A life without complications.

Either that or the dirt on Feardie Fergie was elsewhere.

‘Found anything?’ Gill called up the stairs. Rebus walked back along the corridor.

‘No, but you might want to have someone check his business premises.’

‘First thing tomorrow.’

Rebus came back down. ‘What about you?’

‘Nothing. Just what you’d expect to find in bins. Nothing saying, “Dope deal, two-thirty Friday at the carpet auction”.’

‘Pity,’ Rebus said with a smile. He checked his watch. ‘Fancy another drink?’

Gill shook her head, stretched. ‘I’d better get home. It’s been a long day.’

‘Another long day.’

‘Another long day.’ She angled her head and looked at him. ‘What about you? Are you heading off for another drink?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you drink more than you used to.’

‘Meaning?’

Her look was intent. ‘Meaning I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘So how much should I drink, doctor?’

‘Don’t take it like that.’

‘How do you know how much I drink? Who’s been squealing?’

‘We went out last night, remember?’

‘I only had two or three whiskies.’

‘And after I left?’

Rebus swallowed. ‘Straight home to bed.’

She smiled sadly. ‘You liar. And you were back at it first thing: a patrol car saw you leaving that pub behind Waverley.’

‘I’m under surveillance!’

‘There are people out there who’re worried about you, that’s all.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ Rebus threw open the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I need a fucking drink. You can come if you like.’

10

As he drove into Arden Street, he saw a group of people outside the main door to his tenement. They were shuffling their feet and cracking jokes, trying to keep morale up. One or two were eating chips from newspaper – a nice irony, since they had the look of reporters.

‘Shit.’

Rebus drove past and kept going, watching in his rearview. There was nowhere to park anyway. He turned right at the junction, then next left, and ended up in a parking space outside Thirlestane Baths. He turned off the ignition and punched the steering-wheel a few times. He could always drive away, maybe head for the M90, race up to Dundee and back, but he didn’t feel like it. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the blood pound through him, a rushing noise in his ears.

‘Let’s do it,’ he said, getting out of the car. He walked down Marchmont Crescent to his chippie, then headed home, feeling the fried fat burning his palm through the layers of paper. He took his time walking up Arden Street itself. They weren’t expecting him to be on foot, and he was almost on them before someone recognised him.

There was a camera crew, too: Redgauntlet – cameraman, Kayleigh Burgess, and Eamonn Breen. Caught on the hop, Breen flicked a cigarette on to the road and grabbed his microphone. The videocam had a spot attached. Spotlights always made you squint, which in turn made you look guilty, so Rebus kept his eyes nice and wide.