“I’m on my own.” It sounded like Darryl was using the car’s speakerphone. “I thought I’d have heard back from you before now.”

“It was certainly an intriguing text.”

“Reckon your man Rebus is in Frank’s pay?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past Rebus. But it’s Hammell I’m phoning about.”

“Yes?”

“Police have got CCTV of him and your sister.”

“What do you mean?”

“At the bus station, arguing. Cops pulled Hammell in for questioning. Seems he’d tailed her from home to the train station and then on to St. Andrew Square.”

“Why would he do that?”

“His story is she took money from him for a train, and he was annoyed she then went for the cheaper option.”

“You’re well informed, Mr. Cafferty.”

“Always, Darryl.”

“Is this coming from your man Rebus?”

“That would be telling. I just felt you ought to know. I’m not sure your mum does—and I’m guessing Frank’s said nothing to you about it.”

“He hasn’t,” Darryl Christie confirmed. “Anything else?”

“A quid pro quo, maybe? What’s your boss up to at the moment?”

“He’s just been hosting a drinks party at his house.”

“Any faces I’d know?”

“A couple from up north—Calum MacBride and Stuart Macleod.”

“Alliances being forged?”

“I didn’t hear much business being discussed.”

“Interesting, all the same. And how are things with the family?”

“Much the same.”

“Still keeping an eye on your mum?”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Of course you will. But remember, anything I can do to help…”

“Thanks, Mr. Cafferty.”

“Your dad would be proud of you.”

“My dad is proud of me.”

“Safe home then, Darryl,” Cafferty said, ending the call.

Darryl took a mug of tea into his bedroom. It was after midnight again. He’d phoned both pubs and the club—quiet nights in all three. He lay on his bed, phone active, checking the net while he played back the events of the evening. Frank Hammell lived in a mews house near Raeburn Place. He’d put Darryl in charge of the catering and welcoming the guests. Plus making sure glasses were kept topped up. That was fine by Darryl—he could listen in on as many conversations as he liked. The bottles of whisky, wine and champagne were stored in the room Hammell used as an office, meaning it was easy for Darryl to boot up his boss’s laptop, get it working, and plug in the memory stick he’d brought with him. Left it to do its job while he poured more drinks. Frank Hammell enjoyed playing the host, treating Darryl like a lackey—more whisky, more samosas, more of those mini hamburgers. And Darryl was happy to look obliging. Hammell had even ruffled his hair at one point in front of Calum MacBride, calling him “a good lad.”