She ran a hand up one arm. ‘Took hours of work on the beach to get this.’

‘You’ve always been conscientious.’

She sipped Diet Pepsi. ‘So why’s everyone so down in the dumps?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Two tired, grey men; one young woman, tanned and brimming with life. Rebus knew he’d have to gee himself up for his evening date.

‘So,’ he asked Holmes casually, ‘that thing I asked you to look into …?’

‘It’s slow going. If you want my opinion,’ he looked up at Rebus, ‘whoever wrote up the notes was a master of circumlocution. There’s a lot of circling around the subject. I’d guess most casual readers would give up rather than plough on.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Why would the writer have done that?’

‘To put people off reading it. He probably thought they’d flick to the summing-up, miss out all the rubbish in the middle. Thing is, you can lose things that way, bury them in the text.’

‘Excuse me,’ Siobhan said, ‘have I walked into a masonic meeting by mistake? Is this some code I’m not supposed to get?’

‘Not at all, Brother Clarke,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘Maybe Brother Holmes will tell you about it.’

Holmes looked to Siobhan. ‘Only if you promise not to show me any holiday snaps.’

‘I wasn’t intending to.’ Siobhan straightened her back. ‘I know naturist beaches aren’t your thing.’

Rebus was purposely early for the rendezvous. Bain hadn’t been lying: there were two restaurants with wood-slatted blinds. They were eighty yards apart, and Rebus walked relays between the two. He saw Gill rounding the corner at Tollcross and waved to her. She hadn’t over-dressed for the occasion: new-looking denims, plain cream blouse, and a yellow cashmere jumper tied around her neck. Sunglasses, gold-chain necklace, and two-inch heels – she liked to make a noise when she walked.

‘Hello, John.’

‘Hiya, Gill.’

‘Is this the place?’

He looked at the restaurant. ‘There’s another one just up the road if you’d prefer. Or there’s French, Thai …’

‘This is fine.’ She pulled open the door, walked in ahead of him. ‘Did you book a table?’

‘Didn’t think they’d be busy,’ Rebus said. The restaurant wasn’t empty, but there was a spare table for two by the window, directly beneath a distorting loudspeaker. Gill removed her brown leather shoulder-bag and laid it under her chair.

‘Something to drink?’ their waiter asked.

‘Whisky and soda for me,’ Gill said.

‘Whisky, no additives,’ Rebus ordered. As the first waiter left, another appeared with menus, popadums and pickles. After he’d gone, Rebus looked around, saw that no one at the other tables was paying attention, and reached up to tug at the speaker-cable, disconnecting it. The music above them stopped.

‘Better,’ Gill said, smiling.

‘So,’ Rebus said, laying his napkin across his thighs, ‘is this business or social?’

‘Both,’ Gill admitted. She broke off as the drinks arrived. The waiter knew something was wrong, eventually placed it. He looked up at the silent speaker.