‘I hope you haven’t done a runner,’ Rebus muttered. Though maybe it would be better if he had. At least it would be an action of some kind, a sign of fear or of something to hide. He could ask the neighbours if they’d seen anything, but a wall separated Steele’s bungalow from theirs. He decided against it. It might only serve to alert Steele to Rebus’s interest, an interest strong enough to bring him here at breakfast time. Instead, he got back into the car and drove to Suey Books. A hundred-to-one shot this. As he’d suspected, the shop was barred and meshed and padlocked. Rasputin lay asleep in the window. Rebus made a fist and pounded it against the glass. The cat’s head shot up and it let out a sharp, shocked yowl.

‘Remember me?’ said Rebus, grinning.

Traffic was slower now, treacle through the sieve of the road system. He slipped down on to the Cowgate to avoid the worst of it. If Steele couldn’t be found, there was only one thing for it. He’d have to change Farmer Watson’s mind. What’s more, he’d have to do it this morning, while the old boy was bristling with caffeine. Now there was a thought . . . what time did that deli just off Leith Walk open . . .?

‘Well thank you, John.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘We drink enough of your coffee, sir. I just thought it was time someone else did the buying for a change.’

Watson opened the bag and sniffed. ‘Mmm, freshly ground.’ He started to tip the dark powder into his filter. The machine was already full of water. ‘What kind did you say?’

‘Breakfast blend, sir, I think. Robustica and Arabica . . . something like that. I’m not exactly an expert . . .’

But Watson waved the apology aside. He put the jug in position and flipped the switch. ‘Takes a couple of minutes,’ he said, sitting down behind his desk. ‘Right, John.’ He put his hands together in front of him. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well, sir, it’s about Gregor Jack.’

‘Yes . . .?’

‘You know how you told me we’d to help Mr Jack if possible? How you felt he’d perhaps been set up?’ Watson merely nodded. ‘Well, sir, I’m close to proving not only that he was, but who did it.’

‘Oh? Go on.’

So Rebus told his story, the story of a chance meeting in a red-lit bedroom. And of three men. ‘What I was wondering was . . . I know you said you couldn’t divulge your source, sir . . . but was it one of them?’

Watson shook his head. ‘Way off, I’m afraid, John. Mmm, do you smell that?’ The room was filling with the aroma. How could Rebus not smell it?

‘Yes, sir, very nice. So it wasn’t –?’

‘It wasn’t anyone who knows Gregor Jack. If pro –’ He stuttered to a halt. ‘Can’t wait for that coffee,’ he said, rather too eagerly.