Rebus kept his eyes on Fox. “We’re wasting each other’s time here.”

“SCRU’s being wound up, I hear. That’s you off the force again.” Fox paused. “Unless you’re serious about reapplying.”

“Being a civilian suddenly has its merits,” Rebus said, turning and heading for the door. “Means I don’t have to listen to you and your shit.”

“Enjoy the rest of your life, Rebus,” Kaye called out to him. “What’s left of it, that is…”

When he got home that evening, a note had been pushed under his door. He unfolded it. It was from MGC—Morris Gerald Cafferty—and it was just to let Rebus know how disappointed Cafferty was in him for “consorting with scum like Frank Hammell,” the word “scum” underlined three times for emphasis. Rebus scooped up the rest of the mail and went into the living room. It felt stuffy, so he prized open one of the sash windows, then turned up the radiator to compensate. The hi-fi’s turntable had been left switched on, rotating lazily. Rebus added a Bert Jansch album and lowered the stylus onto the vinyl. Then he started charging his phone before heading to the bedroom and emptying his overnight bag, filling a couple of polythene carriers with laundry. It would be another hour before the nearest launderette closed, so he decided to drop the stuff off—and collect some food on the way home. Leaving his phone behind and lifting the tone-arm from the record, he locked the flat and walked down the two flights of stairs.

“Yes, I know,” he apologized to the Saab as he approached it. He’d just tossed the laundry onto the backseat when he heard someone call his name. Tensing, he turned and saw Darryl Christie getting out of a black Mercedes M-Class. The driver stayed behind the steering wheel, but lowered his window the better to keep a close eye on proceedings. Rebus recognized him as the lippy doorman from Jo-Jo Binkie’s—Marcus or something like that.

“Hello, Darryl,” Rebus said, resting his back against the Saab. “Is it worth me asking how you come to know where I live?”

“This is the information age, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“How’s your mum doing? And the rest of the family?”

“There’s a funeral needs planning.”

“There’s also a friend of your mother’s who needs calming down.”

“You think I’m bothered about him?”

“I think you’ve got a head on your shoulders. In a lot of ways, you’re smarter than Frank Hammell. Someone needs to bring him back from Inverness.”

“Tomorrow,” Christie stated. He was dressed in the same dark suit, with a fresh white shirt but no tie. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and studied Rebus. “Frank says you might be okay.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Despite being Cafferty’s man.”

“I’m not.”

“Doesn’t matter. Frank’s wondering if you might keep your ears open, on behalf of the family.”

“Oh?”

“Any names that come into the frame—all we’d need is a head start.”

“Frank wants his hands on them before they can be brought into custody?”