Cafferty had once run Edinburgh—the worst of the city, at least. Drugs and prostitution and protection. These days he took either a backseat or no seat at all: Rebus wasn’t sure. He knew only what Cafferty chose to tell him, and could never bring himself to trust the half of it.

“What’s all this?” Cafferty asked from the living room doorway. He was gesturing towards the display on the wall, his eyes taking in the files on the table and floor.

“I told you to wait outside.”

“Bringing the job home with you—never a good sign.” Cafferty, hands in pockets, entered the room. Rebus just needed his keys and lighter…Where the hell were they?

“Out,” he commanded.

But Cafferty was studying the map. “The A9—good road, that.”

“Oh aye?”

“Used it myself, back in the day.”

Rebus had located keys and lighter both. “That’s us,” he said. Cafferty was, however, in no hurry.

“Still playing the old records, eh? Might want to…” He nodded towards where the needle had reached the run-out groove of a Rory Gallagher album. Rebus lifted the tone arm and switched off the hi-fi.

“Happy now?” he asked.

“Taxi’s downstairs,” Cafferty replied. “These some of your cold cases, then?”

“None of your business.”

“Not that you know of.” Cafferty gave Rebus that smile again. “All women, though, judging by the pictures. Never my style…”

Rebus stared at him. “What did you use the A9 for exactly?”

Cafferty shrugged. “Fly-tipping, you might call it.”

“You mean getting rid of the bodies?”

“Ever driven the A9? Moorland and forest, logging tracks leading to the middle of nowhere.” Cafferty paused. “Beautiful scenery, mind.”

“Some women have gone missing down the years—you wouldn’t know anything about that?”

Cafferty shook his head slowly. “I could ask around, though—if you want me to.”

There was silence in the room for a moment. “I’ll think about it,” Rebus said eventually. Then: “If you did me a favor, would that be us square?”

Cafferty made to place a hand on Rebus’s shoulder, but Rebus shied away.

“Let’s get that drink,” he said, ushering his visitor back towards the landing.

4

It was ten thirty by the time he returned to his flat. He filled the kettle and made a mug of tea, then returned to the living room, switching on just the one lamp and the stereo. Van Morrison: Astral Weeks. His downstairs neighbor was old and deaf. Upstairs was a group of students who never made much noise except for the occasional party. Through the living room wall…well, he’d no idea who lived there. He’d never needed to know. The area of Edinburgh he called home—Marchmont—had a shifting population. A lot of the flats were rentals, most of them short lets. Cafferty had made this point in the pub. Everybody used to look out for everybody else…Say you did end up on that floor of yours, how long would it be before anyone came calling?

Rebus had argued that it had been no better in the old days. He’d been inside plenty of flats and houses, the inhabitant dead in bed or in their favorite chair. Flies and odor, plus bills piling up behind the door. Maybe someone had thought to knock, but they hadn’t done much more than that.