“Early for a meeting,” Rebus lied. “Just killing time.” He made show of checking his watch.

“Like fuck you are,” the man spat.

“Okay then,” Rebus bristled. “You tell me—what am I doing?”

“Whatever it is, you’re not staying.” The man clamped a hand around Rebus’s forearm.

“That could be classed as assault, pal.”

“Oh aye? How about this?” A fist crunched into Rebus’s stomach, and he felt his knees buckle. The same hand was digging in his coat, then his jacket’s inside pocket, tugging free the warrant card and flapping it open.

“Detective Sergeant, eh? DS Rebus? Okay, I’ve got your name now, pal. And if you report any of this, we’ll be having another wee chat. So think about that.”

As the wallet was pushed back into Rebus’s pocket, he found enough strength to take a swing at his assailant. The man blocked it without too much effort, using his elbow, while his grip on Rebus’s other arm tightened still further. Then he let go and took a step back.

“Anytime you like, Grandad,” he said.

“I could have a squad car here in two minutes.”

“I believe you—but remember what I said. Won’t just be out to wind you next time.”

Rebus flashed back to interview rooms down the years, the softening-up of suspects, the “accidental” trips and falls. And now here he was, on the receiving end. He considered his options and found them wanting. Yes, he could call it in, and the scrapper in front of him would be arrested, questioned, cautioned—but to what end? He had learned something, and that was almost worth the short-lived pain and the residual embarrassment. Time was he would have gone blow-for-blow with the man.

Time was.

“I’ll be back,” was what he ended up saying.

“Best bring a Terminator with you,” his attacker said with a lopsided grin, watching as Rebus trudged back to the Saab. “Got your license plate now too,” the man added. “Means I can have your address anytime I like.”

Rebus held one hand to his stomach as he drove, removing it only when he needed to change gear, which was often—all those bloody roundabouts again. He stopped at a fast-food place and got some fizzy orange. His mouth was dry, heart pounding. When his phone rang, he thought about ignoring it, but saw James Page’s name on the screen.

“I’m on my way,” Rebus answered.

“Where from?”

“Another errand.”

“For Siobhan Clarke? Maybe I should ask her to confirm that.”

“Up to you.” Rebus slurped the ice-cold juice through a straw.

“I’ve just spoken to Professor Quant about our floater. Bringing in Professor Thomas seems to have been useful. I think we’ve got a suspicious death here, and maybe even a murder.”

“Murder? Not from what I saw at the second autopsy.”

“Nevertheless.”