‘Dark rum, and a half of Best.’

He hadn’t touched dark rum in years, didn’t think of it as a young man’s drink. Yet Allan Mitchison had drunk it. A seaman’s drink, another reason to think he worked offshore. Rebus handed over money, downed the short in one sour swallow, rinsed his mouth with the beer, found himself finishing it too quickly. The barman turned with his change.

‘Make it a pint this time, Jon.’

‘And another rum?’

‘Jesus, no.’ Rebus rubbed his eyes, bummed a cigarette from his drowsy neighbour. The Spaven case … it had dragged Rebus backwards through time, forcing him to confront memory, then to wonder if his memory was playing tricks. It remained unfinished business, twenty years on. Like Bible John. He shook his head, tried to clear it of history, and found himself thinking of Allan Mitchison, of falling headlong on to spiked rails, watching them rise towards you, arms held fast to a chair so there was only one choice left: did you confront doom open-eyed or closed? He walked around the bar to use the telephone, put money in and then couldn’t think who to call.

‘Forgotten the number?’ a drinker asked as Rebus got his coin back.

‘Aye,’ he said, ‘what’s the Samaritans’ again?’

The drinker surprised him, knew the number pat.

*

Four blinks from his answering machine meant four messages. He lifted the instruction manual. It was open at page six, the ‘Playback’ section boxed with red pen, paragraphs underlined. He followed the instructions. The machine decided to work.

‘It’s Brian.’ Brian Holmes. Rebus opened the Black Bush and poured, listening. ‘Just to say … well, thanks. Minto’s recanted, so I’m off the hook. Hope I can return the favour.’ No energy in the voice, a mouth tired of words. End message. Rebus savoured the whiskey.

Blip: message two.

‘I was working late and thought I’d give you a call, Inspector. We spoke earlier, Stuart Minchell, personnel manager at T-Bird Oil. I can confirm that Allan Mitchison was in our employ. I can fax through the details if you have a number. Call me at the office tomorrow. Bye.’

Goodbye and bingo. A relief to know something about the deceased other than his taste in music. Rebus’s ears were roaring: the concert and the alcohol, blood pounding.

Message three: ‘It’s Howdenhall here, thought you were in a hurry but I can’t find you. Typical CID.’ Rebus knew the voice: Pete Hewitt at the police lab, Howdenhall. Pete looked fifteen, but was probably early twenties, smart-mouthed with a brain to match. Fingerprints a speciality. ‘I got mostly partials, but a couple of beauties, and guess what? Their owner’s on the computer. Past convictions for violence. Phone me back if you want a name.’

Rebus checked his watch. Pete doing his usual tease. It was gone eleven, he’d be home or out on the ran-dan, and Rebus didn’t have a home number for him. He kicked the sofa, wished he’d stayed home: carting off bootleggers a pure waste of time. Still, he had the Black Bush and a bagful of CDs, T-shirts he’d never wear, a poster of four tykes with acne close-ups. He’d seen their faces before, couldn’t think where …