‘I nearly shat myself,’ the passenger said, trying to gather up his newspaper. His name was Pat Connolly, and he’d spent his first few years in CID waging a campaign against the nickname ‘Paddy’. His colleague was Tommy Daniels, who seemed at ease – as he did in all things – with his own nickname of ‘Distant’. Tommy to Tom-Tom to Distant Drums to Distant was the logic behind the name, but it also said much about the young man’s character. Having been so rudely awakened from sleep, upon seeing and recognising Rebus all he’d done was roll his eyes.

‘Could’ve fetched us a coffee,’ Connolly was complaining.

‘Could have,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Or maybe a dictionary.’ He glanced towards the newspaper crossword. Less than a quarter of the grid had been filled in, while the puzzle itself was ringed by doodles and unsolved anagrams. ‘Quiet night?’

‘Apart from foreigners asking directions,’ Connolly said. Rebus smiled and looked up and down the street. This was the heart of tourist Edinburgh. A hotel up by the traffic lights, a knitwear shop across the road. Fancy gifts and shortbread and whisky decanters. A kiltmaker’s only fifty yards away. John Knox’s house, hunched against its neighbours, half hidden in scowling shadow. At one time, the Old Town had been all there was of Edinburgh: a narrow spine running from the Castle to Holyrood, steep vennels leading off like crooked ribs. Then, as the place became ever more crowded and insanitary, the New Town had been built, its Georgian elegance a calculated snub to the Old Town and those who couldn’t afford to move. Rebus found it interesting that while Philippa Balfour had chosen the New Town, David Costello had elected to live in the heart of the Old.

‘Is he home?’ he said now.

‘Would we be here if he wasn’t?’ Connolly’s eyes were on his partner, who was pouring tomato soup from a thermos. Distant sniffed the liquid hesitantly, then took a quick gulp. ‘Actually, you could be the very man we want.’

Rebus looked at him. ‘Oh aye?’

‘Settle an argument. Deacon Blue, Wages Day – first album or second?’

Rebus smiled. ‘It has been a quiet night.’ Then, after a moment’s reflection: ‘Second.’

‘Ten notes you owe me,’ Connolly told Distant.

‘Mind if I ask one?’ Rebus had crouched down, felt his knees crack with the effort.

‘Fire away,’ Connolly said.

‘What do you do if you need a pee?’

Connolly smiled. ‘If Distant’s asleep, I just use his thermos.’

The mouthful of soup almost exploded from Distant’s nostrils. Rebus straightened up, feeling the blood pound in his ears: weather warning, force-ten hangover on its way.

‘You going in?’ Connolly asked. Rebus looked at the tenement again.

‘Thinking about it.’

‘We’d have to make a note.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Just come from the Farmer’s leaving do?’

Rebus turned towards the car. ‘What’s your point?’