A low growl: human.

‘You got a dog there, Uncle Joe?’

‘Tell the cop I don’t have anything to do with Tony.’

‘I think he wants to hear it for himself.’

‘Then put him on.’

Cafferty looked to Rebus, who shook his head.

‘And he wants to look you in the eye while you’re telling him.’

‘Is he a poof or what?’

‘He’s old school, Uncle Joe. You’ll like him.’

‘Why did he come to you?’

‘I’m his Last Chance Saloon.’

‘And why the fuck did you agree?’

Cafferty didn’t miss a beat. ‘A half-bottle of usquebaugh.’

‘Jesus, the Bar-L must be drier than I thought.’ The voice not so rough.

‘Send a whole bottle over and I’ll tell him to go fuck himself.’

A croaky laugh. ‘Christ, Cafferty, I miss you. How long to go?’

‘Ask my lawyers.’

‘Are you still keeping your hand in?’

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s what I hear.’

‘Nothing wrong with your hearing.’

‘Send the bastard over, tell him he gets five minutes. Maybe I’ll come see you one of these days.’

‘Better not, Uncle Joe, when visiting time ends they might have misplaced the key.’

More laughter. The line went dead. Cafferty put down the receiver.

‘You owe me, Strawman,’ he growled, ‘so here’s my favour: put that old bastard away.’

But Rebus was already walking towards freedom.

The car was waiting for him, Morton keeping his word. Rebus gave the address he’d memorised from the Toal files. He was sitting in the back, two woolly suits in the front. The passenger turned in his seat.

‘Isn’t that where Uncle Joe lives?’

Rebus nodded. The woolly suits exchanged a look.

‘Just get me there,’ Rebus ordered.

The traffic was heavy, people heading home. Elastic Glasgow, stretching in four directions. The housing scheme, when they reached it, was much like any scheme its size in Edinburgh: grey pebbledash, barren play areas, tarmac and a smattering of fortified shops. Kids on bikes stopping to watch the car, eyes as keen as sentries’; brisk baby buggies, shapeless mothers with dyed blonde hair. Further into the estate, driving slowly: people watching from behind their windows, men at pavement corners, muttered confabs. A city within a city, uniform and enervating, energy sapped, nothing left but obstinacy: the words NO SURRENDER on a gable-end, a message from Ulster just as relevant here.

‘Are you expected?’ the driver asked.

‘I’m expected.’

‘Thank Christ for that at least.’

‘Any other patrol cars around?’

The passenger laughed nervously. ‘This is the frontier, sir. The frontier has a way of keeping its own law and order.’

‘If you had his money,’ the driver said, ‘would you live here?’

‘He was born here,’ Rebus said. ‘And I believe his house is a bit special.’

‘Special?’ The driver snorted. ‘Well, judge for yourself.’

He brought the car to a stop at the entrance to a cul-de-sac. Rebus saw at the end of the cul-de-sac two houses which stood out from their neighbours for a single reason: they boasted stone cladding.