‘Here, let me.’

He spun away from her. ‘No!’ Way too loud. Fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief.

‘I’ve got some paper ones in my bag.’

‘It’s all right.’

Blood dripping on to his shoes. Watson was saying something about the mug having a crack; Templer was staring at him. He wrapped white cotton around the wound.

‘I’ll go wash it,’ he said. ‘With your permission, sir?’

‘On you go, John. Sure you’re all right?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

It wasn’t a bad cut. Cold water helped. He dried off with paper towels, which he flushed down the toilet, waiting to see they’d gone. A first aid box next: half a dozen plasters, cover the nick good and proper. He bunched his fist, saw no sign of leakage. Had to be content with that.

Back at his desk, he started on his memoirs - as ordered by Watson. Gill Templer came past, decided he needed a few soft words.

‘None of us thinks you did it, John. But something like this ... questions being asked by the Japanese consul ... it has to be done by the book.’

‘It all comes down to politics in the end, eh?’

He was thinking of Joseph Lintz.

At lunchtime he dropped in on Ned Farlowe, asked him if he needed anything. Farlowe wanted sandwiches, books, newspapers, company. He looked drawn, weary of imprisonment. Maybe soon he’d think to ask for a lawyer. A lawyer - any lawyer - would get him out.

Rebus handed his report to Watson’s secretary and headed out of the station. He’d gone fifty yards when a car pulled up alongside. Range Rover. Pretty-Boy telling him to get in. Rebus looked into the back of the car.

Telford. Ointment on his blistered face. Looking like a scaleddown Jake Tarawicz ...

Rebus hesitated. The cop shop was a short sprint away.

‘Get in,’ Pretty-Boy repeated. Sucker for a free offer, Rebus got in.

Pretty-Boy turned the car. The giant yellow teddy had been strapped into the passenger seat.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Rebus said, ‘it’s worth my while asking you to leave Ned Farlowe be?’

Telford’s mind was on other things. ‘He wants war, he’s going to get war.’

‘Who?’

‘Your boss.’

‘I don’t work for Cafferty.’

‘Don’t give me that.’

‘I’m the one who put him inside.’

‘And you’ve been snuggling up ever since.’

‘I didn’t kill Matsumoto.’

Telford looked at him for the first time, and Rebus could see he was itching for violence.

‘You know I didn’t,’ Rebus went on.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Because you did it, and you want me to-’

Telford’s hands were around Rebus’s neck. Rebus shrugged them off, tried pinning Telford down. Impossible with the car in motion, cramped in the back seat. Pretty-Boy stopped the car and got out, opened Rebus’s door and dragged him on to the pavement. Telford followed, face beetroot-red, eyes bulging..

‘You’re not going to pin this on me!’ he roared. Drivers slowed to watch. Pedestrians crossed the road to safety.