“Look, I can see what you’re doing—everyone around you seems to be heading a big case, so you want one too. But the Procurator Fiscal’s office will laugh you back to Gayfield Square if you go to them with this. There’s no evidence to back you up.”

“There are bruises.”

“I’ve got a few of those myself. Doubt very much I’ll die from them.”

“Are you all right?”

“Tickety-boo.”

“And you’re really on your way here?”

“Absolutely.”

“So what do you think we do about the floater?”

“For starters, maybe stop using that word. Then you set up a trawl of missing persons, going back as many years as necessary. He was white-skinned, fair-haired. We know his height and build. An appeal is a good idea—get his description out there.”

“Right.”

“Christine Esson’s the expert—she’ll know where to start.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Anytime, boss.”

“How long till you get here? Twenty minutes? Half an hour?”

“Soon as I can—scout’s honor.”

“But we both know you were never a scout.”

“You’ve rumbled me,” Rebus confessed. Then: “Forgive me for saying, but you sound a bit cheerier.”

“News from on high: no plans to scrap Gayfield Square.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Aye, me too. But doubtless you’ll do something to sour my mood before long.”

“I dare say.” Rebus ended the call and gave his stomach another rub. He had one slight detour to make before Gayfield Square. And some big questions that needed answering.

Great King Street was lined with cars, except for a stretch of single yellow line at the end. Rebus parked and placed the POLICE sign on the dashboard. He was close by Drummond Place, with its central splodge of green space, protected by high railings and available only to keyholders. He walked back along the street until he was outside the door he wanted, pressing the buzzer for the flat marked TRAYNOR/BELL.

“Yes?”

The crackly voice belonged to Forbes McCuskey.

“It’s DS Rebus. I need a word.”

“There’s nothing for you here.”

“Let me in or I swear I’ll kick down the door.”

There was silence. Then a buzzing as the door was unlocked. Rebus pushed it open and managed the stairs fine. The blood was rushing in his ears by the time he reached the top, but he hadn’t had to pause for breath. The door was closed, so he thumped on it. His hand came away stained pink. Looking again, he saw that paint had been thrown at the door, then wiped off. Whoever had cleaned it had tried to be thorough, but the stone floor beneath Rebus’s feet was stained too. The door was eventually opened, Forbes McCuskey standing there.

“I’m collecting for the UVF,” Rebus said, holding up his palm.

“Jessica says this is intimidation. She says I should phone a lawyer.”