Judging by Grogan’s breath, he hadn’t taken a meal break. ‘My wee Lowland laddie,’ he said. ‘How are you doing? Enjoying our Highland hospitality?’

‘It’s a great party.’

‘So why the face like a thistle?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It’s been a long day.’ And a long night before it, he could have added.

Grogan patted his back. ‘You’re welcome back here any time, any time at all.’ Grogan made towards the toilets, paused and turned. ‘Any sign of Ludo?’

‘He’s in the City Hospital, next bed along from a man called Hayden Fletcher.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a Crime Squad officer on the ward, too, waiting for them to wake up and give their statements. That’s how clean Lumsden is. About time you woke up to the fact.’

Rebus went downstairs to the interview rooms, opened the door of the one he’d been interviewed in. There were two more Squaddies inside. And smoking a cigarette at the table, Judd Fuller. Rebus had come down earlier, just for a look, and to explain to the officers what had happened, referring them back to Gill’s tapes and notes.

‘Evening, Judd,’ Rebus said now.

‘Do I know you?’

Rebus walked up to him. ‘You stupid bastard, you let me get away but you still went on using the cellar.’ He shook his head. ‘Erik will be disappointed.’

‘Screw Erik.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Every man for himself now, eh?’

‘Let’s get it over with.’

‘What?’

‘Why you’re here.’ Fuller looked up at him. ‘You want a free hit at me, this is the only chance you’re ever going to get. So make it good.’

‘I don’t need to hit you, Judd.’ Rebus grinned, showing the stunted tooth.

‘Then you’re yellow.’

Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘I used to be, but not any more.’

He turned his back and walked.

Back in CID, the party was in full swing. A cassette player had been wired up, accordion reels at distorted volume. Only two couples were dancing, and then not very well: there was barely room between the desks for professional ceilidh enthusiasts. Three or four bodies lay slumped at their desks, heads on arms. Someone else lay prone on the floor. Rebus counted nine empty whisky bottles, and someone had been sent out for more cases of beer. Jack was still talking with the secretary, his cheeks red from the heat in the room. The place was beginning to smell like a changing room at full-time.

Rebus walked around the room. The walls were still covered with material pertaining to Johnny Bible’s local victims: maps, diagrams, duty rosters, photographs. He studied the photos, as if memorising the smiling faces. He saw that the fax machine had just finished spewing something out. Car ownership details, metallic blue BMWs. Four in Aberdeen, but only one with the same sequence of letters the witness recalled. Registered to a company called Eugene Construction with a Peterhead address.

Eugene Construction? Eugene Construction?

Rebus emptied his pockets on to a desktop, finding petrol receipts, notebook, scraps of paper with telephone numbers, Rennies, a book of matches … there: business card. Given to him by the man he’d met at the convention. Rebus studied the card. Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division. The parent company: Eugene Construction, with a Peterhead address. Trembling, Rebus lifted the Borneo photo and looked at it, remembering the man he’d met that day in the bar.