“I think you’re ready,” Rebus said, starting the engine. “Place used to be under the ownership of a thug called Frank Hammell. Good spot to visit if you were in the market for a stolen telly or hi-fi.”

“Where’s Hammell these days?”

“Out of the game.”

“You make it sound like a decision taken out of his hands.”

“You might say that…”

When they reached their destination, Fox walked in ahead of Rebus. Rebus placed a hand on his arm.

“Slight change of plan—maybe let me do the talking to start with.”

He had already been recognized—not by the tattooed barwoman but by the young, well-dressed man seated on a stool, who broke off his conversation with her as Rebus walked in.

“Darryl Christie,” Rebus said.

“Mr. Rebus.” Christie didn’t budge from the stool. He looked Rebus up and down. “Something I can do for you?”

Rebus ignored the question and turned towards Fox. “This young streak of piss is the reason Frank Hammell gave up this place, and plenty of others like it. I know what you’re thinking—he can’t be long out of school—but don’t let that fool you.”

As if to reinforce the point, Christie rubbed his hand along the acne on his jaw line, offering a grin which still seemed to contain some milk teeth. Rebus was searching the room for muscle.

“Not got your boys with you?” he asked. “Unless the old lad in the corner with the tot of rum is a master of disguise.”

“City’s nice and calm, Mr. Rebus. And personnel come expensive.”

“Did you happen to be here last night, Mr. Christie?” Fox interrupted. “Around eight forty-five one of your clients rang for a cab. We’re trying to trace the driver.”

“Ask Lavinia here,” Christie advised, indicating the barwoman.

“I’m only on days,” she corrected him.

“So you are.” Christie tutted at his mistake. “It would have been Colin or Johnny.”

“Plus someone manning the door?” Rebus asked.

Christie thought for a moment. “That would have been Deano. You’re thinking he would have clocked the cab? What’s the story with the driver anyway?”

“Not your concern, Mr. Christie,” Fox said, sounding apologetic.

“I like you,” Christie told him. “You’ve got the right attitude—probably means you’ve not been chumming Rebus long. And because you’ve made an impression…” Christie took out his phone and made three calls: both barmen, plus the bouncer. He drew a blank.

“Nobody saw anything,” he announced with a thin smile.

“Now there’s a surprise,” Rebus muttered.

“Maybe if you felt able to trust me with a bit more information…” Christie was speaking to Fox, and Fox eventually opened his mouth to respond.

“Tell him nothing,” Rebus snapped. “We’ll do this the hard way. It’s not as if he owes me anything…”