Rebus called Hogan, gave him the story. ‘I told Levy you’d want to speak to him.’

‘I’ll phone him right now.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Colquhoun a war criminal?’

Hogan snorted. ‘Me, too,’ Rebus said. ‘I asked Levy why he didn’t think any of this worth telling us.’

‘And?’

‘He said as he gave it no credence, it was worthless.’

‘All the same, we’d better talk to Colquhoun again. Tonight.’

‘I’ve other plans for tonight, Bobby.’

‘Fair enough, John. Look, I really appreciate all your help.’

‘You’re going to talk to him alone?’

‘I’ll have someone with me.’

Rebus hated being left out. If he cancelled that late supper ... ‘Let me know how you get on.’

Rebus put the telephone down. On the hi-fi: Eddie Harris, upbeat and melodic. He went and soaked in a bath, facecloth across his eyes. Everyone, it seemed to him, lived their lives out of little boxes, opening different ones for different occasions. Nobody ever gave their whole self away. Cops were like that, each box a safety mechanism. Most people you met in the course of your life, you never even learned their names. Everybody was boxed off from everybody else. It was called society.

He was wondering about Joseph Lintz, always questioning, turning every conversation into a philosophy lesson. Stuck in his own little box, identity blocked off elsewhere, his past a necessary mystery ... Joseph Lintz, furious when cornered, possibly clinically mad, driven there by ... what? Memories? Or the lack of them? Driven there by other people? The Eddie Harris CD was on its last track by the time he emerged from the bathroom. He put on the clothes he’d be wearing to Patience’s. Only he had a couple of stops to make first: check on, Sammy at the hospital, and then a meeting at Torphichen.

‘The gang’s all here,’ he said, walking into the CID room.

Shug Davidson, Claverhouse, Ormiston, and Siobhan Clarke, all seated around the one big desk, drinking coffee from identical Rangers mugs. Rebus pulled a chair over.

‘Have you filled them in, Shug?’ Davidson nodded.

‘What about the shop?’

‘I was just getting to that.’

Davidson picked up a pen, played with it. ‘The last owner went out of business, not enough passing trade. The shop was shut the best part of a year, then suddenly reopened under new management and with prices that stopped the locals looking elsewhere.’

‘And got the workers at Maclean’s interested, too,’ Rebus added. ‘So how longs it been going?’

‘Five weeks, selling cut-price everything.’

‘No profit motive, you see.’

Rebus looked around the table. This was mostly for the benefit of Ormiston and Clarke; he’d given Claverhouse the story already.

‘And the owners?’ Clarke asked.

‘Well, the shop’s run by a couple of lads called Declan Delaney and Ken Wilkinson. Guess where they come from?’

‘Paisley,’ Claverhouse said, keen to hurry things on.

‘So they’re part of Telford’s gang?’ Ormiston asked.

‘Not in so many words, but they’re connected to him, no doubt about that.’