“Like I say, sir, better to just let it be. We don’t want anyone doing something daft, do we?”

Traynor stared at him.

“You see what I’m saying?” Rebus went on.

“I’m not sure that I do,” Traynor drawled.

“You have a reputation, Mr. Traynor. And I’m interested how you came by your friends in the Met.”

“Maybe I’m just a member of the right clubs.” Traynor began edging past Rebus, making for the hospital entrance.

“My town, my rules,” Rebus called out. But Owen Traynor showed no sign of having heard.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Malcolm Fox said, rising from the table and extending a hand towards Siobhan Clarke. “What can I get you?”

“Brian’s already on it.” She nodded towards the counter. The café owner was busy at the espresso machine. The place was only a hundred yards or so down Leith Walk from Gayfield Square, but she didn’t know any other cops who frequented it. Making it a safe rendezvous, more or less.

Clarke slid onto the banquette opposite Fox. They’d met before, but just barely.

“I heard you were on your way out of the Complaints,” she said. “That can’t be comfortable.”

“No,” Fox agreed, rubbing a hand across the tabletop.

Reorganization again—internal-affairs officers were not exempt. Their Edinburgh office was about to be trimmed. Besides which, Fox had served his allotted time. He was being shipped back to CID, where he would work alongside men and women he’d investigated, in stations he’d investigated, stations where he would be mistrusted if not reviled.

The café owner brought over Clarke’s cappuccino and asked Fox if he wanted a refill. Fox nodded.

“Black coffee, no sugar,” he reminded the man.

“Because you’re already too sweet?” Clarke pretended to guess, eliciting a wry smile. She leaned back a little and turned to watch the pedestrians on the pavement outside. “So why am I fraternizing with the enemy?” she asked.

“Maybe because you know I’m not the enemy. The Complaints exists so that cops like you—the good cops—can thrive.”

“I bet you’ve said that before.”

“Many times.”

She turned towards him. He still had the same wry smile on his face.

“You need a favor?” she guessed, receiving a slow nod by way of reply. His coffee arrived and he touched the rim of the saucer with the tips of his fingers.

“It’s to do with John Rebus,” he stated.

“Of course it is.”

“I’ve got to talk to him.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“The thing is, Siobhan, I need him to talk. And if the request comes from me, he’ll doubtless respond with a few choice words.”

“Request?”

“Order, then. And it won’t be coming from me, not ultimately…”