We’ll stop at the nearest phone, get an armed response unit over there.’

‘No.’

Jack turned. ‘No?’ Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Why not?’

‘I was taking a calculated risk, Jack.’

‘Time to buy a new calculator.’

‘I think it worked. Now all we need to do is give it a bit of time.’