“He’s telling you I am the police,” Rebus explained. The two students had taken hold of their friend. Rebus took a step back. “And I’ve a message for him when he comes back down from space. Tell him his dealing days are over—Deano’s not going to be supplying anymore.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. But tell him anyway.” Rebus peered into one of the flatmates’ shopping bags. “Big bag of nachos and a jar of salsa? You might as well get ‘munchies’ tattooed on your foreheads…”

He had reached the main door of his own tenement when a car horn sounded behind him. A white Range Rover Evoque had pulled to a stop in the middle of the road, its tinted driver’s-side window sliding down. Rebus saw that Darryl Christie was behind the wheel, staring in his direction.

“You haven’t moved up the property ladder, then?” Christie said.

“How about you?” Rebus countered. “Still living with your mum?”

“Penthouse the other side of the Meadows,” Christie corrected him. “Got time for a quick word?”

“Just barely.”

“Get in, then.”

Rebus walked around to the passenger side and climbed aboard, placing his shopping on the floor by his feet. Christie drove to the bottom of Arden Street and took a right.

“We headed anywhere in particular?”

“I just like to keep on the move. That way there’s less chance of anyone listening in.”

“You’re a bit young to be suffering paranoid delusions.”

“What about that guy back there—what was he suffering from?”

“He’d just been to a wake.”

“I sort of recognized him.”

“Son of the Justice Minister. So what can I do for you, Darryl?”

“One of your colleagues pulled my doorman in for questioning.”

“Yes?”

“Second time he’s been questioned, so I’m curious.”

“Nothing to be curious about—you told us yourself that Dean Grant had been on duty that night. We just needed to know if he’d seen who got into the minicab.”

“And?”

“Why not ask him yourself?”

“I have.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s paid to deal with trouble, not make it.”