‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder.’ Rebus just shrugged, so Ancram took a deep breath. ‘OK, then listen. He controls a lot of the muscle-work – and I mean that literally; he has a share in a couple of bodybuilder gyms. In fact, he has a share in just about everything that’s the least bit dodgy: money-lending, protection, prozzy pitches, betting.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Maybe. There are a lot of maybes with Uncle Joe. You’ll see that when you read the files. He’s as slippery as a Thai bath – he owns massage parlours too. Then he’s got a lot of the taxi cabs, the ones that don’t switch their meters on when you get in; or if they do, the rate-per-mile’s been hiked. The cabbies are all on the broo, claiming benefit. We’ve approached several of them, but they won’t say a word against Uncle Joe. Thing is, if the DSS start sniffing around for scroungers, the investigators receive a letter. It details where they live, spouse’s name and daily movements, kids’ names, the school they go to …’

‘I get the picture.’

‘So they start requesting a transfer to another department, and meantime go to their doctor because they’re having trouble sleeping at night.’

‘OK, Uncle Joe isn’t Glasgow’s Man of the Year. Where does he live?’

Ancram drained his cup. ‘This is a beauty. He lives in a council house. But just remember: Robert Maxwell lived in a council house, too. You have to see this place.’

‘I intend to.’

Ancram shook his head. ‘He won’t talk to you, you won’t get past the door.’

‘Want a bet?’

Ancram narrowed his eyes. ‘You sound confident.’

Jack Morton walked past them, rolling his eyes: a general comment on life. He was searching his pockets for coins. As he waited for the machine to pour his drink, he turned to them.

‘Chick, The Lobby?’

Ancram nodded. ‘One o’clock?’

‘Braw.’

‘What about associates?’ Rebus asked. He noticed Ancram hadn’t yet said he could call him by his nickname.

‘Oh, he has plenty of those. His guards are bodybuilders, hand-picked. Then he has some nutters, real headbangers. The bodybuilders might look the business, but these others are the business. There was Tony El, poly-bag merchant with a penchant for power tools. Uncle Joe still has one or two like him. Then there’s Joe’s son, Malky.’

‘Mr Stanley knife?’

‘Emergency rooms all over Glasgow can testify to that particular hobby.’

‘But Tony El hasn’t been around?’

Ancram shook his head. ‘But I’ve had my grasses out sniffing on your behalf; I should hear back today.’

Three men pushed open the doors at the end of the hall.

‘Aye, aye,’ Ancram said in an undertone, ‘it’s the man with the crystal balls.’

Rebus recognised one of the men from a magazine photograph: Aldous Zane, the American psychic. He’d helped a US police force in their hunt for Merry Mac, so called because someone passing the scene of one of his murders – without realising what was happening on the other side of the wall – had heard deep gurgling laughter. Zane had given his impressions of where the killer lived. When police finally arrested Merry Mac, the media pointed out that the location bore a striking resemblance to the picture Zane had drawn.