‘It can be easily mended,’ he told them. They shook their heads, then studied the menus. Having ordered, Rebus raised his glass.

‘Slàinte.’

‘Cheers.’ Gill took a gulp of her drink, exhaled afterwards.

‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘niceties taken care of … to business.’

‘Do you know how many women make chief inspector in the Scottish force?’

‘I know we’re talking the fingers of a blind carpenter’s hand.’

‘Exactly.’ She paused, realigned her cutlery. ‘I don’t want to screw up.’

‘Who does?’

She glanced at him, smiled. Rebus: world’s supply of fuck-ups, his life a warehouse filled to the rafters with them. Harder to shift than eight-track cartridges.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘so I’m an authority.’

‘And that’s good.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Because I’m still fucking up.’

She smiled. ‘Five months, John, and I haven’t made a good collar yet.’

‘But that’s about to change?’

‘I don’t know.’ Another gulp of courage. ‘Someone’s passed me some information about a drug deal … a biggie.’

‘Which protocol dictates you should pass on to the Scottish Crime Squad.’

She gave him a look. ‘And hand those lazy bastards the glory? Come on, John.’

‘I’ve never been a great believer in protocol myself. All the same …’ All the same: he didn’t want Gill fucking up. He could see this was important to her: maybe too important. She needed perspective, same as he needed on Spaven.

‘So who passed you the info?’

‘Fergus McLure.’

‘Feardie Fergie?’ Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Wasn’t he one of Flower’s snitches?’

Gill nodded. ‘I took over Flower’s list when he moved.’

‘Jesus, how much did he screw out of you?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘Most of Flower’s grasses are worse than anyone they could possibly snitch on.’

‘Nevertheless, he gave me his list.’

‘Feardie Fergie, eh?’

Fergus McLure had been in and out of private hospitals half his life. A nervous wreck, he drank nothing stronger than Ovaltine, and couldn’t watch anything more exciting than Pets Win Prizes. His constant supply of prescription drugs bolstered the profits of the British pharmaceutical industry. This said, he ran a nice little empire which just bordered on the legal: jeweller by trade, he also put on sales of Persian rugs, fire-damaged and water-damaged merchandise, receivership auctions. He lived in Ratho, a village on the edge of the city. Feardie Fergie was a known homosexual, but lived quietly – unlike some judges of Rebus’s acquaintance.

Gill crunched on a popadum, dribbled chutney on the remaining piece.

‘So what’s the problem?’ Rebus asked.

‘How well do you know Fergus McLure?’

Rebus shrugged, lied. ‘Reputation only. Why?’

‘Because I want this watertight before I act on it.’

‘Problem with snitches, Gill, you can’t always have corroboration.’

‘No, but I can have a second opinion.’

‘You want me to talk to him?’

‘John, for all your flaws –’

‘For which I am famous.’

‘– you’re a good judge of character, and you know enough about informers.’

‘My back-up subject for Mastermind.’

‘I just want to know if you think he’s on the level. I don’t want to go to all the trouble and effort of opening an investigation, maybe setting up surveillance, taps, even a sting operation, only to have the carpet pulled out from under me.’