‘Speaking of history,’ Ancram said, ‘sounds like you’ve got a bit of trouble with the Spaven case.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘I read about it in the papers.’

‘It’s all hype for the TV show,’ was Rebus’s only comment.

‘We’ve got more problems with the DNAs, Chick,’ Eggleston was saying. He was tall, skinny, starched. He reminded Rebus of an accountant; he’d bet he was good with paperwork, lousy on the street – every station needed at least one.

‘They’re an epidemic,’ Lennox snarled.

‘Society’s problem, gentlemen,’ Ancram said, ‘which makes them our problem too.’

‘DNAs?’

Ancram turned to Rebus. ‘Do Not Accommodate. The council’s been turfing out a lot of “problem clients”, refusing to house them, even in the night shelters – druggies mostly, headers, the “psychologically disturbed” who’ve been returned to the community. Only the community’s telling them to fuck right off again. So they’re on the streets, making mischief, causing us grief. Kitting up in public, ODing on mainline Temazepam, you name it.’

‘Fucking shocking,’ Lennox offered. He had tight-curled ginger hair and crimson cheeks, his face heavily freckled, eyebrows and eyelashes fair. He was the only one smoking at the table. Rebus lit one up to join him: Jack Morton gave a reproachful look.

‘So what can you do?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’ll tell you,’ Ancram said. ‘We’re going to round them up next weekend, into a fleet of buses, and we’re going to drop the whole lot of them off on Princes Street.’

More laughter at the table, directed at the visitor – Ancram waving the baton. Rebus checked his watch.

‘Somewhere to be?’

‘Yes, and I’d better get going.’

‘Well, look,’ Ancram said, ‘if you do get an invite to Uncle Joe’s abode, I want to know about it. I’ll be here this evening, seven until ten. OK?’

Rebus nodded, waved a general goodbye, and got out.

Once outside, he felt better. He began to walk, not very sure in which direction he was headed. The city centre was laid out American-style, a grid system of one-way streets. Edinburgh might have its monuments, but Glasgow was built to monumental scale, making the capital seem like Toytown. Rebus walked until he saw something that looked more his kind of bar. He knew he needed shoring up for the trip he was about to take. A TV was playing quietly, but no music. And what conversation there was was muffled, low-key. He couldn’t make out what the two men nearest him were saying, their accents were so thick. The only woman in the place was the barmaid.

‘What’ll it be today?’

‘Grouse, make it a double. And a half-bottle to take out.’

He trickled water into the glass, reflected that if he’d eaten a couple of pies here and had a couple of whiskies, it wouldn’t have been half as expensive as The Lobby. But then Ancram had paid at The Lobby; three crisp fivers from the pocket of a sleek suit.

‘Just a Coke, please.’

Rebus turned to the new customer: Jack Morton.