‘Quiet tonight.’

‘Midweek and not quite the season,’ recited the barman, who had obviously just said the same thing to the other group. ‘It’ll get busier later on.’ Then he retreated to the till.

‘Another round here when you’re ready,’ said the Englishman, the only one of the three to have finished his whisky. He was in his late thirties, younger than the woman. He looked fit, prosperous, but somehow faintly disreputable. It had something to do with the way he stood, slightly slouched and looming, as though he might be about either to fall down or else pounce. And his head swayed a little from side to side in time with his sleepy eyelids.

The third member of the group was younger still, mid-thirties. He was smoking French cigarettes and staring at the bottles above the bar. Either that, thought Rebus, or he’s looking at me in the mirror, the way I’m looking at him. Certainly, it was a possibility. The man had an affected way of tapping the ash from his affected cigarette. Rebus noticed that he smoked without inhaling, holding the smoke in his mouth and releasing it in a single belch. While his companions stood, he rested on one of the high bar stools.

Rebus had to admit, he was intrigued. An unlikely little threesome. And about to become more unlikely still . . .

A couple of people had entered the lounge bar, and looked like staying there. The barman slipped through a doorway between rooms to serve these new customers, and this seemed to start off a conversation between the two men and the woman.

‘God, the nerve. He hasn’t served us yet.’

‘Well, Jamie, we’re not exactly gasping, are we?’

‘Speak for yourself. I hardly felt that first one slip down. Should have asked for quadruples in the first place.’

‘Have mine,’ said the woman, ‘if you’re going to become ratty.’

‘I am not becoming ratty,’ said the slouching pouncer, becoming very ratty indeed.

‘Well fuck you then.’

Rebus had to stifle a grin. The woman had said this as though it were part of any polite conversation.

‘And fuck you, too, Louise.’

‘Ssh,’ the French-smoker warned. ‘Remember, we’re not alone.’

The other man and woman looked towards Rebus, who sat staring straight ahead, glass to lips.

‘Yes we are,’ said the man. ‘We’re all alone.’

This utterance seemed to signal the end of the conversation. The barman reappeared.

‘Same again, barman, if you’ll be so kind . . .’

The evening hotted up quickly. Three locals appeared and started to play dominoes at a nearby table. Rebus wondered if they were paid to come in and add the requisite local colour. There was probably more colour in a Meadowbank Thistle–Raith Rovers friendly. Two other drinkers appeared, wedging themselves in between Rebus and the threesome. They seemed to take it as an insult that there were other drinkers in the bar before them, and that some of those drinkers were standing next to their space at the bar. So they drank in dour silence, merely exchanging looks whenever the Englishman or his two friends said anything.