Meikle gave a shrug. “I read the papers.”

“Paying particular attention to police stories?”

“I know there’s a reorganization.”

“Why so interested, though?”

“You forgetting that I’ve a history with you lot? Come to that, why aren’t you retired—you must be on full pension by now?”

“I was retired—that’s what the Cold Case Unit was, a bunch of old hands still itching for answers. And you’re right that our caseload has gone elsewhere.” Rebus’s face was by now only a couple of inches from Meikle’s. “But I’ve not gone, Peter. I’m right here, and I was just getting started on reopening your case when it was taken away from me. Well, you know me, I like to finish what I start.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Sure about that?”

“You going to slam me into a wall, knock me out cold again? That’s the way you and your lot always liked to operate…”

But Rebus wasn’t listening. His attention had shifted to the mobile phone gripped in Meikle’s right hand. He snatched at it and saw that its recording function was on. With a grim smile, he tossed it into a thicket of gorse. Meikle gave a little yelp of complaint.

“This the way you want it to go, Peter?” Rebus asked, stubbing the remains of his cigarette against the wall. “Always watching over your shoulder for someone like me? Waiting for the day a dog goes sniffing where it shouldn’t and starts to dig?”

“You’ve got nothing and you are nothing,” Meikle spat.

“You couldn’t be more wrong. See, I’ve got you.” A finger was stabbed into Meikle’s chest. “And as long as you’re unfinished business, that makes me something you need to worry about.”

He turned and headed back through the gateway. Meikle watched him climb into the Saab and start the engine. The car sped off with a burst of smoke from its exhaust. Swearing under his breath, Meikle began trampling down the gorse in search of his phone.

The Chief Constable’s leaving party took place at the canteen of Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. He was heading to a new post south of the border and no one seemed to know whether anyone would take over his role. The eight regional Scottish forces were soon to be amalgamated into something called Police Scotland. The Chief Constable of Strathclyde had been given the top job, leaving seven of his colleagues scratching around for fresh opportunities.

A perfunctory attempt had been made to turn the canteen into a festive location—meaning a couple of banners, some streamers and even a dozen or so party balloons. Tables had been covered with paper tablecloths. There were bowls of crisps and nuts, and bottles of wine and beer.

“Cake’s arriving in half an hour,” Siobhan Clarke told Rebus.