The karaoke started at nine. Rebus went to the toilets and felt the sweat cooling on his back. His tie was already off and in his pocket. His jacket was slung over one of the chairs near the bar. Personnel at the party changed as some headed off, either to prepare for the night shift or because their mobile or pager had news for them. Others arrived, having been home to change out of work clothes. A female officer from the St Leonard’s comms room had turned up in a short skirt, the first time Rebus had seen her legs. A rowdy quartet from one of the Farmer’s postings in West Lothian arrived bearing photos of the Farmer from a quarter-century before. They’d slipped a few doctored prints into the mix, grafting the Farmer’s head on to beefcake bodies, some of them in positions which went several leagues beyond compromising.

Rebus washed his hands, splashing some of the water on to his face and the back of his neck. Then of course there was only an electric hand-drier, so he had to use his handkerchief as a towel. Which was when Bobby Hogan walked in.

‘See you’re bottling it too,’ Hogan said, making for the urinals.

‘Ever heard me sing, Bobby?’

‘We should do a duet: “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”.’

‘We’d be about the only buggers who knew it.’

Hogan chuckled. ‘Remember when it was us that were the young turks?’

‘Long dead,’ Rebus said, half to himself. Hogan thought he’d misheard, but Rebus just shook his head.

‘So who’s next for the golden cheery-bye?’ Hogan asked, ready to head out again.

‘Not me,’ Rebus stated.

‘No?’

Rebus was wiping at his neck again. ‘I can’t retire, Bobby. It would kill me.’

Hogan snorted. ‘Same here. But then the job’s killing me too.’ The two men studied one another, then Hogan winked and yanked open the door. They walked back out into the heat and noise, Hogan opening his arms wide to greet an old friend. One of the Farmer’s cronies pushed a glass towards Rebus.

‘Ardbeg, right?’

Rebus nodded, sucked at where some had spilled on to the back of his hand, then, picturing a small boy with news to impart, raised the glass and downed it.

He took the set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the main door of the tenement block. The keys were shiny new, cut just that day. His shoulder rubbed against the wall as he headed for the stairs, and he kept a tight grip on the banister as he climbed. The second and third shiny keys unlocked the door to Philippa Balfour’s flat.