A public execution, in Tommy Telford’s heartland.

The two victims: known money-lenders. The one in hospital was called ‘Wee’ Stevie Murray, age twenty-two. The one in the mortuary was Donny Draper - known since childhood as ‘Curtains’. They’d be making jokes about that. Curtains was two weeks shy of his twenty-fifth birthday. Rebus hoped he’d made the most of his short time on the planet.

Paisley police knew about Telford’s move to Edinburgh, knew there were some problems there. A courtesy call had been placed to Chief Superintendent Watson.

The caller said: the men were two of Telford’s brightest and best. The caller said: descriptions of the attackers were vague.

The caller said: the children weren’t talking. They were being shielded by their parents, fearful of reprisals. Well, they might not be talking to the police, but Rebus doubted they’d be so reticent when Tommy Telford came calling, armed with his own questions and determined to have answers.

This was bad. This was escalation. Fire-bombings and beatings: these could be remedied. But murder ... murder put the grudgematch on to a much higher plane.

‘Is it worth talking to them again?’ Gill Tempter asked. They were in the canteen, sandwiches untouched in front of them.

‘What do you think?’

He knew what she thought. She was talking because she thought talking was better than doing nothing. He could have told her to save her breath.

‘They used a machete,’ he said.

‘Same thing they took to Danny Simpson’s scalp.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I’ve got to ask ...’ she said.

‘What?’

‘About Lintz ... what you said?’

He drained the last inch of his cold coffee. ‘Fancy another?’

‘John . ..’

He looked at her. ‘Lintz had some phone calls he was trying to hide. One of them was to Tommy Telford’s office in Flint Street. We don’t know how it ties in, but we think it does tie in.’

‘What could Lintz and Telford have had in common?’

‘Maybe Lintz went to him for help. Maybe he rented prossies off him. Like I say, we don’t know. Which is why we’re keeping it under the table.’

‘You want Telford very badly, don’t you?’

Rebus stared at her, thought about it. ‘Not as much as I did. He’s not enough any more.’

‘You want Cafferty, too?’

‘And Tarawicz ... and the Yakuza ... and anybody else who’s along for the ride.’

She nodded. ‘This is the party you were talking about?’

He tapped his head. ‘They’re all in here, Gill. I’ve tried kicking them out, but they won’t leave.’

‘Maybe if you stopped playing their kind of music?’

He smiled tiredly. ‘Now there’s an idea. What do you reckon: ELP? The Enid? How about a Yes triple album?’

‘Your department, not mine, thank God.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Yes, I do: I was there first time round.’

Old Scottish proverb: he who has had knuckles rapped will want to rap someone else’s. Which is why Rebus found himself back in Watson’s office. The Farmer’s cheeks were still red from his meeting with the Chief Constable. When Rebus made to sit, Watson told him to get back on his feet.