‘Problem?’

Holmes laughed, no humour. ‘I’ve got the world’s supply.’

‘So tell me the latest.’ Rebus opened the packet one-handed, in mouth and lit.

‘I don’t know that I can, with you being in shit.’

‘Craigmillar’s not so bad.’ Rebus looked around the stale office.

‘I meant the other thing.’

‘Oh.’

‘See, I’m … I might have gotten myself into something …’

‘What’s happened?’

‘A suspect, we had him in custody. He was giving me a shit load of grief.’

‘You smacked him.’

‘That’s what he’s saying.’

‘Filed a complaint?’

‘In the process. His solicitor wants to take it all the way.’

‘Your word against his?’

‘Right.’

‘The rubber-heels will kick it out.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Or get Siobhan to cover your arse.’

‘She’s on holiday. My partner for the interview was Glamis.’

‘No good then, he’s as yellow as a New York cab.’

A pause. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it?’

‘I don’t ever want to know, understood? Who was the suspect?’

‘Mental Minto.’

‘Christ, that brewhead knows more law than the procurator-fiscal. OK, let’s go talkies.’

It was good to be out of the station. He had the car windows rolled down. The breeze was almost warm. The station-issue Escort hadn’t been cleaned in a while. There were chocolate wrappers, empty crisp bags, crushed bricks of orange juice and Ribena. The heart of the Scottish diet: sugar and salt. Add alcohol and you had heart and soul.

Minto lived in one of the tenement flats on South Clerk Street, first floor. Rebus had been there on occasions past, none of them savoury to the memory. Kerbside was solid with cars, so he double-parked. In the sky, fading roseate was fighting a losing battle with encroaching dark. And below it all, halogen orange. The street was noisy. The cinema up the road was probably emptying, and the first casualties weretearing themselves away from still-serving pubs. Night-cooking in the air: hot batter, pizza topping, Indian spice. Brian Holmes was standing outside a charity shop, hands in pockets. No car: he’d probably walked from St Leonard’s. The two men nodded a greeting.

Holmes looked tired. Just a few years ago he’d been young, fresh, keen. Rebus knew home life had taken its toll: he’d been there in his own marriage, annulled years back. Holmes’s partner wanted him out of the force. She wanted someone who spent more time with her. Rebus knew all too well what she wanted. She wanted someone whose mind was on her when he was at home, who wasn’t immersed in casework and speculation, mind games and promotion strategies. Often as a police officer you were closer to your working partner than your partner for life. When you joined CID they gave you a handshake and a piece of paper.

The piece of paper was your decree nisi.

‘Do you know if he’s up there?’ Rebus asked.

‘I phoned him. He picked up. Sounded halfway to sober.’

‘Did you say anything?’

‘Think I’m stupid?’