Rebus managed a smile. “I’m interested in a guy called Rory Bell—do you know him?”

“Heard of him,” she admitted, eyes narrowing. “Is there something in this for me?”

“Might be, in the long run. Depends on what you can tell me.”

“He’s early thirties. Used to be muscle for one of the Glasgow gangs. Branched out, but was soon persuaded he’d live longer if he relocated. Lanarkshire wasn’t quite far enough. Last I heard, he’d set up shop in Livingston.”

“Doing what?”

“Security. If businesses turn him down, they might suffer the odd break-in or arson attack.”

“Nice.”

“He also has shares in a haulage company. One of their drivers was done last year for smuggling duty-free ciggies.”

“Told the court he was doing it off his own bat?”

She nodded and took a sip of coffee, savoring it. “A few trailers have gone AWOL from yards, too—rumor that one of Bell’s rigs might have been the culprit. It all adds up.”

“But no prosecutions as yet?”

She shook her head, studying him above the rim of her oversized cup. “I’m not doling all this out for the good of my health.”

“Understood.” Rebus paused. “Any run-ins between Bell and Darryl Christie?”

“They seem to be doing a good job of tiptoeing round one another. Christie’s business is predominantly bars and clubs, and Bell hasn’t gone there yet. Though he did slip up when he tried selling security to one pub in Falkirk…Turned out it belonged to Christie, something that only came to light after its windows had been put in.”

Which explained the grievance felt by Christie—and maybe why he wanted Rebus to have his competitor’s name.

“Suddenly you’ve got a twinkle in your eye,” Smith noted.

“Might be the onset of cataracts,” Rebus explained. Then: “Bell’s definitely from Glasgow?”

“That’s when he first came on the radar.”

“But he was born there? Grew up there?”

“I’d need to check.”

“Could you do that and get back to me?” Rebus handed her his business card.

She held the card between the tips of two fingers. “I don’t like that this is one-way traffic.”

“Think of it more as a contraflow—there’ll be a green light on your lane soon enough.”

The door burst open and a young woman a few years younger than Smith scoured the room before heading for their table, her eyes fixed on the journalist.

“Your phone’s off,” she said, catching her breath.

“I’m in a meeting.” Smith gestured across the table towards Rebus.

“You’ll want to see this.” She was holding an iPad, turning its screen towards Smith. “It’s from about an hour ago, but it’s already gone viral.”

“Amusing cats? Infants taking a tumble…?”