‘Rebus here.’

‘John?’ It was the voice of Chief Superintendent Watson. ‘Can you spare a minute?’

Rebus made noisy show of rustling some papers on his desk, hoping Watson would think he’d been in the office for hours, hard at work.

‘Well, sir . . .’

‘Don’t piss about, John. I tried you five minutes ago.’

Rebus stopped shuffling papers. ‘I’ll be right along, sir.’

‘That’s right, you will.’ And with that the phone went dead. Rebus shrugged off his weatherproof jacket, the one which always let water in at the shoulders. He felt the shoulders of his suit-jacket. Sure enough, they were damp, matching his enthusiasm for a Monday-morning meeting with the Farmer. He took a deep breath and spread his hands in front of him like an old-time song and dance man.

‘It’s showtime,’ he told himself. Only five working days till the weekend. Then he made a quick phone call to Dufftown Police Station and asked them to check on Deer Lodge.

‘Is that d-e-a-r?’ asked the voice.

‘D-double e-r,’ corrected Rebus, thinking: But it probably was dear enough when they bought it.

‘Anything we’re looking for in particular?’

An MP’s wife . . . leftovers from a sex orgy . . . flour bags full of cocaine . . . ‘No,’ said Rebus, ‘nothing special. Just let me know what you find.’

‘Right you are. It might take a while.’

‘Soon as you can, eh?’ And so saying, Rebus remembered that he should be elsewhere. ‘Soon as you can.’

Chief Superintendent Watson was as blunt as a tramp’s razor blade.

‘What the hell were you doing at Gregor Jack’s yesterday?’

Rebus was almost caught off guard. Almost. ‘Who’s been telling tales?’

‘Never mind that. Just give me a bloody answer.’ Pause. ‘Coffee?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

Watson’s wife had bought him the coffee-maker as a Christmas present. Maybe as a hint that he should cut down his consumption of Teacher’s whisky. Maybe so that he’d stand a chance of being sober when he returned home of an evening. All it had done so far though was make Watson hyperactive of a morning. In the afternoon, however, after a few lunchtime nips, drowsiness would take over. Best, therefore, to avoid Watson in the mornings. Best to wait until afternoon to ask him about that leave you were thinking of taking or to tell him the news of the latest bodged operation. If you were lucky, you’d get off with a ‘tut-tut’. But the mornings . . . the mornings were different.

Rebus accepted the mug of strong coffee. Half a packet of espresso looked as though it had been tipped into the generous filter. Now, it tipped itself into Rebus’s bloodstream.

‘Sounds stupid, sir, but I was just passing.’

‘You’re right,’ said Watson, settling down behind his desk, ‘it does sound stupid. Even supposing you were just passing . . .’