‘Understood, but you know the Squaddies will be peeved if you keep them in the dark. They’ve got the manpower and experience for this sort of thing.’

She just stared at him. ‘Since when did you start going by the book?’

‘We’re not talking about me. I’m the L&B bad apple – doubtless they think one’s more than enough.’

Their food arrived, the table filling with platters and dishes, a nan bread big enough to be plotting world domination. They looked at one another, realising they didn’t feel that hungry any more.

‘A couple more of the same,’ Rebus said, handing the waiter his empty glass. To Gill: ‘So tell me Fergie’s story.’

‘It’s sketchy. Some drugs are coming north in a consignment of antiques. They’re going to be handed over to the dealers.’

‘The dealers being …?’

She shrugged. ‘McLure thinks they’re Americans.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Who? The sellers?’

‘No, the buyers. The sellers are German.’

Rebus went through the major Edinburgh dealers, couldn’t think of a single American.

‘I know,’ Gill said, reading his thoughts.

‘New boys trying to break in?’

‘McLure thinks the stuff’s headed further north.’

‘Dundee?’

She nodded. ‘And Aberdeen.’

Aberdeen again. Jesus. A town called malice. ‘So how’s Fergie involved?’

‘One of his sales would be the perfect cover.’

‘He’s fronting?’

Another nod. She chewed on a piece of chicken, dipped nan bread into the sauce. Rebus watched her eat, remembering little things about her: the way her ears moved when she chewed, the way her eyes flicked over the different dishes, the way she rubbed her fingers together afterwards … There were rings around her neck that hadn’t been there five years ago, and maybe when she visited her hairdresser they added some colour to her roots. But she looked good. She looked great.

‘So?’ she asked.

‘Is that all he told you?’

‘He’s scared of these dealers, too scared to tell them to get lost. But the last thing he wants is us catching on and putting him in jail as an accessory. That’s why he’s grassing.’

‘Even though he’s scared?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘When’s all this supposed to happen?’

‘When they phone him.’

‘I don’t know, Gill. If it were a peg, you couldn’t hang a fucking hankie on it, never mind your coat.’

‘Colourfully put.’

She was staring at his tie as she said it. It was a loud tie, purposely so: it was supposed to distract attention from his unironed shirt with the missing button.

‘OK, I’ll go talkies tomorrow, see if I can wring any more out of him.’

‘But gently.’

‘He’ll be putty in my hands.’

They ate only half the food, still felt bloated. Coffee and mints came: Gill put both mints into her bag for later. Rebus had a third whisky. He was looking ahead, seeing them standing outside the restaurant. He could offer to walk her home. He could ask her back to his flat. Only she couldn’t stay the night: there might be reporters outside in the morning.