“Want to come with me while I tell James the news?” Clarke asked.

“Not really.”

“I suppose I should have asked you what you’ve been up to.”

“Me? Not much.” Rebus paused. “Apart from dropping you in it with the Complaints. So I should probably say sorry for that…”

Clarke stared at him. “Tell me,” she said.

15

That evening, Rebus barely had time to open the day’s post and stick an album on the deck before his phone rang. He checked the number: not recognized.

“Hello?” he said. He was in the kitchen, staring at the meager contents of the fridge.

“Rebus?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Frank Hammell.”

“Darryl gave you my number?”

“Get your arse down to the Gimlet. Let’s do some talking.”

“Before I can agree to that, I’ve got a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Does the Gimlet do food this time of night?”

Takeaway pizza was the answer. It was waiting in a box for him, still warm, at a corner table. There was no one else in the place, just Donny on the door. No TV or sound system, no one serving behind the bar.

“Right little Mary Celeste,” Rebus commented, lifting a slice of pizza from the box and heading towards the bar. Hammell stood behind it, arms stretched along the polished surface. He was around five ten, with a look that mixed entrepreneur with scrapper. He wore a dark blue shirt, open at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was well groomed. Close up, Rebus could make out scarring leading from his top lip to his nose. One eyebrow had a permanent nick in it. Here was a man who tended not to back down when things got heated.

“I’ll have a malt, if you’re asking.”

Hammell turned and reached for a bottle of Glenlivet, the stopper squeaking as it was removed. He didn’t bother measuring, just poured freely. “I’m guessing no water,” he said, placing the drink in front of Rebus. Then, palm extended: “That’ll be five on the nose.”

Rebus stared at him, then smiled and handed over the money. Hammell didn’t ring it up; just stuffed it into his pocket. There had been no sign of surveillance outside, and Rebus had to wonder what it would do to Malcolm Fox’s head if he ever learned of this meeting.

“So you’re John Rebus,” Hammell said. His voice was a deep gargle; sounded as if his throat needed clearing. Rebus had known a con once who’d sounded like that because someone had tried to strangle him with a towel in his cell.

“I suppose I am,” he said. “Just like you’re Frank Hammell.”

“I used to hear about you. You know I worked with Cafferty?”

“Way he tells it, you worked for him rather than with him.”

“Back in the day, he hated you with a vengeance. Should have heard the things he was prepared to do to you and yours…” Hammell gave this time to sink in. He walked to the corner table and retrieved the pizza, placing it on the bar top and helping himself to a slice.