“Because Darryl never needs to find out. You help me, I help you.”

“I’m nobody’s snitch.”

“Don’t fret—it’s not your boss’s secrets I’m interested in.”

“What then?”

“You sell to a young guy called Forbes McCuskey.”

“Do I? Who says?”

“I don’t have time for this, Deano.” Rebus lifted the phone again. The bouncer gripped him by the wrist.

“Okay, okay,” he said, looking up and down the street. “I know who Forbes McCuskey is.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. You heard about the car crash?”

Deano looked genuinely puzzled. “He was in a crash?”

“His girlfriend was with him at the time. Out Kirkliston way, other side of the airport.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“You didn’t happen to be in the vicinity?”

Deano shook his head.

“So how does it work when Forbes buys from you?”

“He parks across the road there.” The bouncer nodded towards the spot where Rebus’s Saab sat. “Winds the window down. I go over, he tells me what he needs and I give him a price.”

“Bit of a markup, him being a posh student and all?”

“I play fair.” The man actually sounded aggrieved by the accusation.

“You know he’s the Justice Minister’s son?” Rebus watched Deano nod. “Never tempted to use that?”

“I didn’t find out until his dad died. Saw his photo on the front of the paper.”

“You sure that was the first of you twigging? Only, a few papers might pay good money for the story.”

“Hard to give them a story without being put in the frame myself.”

“True enough,” Rebus agreed. “And if Darryl were to find out you were conducting a bit of business without his okay…”

Deano stiffened, squaring his shoulders.

“How much were you selling to McCuskey?”

“Enough for him to share with friends.”

“Coke? Ecstasy?”

“As and when required, plus a bit of blaw.”

“And where do you source the stuff?”

The bouncer shook his head slowly and determinedly. “You’ve got what you’re getting.”

“I’ve hardly started, son.” Rebus took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Forbes was freelance? He wasn’t working for you?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“Is that normal?”

“He might have other stuff on his plate right now.”

“True, but I’m wondering how often he used to come see you. Maybe he’s found another outlet.”

“You think that’s what he was doing the night of the crash?”

Rebus offered a shrug. A car was slowing as it passed the bar. A cheap model with a modified exhaust. Two young men in front, two in the back. Hip-hop blaring. They saw that Deano had company and seemed to recognize what kind of company it was. With a growl from the engine, the car sped off.

“I maybe just lost you a sale,” Rebus apologized.