“Biggest rip-off going,” Rebus counseled as Fox tipped the bottle to his mouth.

“I was about to say the same.” Fox gestured towards the twenty Silk Cut.

They were on their way back to the Saab when Fox asked: “These cars, would they be daft enough just to dump them like they did with Redpath’s Ford?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Only, it ended up going for scrap…”

Rebus stopped with one hand on the driver’s-side door handle. “You think they might have…?” Rather than finish the question, he got into the car and called the scrap yard in Broxburn. He was expecting to hear Eddie Duke’s voice, but it was Reece Bairstow who answered.

“It’s DS Rebus,” Rebus told him. “I’m after a favor.”

“Aren’t you always?”

“Anytime you want to explain that crowbar to my colleagues, Reece…”

There was a sigh on the line. “So what’s the favor?”

“Scrap yards within easy distance of Livingston.”

“Apart from us, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“There aren’t any.”

“None at all?”

“Only players in town. So can I get back to work now?”

“Soon as you answer one last question.”

“Which is?”

Rebus took a deep breath. “Two cars, one a Citroën with an expired tax disc, the other a medium-sized saloon with red paintwork…”

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t have seen them, by any chance?”

“They came in last night.”

Rebus blinked a couple of times. “Tell me they’ve not made it into the compactor yet.”

“I was just about to get started. But something tells me you’re not going to want that to happen.”

“Correct,” Rebus said. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Nobody touches them until then—understood?”

“Getting to be a familiar refrain,” Bairstow was muttering as Rebus ended the call. He stared at Fox.

“I owe you a large drink,” he said.

“Got one, thanks,” Fox replied, shaking the bottle of water.

Eddie Duke had taken Boris the guard dog to a vet’s appointment.

“Nothing trivial, I hope,” Rebus said.

As Bairstow explained it, the cars had arrived around closing time. One—a red Renault—was cleaner than the other. The drivers of the two vehicles weren’t the ones in charge, however.

“There was another car—the one they all drove off in afterwards. Guy behind the wheel was the one who did the talking and handed over the cash.”

“What did he look like?” Rebus asked.

“Maybe six feet, well built, short black hair with sort of a widow’s peak.”

Rebus had only seen photos of Rory Bell, but that was just how he would have described him.

“No name?” he inquired.

“Not that I heard.”

“What was he driving?”

“New-looking BMW X5. Black bodywork and tinted windows.”

“You didn’t happen to get the license number?”

Bairstow shook his head. “Wasn’t personalized or anything.”