‘These seem fine,’ he said. ‘Are they always locked?’

‘I open them a bit in the summer,’ Mrs Hetherington said, ‘and when they need washing. But I always lock them again afterwards.’

‘One thing I should warn you about, and that’s bogus officials. People coming to your door, telling you they’re so-andso. Always ask to see some ID, and don’t open up until you’re satisfied.’

‘How can I see it without opening the door?’

‘Ask them to push it through the letterbox.’

‘I didn’t see your identification, did I?’

Rebus smiled. ‘No, you didn’t.’

He took it out and showed her. ‘Sometimes the fake stuff can look pretty convincing. If you’re unsure, keep the door locked and call the police.’

He looked around. ‘You have a phone?’

‘In the bedroom.’

‘Any windows in there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I take a look?’

The bedroom window also looked out on to Flint Street. Rebus noticed travel brochures on the dressing-table, a small suitcase standing near the door.

‘Off on holiday, eh?’

With the flat empty, maybe he could move the surveillance in.

‘Just a long weekend,’ she said.

‘Somewhere nice?’

‘Holland. Wrong time of year for the bulb-fields, but I’ve always wanted to go. It’s a nuisance flying from Inverness, but so much cheaper. Since my husband died ... well, I’ve done a bit of travelling.’

‘Any chance of taking me with you?’

Rebus smiled. ‘This window’s fine, too. I’ll just check your door, see if it could do with more locks.’

They went into the narrow hall.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘we’ve always been very lucky here, no break-ins or anything like that.’

Hardly surprising with Tommy Telford as proprietor.

‘And with the panic button, of course ...’

Rebus looked at the wall next to the front door. A large red button. He’d assumed it was for the stairhead lights or something.

‘Anyone who calls, anyone at all, I’m supposed to press it.’

Rebus opened the door. ‘And, do you?’

Two very large men were standing right outside.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Hetherington said. ‘I always do.’

For thugs, they were very polite. Rebus showed them his warrant card and explained the nature of his visit. He asked them who they were, and they told him they were ‘representatives of the building’s owner’. He knew the faces though: Kenny Houston, Ally Cornwell. Houston - the ugly one - ran Telford’s doormen; Cornwell, with his wrestler’s bulk, was general muscle. The little charade was carried out with humour and good nature on both sides. They accompanied him downstairs. Across the street, Tommy Telford was standing in the cafe doorway, wagging his finger. A pedestrian crossed Rebus’s line of vision. Too late, Rebus saw who it was. Had his mouth open to shout something, then saw Telford hang his head, hands going to his face. Screeching.

Rebus ran across the road, pulled the pedestrian round: Ned Farlowe. A bottle dropped from Farlowe’s hand. Telford’s men were closing in. Rebus held tight to Farlowe.

‘I’m placing this man under arrest,’ he said. ‘He’s mine, understood?’