‘It’s me.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing. Listen, you passed all the stuff about Toal and Aberdeen on to the Scottish Crime Squad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s your contact there?’

‘Why?’

‘Because whoever it is, I’ve a message for them. I think Judd Fuller has picked up DS Ludovic Lumsden and a man called ‘Hayden Fletcher, and intends to make sure they’re not seen again.’

‘What?’

‘A patrol car’s gone out to the club, God knows what they’ll find, but the Squaddies should keep an eye on it. If they’re found, they’ll be brought back to Queen Street. The Squaddies might want someone on the scene.’

‘I’ll get on it. Thanks, John.’

‘Any time.’

I’m getting soft in my old age, he thought. Or maybe I’ve just relocated my conscience.

He went walkabout, asked a few drinkers the same question, and eventually had the Oil Liaison officer, DI Jenkins, pointed out to him. Rebus just wanted to look at him. His name was mentioned in Stanley’s confession, along with Lumsden. The Squaddies would be wanting a word with him. He was smiling, looking unconcerned, tanned and rested after his holiday. It gave Rebus a warm glow to realise the man would soon be sweating under an internal inquiry.

Maybe he wasn’t getting so soft after all.

He walked over to the working officers, looked down over their shoulders. They were doing the preliminary work on the murder of Martin Davidson, collating information from neighbours and employer, trying to track down a next of kin, and all the time keeping the media at bay.

One of them slammed his phone down and suddenly had a big grin on his face. He reached for his mug of whisky and drained it.

‘Something?’ Rebus asked.

A balled-up piece of paper hit the officer on the head. Laughing, he threw it back.

‘Neighbour came off the night shift,’ he said, ‘found a car blocking his drive. Had to park on the street. Says he hadn’t seen the car before, and took a good look so he’d know it again. Woke up around lunchtime, and it was gone. Metallic blue BMW, 5 Series. He even got part of the licence plate.’

‘Hell’s bells.’

The officer was reaching for his phone. ‘Shouldn’t take too long.’

‘It better not,’ Rebus replied, ‘or DCI Grogan may not be sober enough to take it in.’

34

Grogan caught Rebus in the hallway, slapped an arm around him. He was missing his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were open, showing tufts of wiry grey hair. He’d danced a jig with a couple of WPCs and was sweating profusely. The shift had changed; or rather, a new shift had come on, while the old shift stayed put, not wanting to break the spell. There was occasional talk of pubs and restaurants, nightclubs and bowling alleys, but nobody seemed to leave, and there was communal applause when an Indian restaurant nearby delivered boxes and bags full of food – courtesy of the brass, who by then actually had left the scene. Rebus had helped himself to pakora, keema nan, and chicken tikka, while one CID officer tried to explain to another why his saying ‘Bhajis, we don’ need no steenking bhajis’ was a joke.