It would have been against regulations to bring home the files on John Rebus, even if he could have carried them. But he prided himself on his memory and had jotted down pages of salient details, along with several decades’ worth of supposition, rumor and claim. He felt he knew the man almost as well as anyone he’d ever met. Right now, Rebus would be in some boozer somewhere, probably running up a tab that would never require paying. Rebus wouldn’t see that as either bribe or inducement, but rather as standard operating procedure. Time was, plenty of his fellow detectives would have felt the same, but those days were past, the combatants long retired from the field. Fox wished Rebus would just take his carcass overseas to some beachside taverna where he could pickle himself at his leisure while spending some of that accrued pension. Instead of which, he had reapplied for a CID posting.

The sheer bloody nerve of the man.

What was more, he still had at least one champion on the force—the Chief Constable had sided with him, and had told Fox that if the Complaints were going to raise an objection, they’d best build a bloody good case.

Look at the man’s record, Malcolm. Who else managed to put Big Ger Cafferty away?

Yes, that counted as a big tick for Rebus, but Fox himself was suspicious. Cafferty hadn’t served much of a stretch. How convenient to have someone on the force who seemed to be his nemesis. Seemed being the operative word. Who was to say the two hadn’t been in cahoots? Cafferty had returned to the city apparently stronger than ever, his empire undiminished. How was that possible, and why had no one managed to put him back inside since? Come to that, wasn’t it convenient that Rebus had been on hand at Cafferty’s hospital bed, ready to give CPR when he flatlined? Would you bring your worst enemy back from the dead? The staff had had to drag Rebus away, such had been the intensity of his focus.

Enemies? Fox didn’t think so.

The Chief Constable had challenged him to build a case, and Fox in turn had asked for permission to look at Rebus’s phone accounts—landline and mobile. The Chief had been reluctant, but Fox had worn him down. The relevant paperwork was on its way. He was hopeful there might be a little bomb tucked away there.

Though he didn’t like to admit it, there was something else about Rebus that gnawed at him. It was the lifestyle. The smell of smoke on the man’s suits—always supposing he owned more than one suit. The pale, pasty face and the three or four extra stone he seemed to carry. And the drink.

The drink above all.