‘As confidential as I can make it.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to take your word then. Are you a rugby man, Inspector?’

Rebus got the feeling he should answer yes. ‘Only as a spectator.’

‘I like to come to Edinburgh for the Six Nations. Maybe we’ll meet for a drink next time.’

‘I’d like that. Let me give you a couple of numbers.’ This time he recited his office number and his mobile.

‘I’ll be sure to look you up.’

‘You do that. I owe you a large malt.’

‘I’ll hold you to it.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re not really a rugby man at all, are you?’

‘No,’ Rebus admitted. There was laughter on the line.

‘But you’re honest, and that’s a start. Goodbye, Inspector.’

Rebus put the phone down. It struck him that he still didn’t know Macmanus’s rank, or anything much about him at all. When he looked down at the doodles covering the sheet of paper in front of him, he found he’d drawn half a dozen coffins. He waited twenty minutes for Macmanus to get back to him, but the fax machine was playing dead.

He hit the Maltings first, and followed it up with the Royal Oak, before making for Swany’s. Just the one drink in each pub, starting with a pint of Guinness. It had been a while since he’d tried the stuff; it was good but filling. He knew he couldn’t do too many, so switched to IPA and finally a Laphroaig with the merest drizzle of water. Then it was a taxi to the Oxford Bar, where he demolished the last corned beef and beetroot roll on the shelf and followed it with a main course of a Scotch egg. He was back on the IPA, needed something to wash down the food. A few of the regulars were in. The back room had been taken over by a party of students, and no one in the front bar was saying much, as if the sounds of enjoyment from upstairs were somehow blasphemous. Harry was behind the bar, and clearly relishing the prospect of the revellers’ departure. When someone was dispatched to fetch another round, Harry kept up a steady stream of comments along the lines of ‘you’ll be heading off soon … going to a club … the night’s young …’ The young man, his face so shiny it might have been polished, just grinned inanely, taking none of it in. Harry shook his head in disgust. When the drinker headed off, tray laden with slopping pints, one of the regulars informed Harry that he was losing his touch. The stream of profanities which followed seemed, to everyone present, evidence to the contrary.