“Tell me, Stefan—you seem to know a few shady business types—ever come across a Rory Bell? He’s west-coast—or he was.”

“Something to do with alarm systems and security guards?” Gilmour paused at the front door. “I know the name. I think a pal mentioned him a while back. In fact I bumped into the pal tonight—John McGlynn. Want me to put the two of you in touch?” Gilmour had lifted his phone from his pocket.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Rebus said.

“Is this getting a bit awkward, John, you needing a favor from me?” Gilmour smiled. “Reckon it means you’ll owe me further down the line?” Without waiting for an answer, he made the call. “It’s gone to answering,” he informed Rebus. Then, into the mouthpiece: “Hiya, John. Stefan here. You’re probably busy, but an old cop of my acquaintance is after news of Rory Bell. Maybe you could oblige. He’s on…” Gilmour broke off to look at Rebus. Rebus recited his mobile number, while Gilmour repeated it, ending the call.

“John’s Glasgow-based, but you might get lucky—he’s this side of the country for a couple of days.”

“And he’s legit?”

“Solid gold,” Gilmour said. “I don’t exclusively hang around with wrong ’uns. It’s not like I’m a detective or anything.” He opened the door. “That stuff I just told you about Slippery Phil and Porkbelly—you really don’t know what you’re going to do with it?”

“I really don’t.”

“Any chance you’ll let me know when you decide?”

“And afterwards we’ll be square?”

Gilmour gave him a hard look. “Afterwards, I never want to see you again. Let’s make that absolutely clear.” Having said which, he walked through the open door, leaving it ajar. Rebus listened to his footsteps as he made his descent, then closed the door and returned to the living room. He put side two of the Van Morrison album on again and sat down. It played for twenty minutes or so, but he wasn’t really listening.

Day Twelve

Day Twelve

22

22

Rebus drove to work next morning in what his father would have called “a dwam,” unaware of the world around him. As he got out of the Saab, he realized the car park was unfamiliar—or not as familiar as it should have been. A uniformed sergeant was puffing on a pipe in the smoking zone.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

Only then did it dawn: he had driven to St. Leonard’s police station. Hadn’t worked there in a number of years. It was where he’d been introduced to Siobhan Clarke, where they’d forged their working relationship.