‘Did these calls worry her?’

‘Oh yes, you could see she was upset. She tried to hide it, but you could see. Gregor just laughed it off, of course. Can’t afford to let something like that rattle him. She might even have mentioned letters. Something about Gregor getting these letters, but tearing them up before anyone could see them. But you’d have to ask Lizzie about that.’ He paused. ‘Or Gregor, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Right . . .’ Byars stuck out his hand. ‘You’ve got my number if you need me, Inspector.’

‘Yes.’ Rebus shook hands. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Byars.’

‘Any time, Inspector. Oh, and if you ever need a lift to London, I’ve got lorries make that trip four times a week. Won’t cost you a penny, and you can still claim the journey on expenses.’

He gave another wink, smiled generally around the bar, and marched back out as noticeably as he’d marched in. The barman came to clear away plate and glass. Rebus saw that the tie the young man was wearing was a clip-on, standard issue in the Sutherland. If a punter tried to grab you, the tie came away in his hand . . .

‘Was he talking about me?’

Rebus blinked. ‘Eh? What makes you think that?’

‘I thought I heard him mention my name.’

Rebus poured the dregs from his glass into his mouth and swallowed. Don’t say the kid was called Gregor . . . Lizzie maybe . . . ‘What name is that then?’

‘Lawrie.’

Rebus was more than halfway there before he realized he was headed not for Stockbridge comforts and Patience Aitken, but for Marchmont and his own neglected flat. So be it. Inside the flat, the atmosphere managed to be both chill and stale. A coffee mug beside the telephone resembled Glasgow insofar as it, too, was a city of culture, an interesting green and white culture.

But if the living room was growing mould, surely the kitchen would be worse. Rebus sat himself down in his favourite chair, stretched for the answering machine, and settled to listen to his calls. There weren’t many. Gill Templer, wondering where he was keeping himself these days . . . as if she didn’t know. His daughter Samantha, phoning from her new flat in London, giving him her address and telephone number. Then a couple of calls where the speaker had decided not to say anything.

‘Be like that then.’ Rebus turned off the machine, drew a notebook from his pocket, and, reading the number from it, telephoned Gregor Jack. He wanted to know why Jack hadn’t said anything about his own anonymous calls. Strip Jack . . . beggar my neighbour . . . Well, if someone were out to beggar Gregor Jack, Jack himself didn’t seem overly concerned. He didn’t exactly seem resigned, but he did seem unbothered. Unless he was playing a game with Rebus . . . And what about Rab Kinnoul, on-screen assassin? What was he up to all the time he was away from his wife? And Ronald Steele, too, a ‘hard man to catch’. Were they all up to something? It wasn’t that Rebus distrusted the human race . . . wasn’t just that he was brought up a Pessimisterian. He was sure there was something happening here; he just didn’t know what it was.