‘Then you’ll know what it’s like when the pits close. Meadowside was fine until then.’ Billy was staring at the optics, remembering his youth.

‘The place is still there,’ Rebus told him.

‘Oh aye, but not the same … couldn’t be the same. All the mums out scrubbing their steps, getting them whiter than white. Dads cutting the grass. Always popping into the other semis for a gossip or a loan of something.’ He paused, ordered them up a couple of refills. ‘Last I heard, Falls was all yuppies. Anything out of Meadowside’s too dear for the locals to buy. Kids grow up and move away – like I did. Anyone say anything to you about the quarry?’

Rebus shook his head, content to listen.

‘This was maybe two, three years back. There was talk of opening a quarry just outside the village. Plenty of jobs, all that. But suddenly this petition appeared – not that anyone on Meadowside had signed it, or been asked to sign it, come to that. Next thing, the quarry wasn’t coming.’

‘The yuppies?’

‘Or whatever you want to call them. Plenty of clout, see. Maybe Mr Balfour had a hand in it too, for all I know. Falls …’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not the place it was, John.’ He finished his roll-up and stubbed it into the ashtray. Then he thought of something. ‘Here, you like your music, don’t you?’

‘Depends what kind.’

‘Lou Reed. He’s coming to the Playhouse. I’ve two tickets going spare.’

‘I’ll think about it, Billy. Got time for another?’ He nodded towards the dregs in Billy’s glass.

The chef checked his watch again. ‘Got to get back. Maybe next time, eh?’

‘Next time,’ Rebus agreed.

‘And let me know about those tickets.’

Rebus nodded, watched Billy push his way back towards the door and out into the night. Lou Reed: there was a name from the past. ‘Walk on the Wild Side’, one of Rebus’s all-time favourites. And a bass-line played by the same guy who wrote ‘Grandad’ for that Dad’s Army actor. Sometimes there was such a thing as too much information.

‘Another, John?’ the barmaid asked.

He shook his head. ‘I can hear the call of the wild side,’ he said, pushing off from his stool and towards the door.

5

Saturday he went to the football with Siobhan. Easter Road was bathed in sunshine, the players throwing long shadows across the pitch. For a while, Rebus found himself following this shadow-play rather than the game itself: black puppet shapes, not quite human, playing something that wasn’t quite football. The ground was full, as only happened with local derbies and when Glasgow came to town. Today it was Rangers. Siobhan had a season ticket. Rebus was in the seat next to her, thanks to another season-ticket holder who couldn’t make it.

‘Friend of yours?’ Rebus asked her.