His phone rang. He picked it up and wished he hadn’t.

‘Inspector Rebus?’ A woman’s voice: administrative. ‘Could you attend a meeting tomorrow at Fettes?’

Rebus felt a chill run the length of his spine. ‘What sort of meeting?’

A cool smiling voice. ‘I don’t have that information. The request comes from the ACC’s office.’

The Assistant Chief Constable, Colin Carswell. Rebus called him the ‘CC Rider’. A Yorkshireman – as close to a Scot as the English got. He’d been with Lothian and Borders two and a half years, and so far nobody had a bad word to say about him, which should have put him in the Guinness Book of Records. There had been a hairy few months after the last Deputy Chief Constable resigned and before they appointed a new one, but Carswell had coped. Some were of the opinion that he was just too good, and therefore would never make it to Chief Constable. Lothian and Borders used to boast one DCC and two ACCs, but one of the ACC posts had now become ‘Director of Corporate Services’, about which no one on the force seemed to know anything at all.

‘What time?’

‘Two o’clock, it shouldn’t take long.’

‘Will there be tea and biccies? I’m not coming otherwise.’

A shocked pause, then a release of breath as she realised he was joking. ‘We’ll see what we can manage, Inspector.’

Rebus put down the phone. It rang again and he picked it up.

‘John? It’s Gill, did you get my message?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Oh. I thought you might have tried to call me.’

‘Mmm.’

‘John? Is something wrong?’

He shook himself. ‘I don’t know. The CC Rider wants to see me.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Nobody’s saying.’

A sigh. ‘What have you been up to this time?’

‘Absolutely nothing, Gill, that’s the God’s honest truth.’

‘Made any enemies yet at your new posting?’ As she spoke, Bain and Maclay walked through the door. Rebus nodded a greeting.

‘No enemies. Do you think I’m doing something wrong?’ Maclay and Bain were shedding jackets, pretending not to be interested.

‘Listen, about that message I left …?’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ Maclay and Bain dropped the pretence.

‘Can we meet?’

‘I don’t see why not. Dinner tonight?’

‘Tonight … yes, why not?’

She lived in Morningside, Rebus in Marchmont … make it a Tollcross rendezvous.

‘Brougham Street,’ Rebus said, ‘that Indian place with the slat blinds. Half eight?’

‘Sure.’

‘See you there, Chief Inspector.’

Bain and Maclay went about their business, said nothing for a minute or two. Then Bain coughed, swallowed, spoke.

‘How was Raintown?’

‘I got out alive.’

‘Find out anything about Uncle Joe and Tony El?’ Bain’s finger went to the nick below his eye.

Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing.’

‘All right, don’t tell us,’ Maclay said. He looked funny, sitting at his desk. An inch had been sawn off each of the legs of his chair, so his thighs would fit under the lip of the desk. When Rebus had first arrived, he’d asked why Maclay hadn’t just lifted the table legs up an inch. Until then, Maclay hadn’t thought of it – sawing the chair legs had been Bain’s idea.