Instead of leaving the station straightaway, Rebus went in search of the interview room he wanted. He walked in, identifying himself to the officers who were questioning the guard from the Livingston car park. The man was no longer in uniform. He wore a camouflage jacket and matching trousers. His arms were folded and he was scowling. Seated alongside him was a lawyer, a downtrodden-looking individual holding a cheap ballpoint pen over a lined notebook. Rebus asked the detectives if he could have two minutes. They didn’t look happy about it, but he stood his ground and eventually they exited the room. The lawyer stayed, but that was fine with Rebus. He leaned his knuckles against the edge of the table and loomed over the man who had punched him.

“Remember me?” he asked.

“You want to take a shot at me, go ahead.”

“In front of your solicitor? No, I’ll get my satisfaction watching you in the dock. Only thing that’ll help you is grassing your boss. It’ll feel like a blow to the guts, but you’ll do it anyway, because it’ll bring your sentence down. But all the time you’re inside, the cons will know what you did. They’ll know you blabbed. That feeling in your guts won’t ever go away…” Rebus straightened up, his attention moving to the lawyer.

“Don’t knock yourself out,” he said, turning to leave.

That evening, when he returned home, the only parking space on the street was next to a white Range Rover Evoque. As Rebus got out, so did Darryl Christie.

“I heard about Rory Bell,” Christie said.

“He won’t be trying any more landgrabs,” Rebus acknowledged.

“I also hear you had something to do with his demise.” Christie held out a hand. Rebus stared at it until the young man lowered his arm. “Whether you like it or not, I owe you a favor. Anytime you want to call it in, I’m at the end of the phone.”

“Right,” Rebus said, locking his car and heading for his tenement. He paused at the door, key not quite in the lock, and turned his head back towards Christie.

“Is that a serious offer?” he called out.

Epilogue

Epilogue

Epilogue

At four the next afternoon, like clockwork, Peter Meikle emerged from the bookmaker’s on Clerk Street with a disappointed look on his face, a look which only intensified when he clocked Rebus.

“Again?”

“Again,” Rebus agreed.

“What if I say no?”

“This is the last time, Peter. Just take this ride with me and that’s us.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Meikle got into the passenger seat of Rebus’s Saab and fastened his belt. “Holyrood Park?” he guessed.

“Holyrood Park,” Rebus confirmed. Then, signaling to move into the stream of traffic: “It was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Has there ever been a day it didn’t prey on your mind?”

“I didn’t kill Dorothy.”