‘Well tell Shite-for-brains to get off his arse and get over here.’ (Pause.) ‘Sick? Sick? Sick means he’s shagging that missus of his. Can’t blame him, mind . . .’

‘Yes?’ the secretary said to Rebus. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Well never mind what he says,’ came Byars’ voice, ‘I’ve got a load here that’s got to be in Liverpool yesterday.’

‘I’d like to see Mr Byars, please,’ said Rebus.

‘If you’ll take a seat, I’ll see whether Mr Byars is available. What’s the name, please?’

‘Rebus, Detective Inspector Rebus.’

At that moment, the door of Byars’ office opened and Byars himself came out. He was holding a portable phone in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He handed the paper to his secretary.

‘That’s right, wee man, and there’s a load coming up from London the day after.’ Byars’ voice was louder than ever. Rebus noticed that, unseen by her, Byars was staring at his secretary’s legs. He wondered if this whole performance was for her benefit . . .

But now Byars had spotted Rebus. It took Byars a second to place him, then he nodded a greeting in Rebus’s direction. ‘Aye, you give him big licks, wee man,’ he said into the telephone. ‘If he’s got a sick-note, fine, if not tell him I’m looking out his cards, okay?’ He terminated the call and shot out a hand.

‘Inspector Rebus, what the hell brings you to this blighted neck of the bings?’

‘Well,’ said Rebus, ‘I was passing, and –’

‘Passing my arse! Plenty of people pass through, but nobody stops unless they want something. Even then, I’d advise them to keep on going. But you come from round here, don’t you? Into the office then, I can spare you five minutes.’ He turned to the secretary and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sheena, hen, get on to tadger-breath in Liverpool and tell him tomorrow morning definite.’

‘Will do, Mr Byars. Will I make a cup of coffee?’

‘No, don’t bother, Sheena. I know what the polis like to drink.’ He gave Rebus a wink. ‘In you go, Inspector. In you go.’

Byars’ office was like the back room of a dirty bookshop, its walls apparently held together by nude calendars and centrefolds. The calendars all seemed to be gifts donated by garages and suppliers. Byars saw Rebus looking.

‘Goes with the image,’ he said. ‘A hairy-arsed truck driver with tattoos on his neck comes in here, he thinks he knows the sort of man he’s dealing with.’

‘And what if a woman comes in?’

Byars clucked. ‘She’d think she knew, too. I’m not saying she’d be all wrong either.’ Byars didn’t keep his whisky in the filing cabinet. He kept it inside a wellington boot. From the other boot he produced two glasses, which he sniffed. ‘Fresh as the morning dew,’ he said, pouring the drinks.

‘Thanks,’ said Rebus. ‘Nice car.’

‘Eh? Oh, outside you mean? Aye, it’s no’ bad. Nary a dent in it either. You should see the insurance payments though. Talk about steep. They make this brae look like a billiard table. Good health.’ He sank the measure in one gulp, then noisily exhaled.