‘Excellent choice,’ Rebus agreed. He was thinking about the Japanese businessman. Who hadn’t really looked like a businessman at all. He’d been all sharp edges, chiselled face. Fortified, Rebus walked from the Ox back to the hotel, and kept watch on it from an overpriced bar across the street. He passed the time making calls on his mobile. By the time the battery died, he’d spoken with Hogan, Bill Pryde, Siobhan Clarke, Rhona and Patience, and had been about to call Torphichen cop-shop, see if anyone there could identify the building on Slateford Road. Two hours crawled by. He broke his ‘personal best’ for slow drinking: two Cokes. The bar wasn’t exactly crowded; no one seemed to mind. The music was on a tape-loop. ‘Psycho Killer’ was coming round for the third time when the Range Rovers stopped outside the hotel. Telford and the Jap shook hands, made slight bows. Telford and his men drove off.

Rebus left the bar, crossed the road, and entered the hotel. The lift doors were closing on Mr Aquamarine. Rebus walked up to reception, showed his ID.

‘The guest who just came in, I need his name.’

The receptionist had to check. ‘Mr Matsumoto.’

‘First name?’

‘Takeshi.’

‘When did he arrive?’

She checked the register again. ‘Yesterday.’

‘How longs he staying?’

‘Three more days. Look, I should call my supervisor ...’

Rebus shook his head. ‘That’s all I needed to know, thanks. Mind if I sit in the lounge for a while?’

She shook her head, so Rebus wandered into the residents’ lounge. He settled on a sofa - perfect view of the reception area through the glass double-doors - and picked up a newspaper. Matsumoto was in town on Poyntinghame business, but Rebus had a whiff of something altogether less savoury. Hugh Malahide’s story had been that a corporation wanted to buy the club, but Matsumoto didn’t look like he worked in any above-board business. When he finally emerged into reception, he’d changed into a white suit, black open-necked shirt, and Burberry trenchcoat, topped off with a woollen tartan scarf. He had a cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t light it until he was outside the hotel. With the collar of his coat turned up, he started walking. Rebus followed him for the best part of a mile, and kept checking that no one was following him. It was possible, after all, that Telford would want to keep tabs on Matsumoto. But if there was surveillance, it was exceptional. Matsumoto wasn’t playing the tourist, wasn’t dawdling. He kept his head down, protecting his face from the wind, and seemed to have some destination in mind.

When he disappeared into a building, Rebus paused, studying the glass door behind which stood a flight of red carpeted stairs. He knew where he was, didn’t need the sign above the door to tell him. He was outside the Morvena Casino. The place used to be owned by a local villain called Topper Hamilton and managed by a man called Mandelson. But Hamilton was in retirement, and Mandelson had scarpered. The new owner was still an unknown quantity - or had been till now. Rebus guessed he wouldn’t be far wrong if he placed Tommy Telford and his Japanese friends in the frame. He looked around, checking the parked cars: no Range Rovers.