‘Hunky Dory?’

She nodded.

‘It’s a David Bowie album.’

He kissed her brow.

He would never know what instinct made him decide on the detour, but he was glad he’d made it. For there, parked outside the Morvena casino, stood the white stretch limo. The driver leaned against it, smoking a cigarette, looking bored. From time to time he took out a mobile phone and had a short conversation. Rebus stared at the Morvena, thinking: Tommy Telford has a slice of the place; the hostesses come from Eastern Europe, provided by Mr Pink Eyes. Rebus wondered how closely entwined the two empires - Telford’s and Tarawicz’s - really were. And add a third strand: the Yakuza. Something refused to add up.

What was Tarawicz getting out of it?

Miriam Kenworthy had suggested muscle: Scottish hardmen trained in Telford’s organisation then shipped south. But it wasn’t enough of a trade. There had to be more. Was Mr Pink Eyes due a share of the Maclean’s pay-out? Was Telford tempting him with some Yakuza action? What about the theory that Telford was Tarawicz’s supplier? At quarter to midnight, another phone call had the driver springing into action. He flicked his cigarette on to the road, started opening doors. Tarawicz and his entourage breezed out of the casino looking like they owned the world. Candice was wearing a black full length coat over a shimmering pink dress which didn’t quite reach her knees. She was carrying a bottle of champagne. Rebus counted three of Tarawicz’s men, remembering them from the scrapyard. Two no-shows: the lawyer, and the Crab. Telford was there, too, with a couple of minders, one of them Pretty-Boy. Pretty-Boy was making sure his jacket hung right, trying to decide whether it would look better buttoned. But his eyes raked the darkened street. Rebus had parked away from the street-lights, confident he was invisible. They were piling into the limo. Rebus watched it move off, waited until it had signalled and turned a corner before switching on his own headlamps and starting the engine.

They drove to the same hotel Matsumoto had stayed at. Telford’s Range Rover was parked outside. Pedestrians – late night couples hurrying home from the pub - turned to stare at the limo. Saw the entourage spill out, probably mistook them for pop stars or film people. Rebus as casting director: Candice’s startlet being mauled by sleazy producer Tarawicz. Telford a sleek young operator on his way up, looking to learn from the producer before toppling him. The others were bit players, except maybe Pretty-Boy, who was hanging on to his boss’s coattails, maybe readying himself for his own big break ...

If Tarawicz had a suite, there might be room for them all. If not, they’d be in the bar. Rebus parked, followed them inside.

The lights hurt his eyes. The reception area was all mirrors and pine, brass and pot-plants. He tried to look like he’d been left behind by the party. They were settling down in the bar, through a double set of swing-doors with glass panels. Rebus hung back. Sitting target in the empty reception; bigger target in the bar. Retreat to the car? Someone was standing up, shrugging off along black coat. Candice. Smiling now, saying something to Tarawicz, who was nodding. Took her hand and planted a kiss in the palm. Went further: a slow lick across the palm and up her wrist. Everyone laughing, whistling. Candice looking numb. Tarawicz got to the inside of her elbow and took a bite. She squealed, pulled back, rubbed her arm. Tarawicz had his tongue out, playing to the gallery. Give Tommy Telford credit: he wasn’t grinning along with everyone else.