“You reckon he’ll come after you?” Rebus asked, sliding into the cubicle. Clarke was fetching drinks from the counter—orange juice for her and tea for him.

“You didn’t say you’d be bringing anyone,” Hammell snapped back.

“She’s not here—not officially.” Rebus slid further over to make room for Clarke, who offered a nod of greeting to Hammell, a greeting he ignored, focusing on a couple of newcomers to the restaurant.

“I reckon the little turd’s capable of anything,” he muttered eventually, in answer to Rebus’s original question.

“Wouldn’t he have made his move at the club?”

Hammell shook his head. “Too many witnesses.”

“You’ve obviously given it some thought.”

“What else am I going to do? If I so much as pick up the phone to Gail, he says he’ll tell her about Annette and me. He’s even got keys to my house…” Hammell’s eyes were filling with anger. “If I can just get him on his own, I’ll throttle the bastard.”

“Duly noted. But how about if we take him instead?”

Hammell looked at Rebus, as if seeing him for the first time. “Is this a set-up?”

“Definitely not.”

“What, then?”

“There’s a result I’m after, and Darryl Christie’s part of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Best keep it that way.”

Hammell studied Rebus intently, then switched to Clarke and back to Rebus again. “What do you need me to do?”

“Remember that question I asked?”

“Yes.”

Rebus reached into his pocket and took out the road map of Scotland.

“Just show me,” he said.

Afterward, they walked Hammell back to the car park. He had yet to get rid of the Range Rover.

“Bit conspicuous,” Rebus warned him.

“Garage that sold me it offered fifteen to take it back,” Hammell complained. “It’s worth three times that.”

“All the same…”

Hammell gestured towards Rebus’s Saab. “Want to swap? Fifteen plus yours?”

“I can’t do that, Frank.”

Hammell got into his own car, started the engine and headed at speed towards the main road. Rebus unlocked the Saab, Clarke sliding into the passenger seat.

“That would have been a good trade,” she said.

“The things me and this old beast have been through…” Rebus patted the steering wheel. “Money doesn’t come into it.”

“So what now?” she asked as she did up her seat belt.

“Now,” Rebus answered, “we start planning.”

“Planning what, exactly?”

“How to give Kenny Magrath the fright of his life…”

67

He made the call Sunday lunchtime, using the number on the card Darryl Christie had given him. Whoever it was who answered, Rebus didn’t recognize the voice.

“I need to speak to your boss,” he explained.

“What boss might that be?”

“Don’t be daft, son. Give Darryl the name John Rebus and tell him to phone me back.”

Then he hung up and waited. Not quite three minutes had passed when his mobile trilled.

“I’m listening,” Darryl Christie said. No niceties; no small talk. Everything changed. Well, that was fine with Rebus.

“The guy you’re looking for is Kenny Magrath. He lives with his wife in a house in Rosemarkie. I can give you the address.”