‘Trip’s over, Inspector,’ Pretty-Boy said, telling Rebus it was time to get out. He did so, his eyes on Candice. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was snuggling into Mr Pink Eyes, head on his chest. He was still rubbing her backside, the dress rising and falling. He was watching Rebus, eyes alight, face pulled into a latex grin. Rebus walked over to them, and now Candice saw him, and looked frightened.

‘Inspector,’ Tarawicz said, ‘good to see you again. Come to whisk the damsel away to safety?’

Rebus ignored him. ‘Come on, Candice.’

His hand, not quite steady, held out towards her.

She looked at him and shook her head. ‘Why would I want that?’

she said, and was rewarded with another kiss from Tarawicz.

‘You were abducted. You can press charges.’

Tarawicz was laughing, leading her into the cafe.

‘Candice.’

Rebus reached for her arm, but she pulled away and followed her master inside.

Two of Telford’s men were blocking the door. Pretty-Boy was behind Rebus.

‘No cheap heroics?’ he asked, making to pass the policeman.

Back at St Leonard’s, Rebus took Farlowe his food and newspapers, then hitched a lift in a patrol car to Torphichen. The man he wanted was DI ‘Shug’ Davidson, and Davidson was in the CID office, looking frazzled.

‘Somebody torched a taxi rank,’ he told Rebus.

‘Any idea who?’

Davidson’s eyes narrowed. ‘The rank was owned by Jock Scallow. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?’

‘Who really owned the outfit, Shug?’

‘You know damned well.’

‘And who’s muscling in on Cafferty’s patch?’

‘I’ve heard rumours.’

Rebus rested against Davidson’s desk. ‘Tommy Telford’s going into combat, unless we can stop him.’

‘“We”?’

‘I want you to take me somewhere,’ Rebus said.

Shug Davidson was happily married to an understanding wife, and had kids who didn’t see as much of him as they deserved. A year back, he’d won forty grand on the Lottery. Everyone in his station got a drink. The rest of the money had been salted away.

Rebus had worked with him before. He wasn’t a bad cop, maybe lacking a little in imagination. They had to work their way around the scene of the fire. A further mile and a half on, Rebus told him to stop.

‘What is it?’

Davidson asked.

‘That’s what I want you to tell me.’

Rebus was looking towards the brick building, the same one which so interested Tommy Telford.

‘It’s Maclean’s,’ Davidson said.

‘And what’s Maclean’s when it’s at home?’

Davidson smiled. ‘You really don’t know?’

He opened his car door. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

They had to have their identities checked at the main entrance. Rebus noticed a lot of security, albeit subtle: cameras trained down from the corners of the building, catching every angle of approach. A phone call was made, and a man in a white coat came down to sign them in. They pinned visitor’s badges to their jackets, and the tour began.

‘I’ve been here before,’ Davidson confided. ‘If you ask me, it’s the best kept secret in the city.’