‘You’ll sit when you’re told and not before.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘What the bloody hell’s going on, John?’

‘Pardon, sir?’

The Farmer looked at the note Rebus had left on his desk. ‘What’s this?’

‘One dead, one seriously wounded in Paisley, sir. Telford’s men. Cafferty’s hitting him where it hurts. Probably reckons that Telford’s territory’s spun a bit thin. Leaves him open to breaches.’

‘Paisley.’

The Farmer stuffed the note in his drawer. ‘Not our problem.’

‘It will be, sir. When Telford hits back, it’ll be right here.’

‘Never mind that, Inspector. Let’s talk about Maclean’s Pharmaceuticals.’

Rebus blinked, relaxed his shoulders. ‘I was going to tell you, sir.’

‘But instead I had to hear it from the Chief Constable?’

‘Not really my baby, sir. Crime Squad are pushing the pram.’

‘But who put the baby in the pram?’

‘I was going to tell you, sir.’

‘Know how it makes me look? I walk into Fettes and I don’t know something one of my junior officers knows? I look like a mug.’

‘With respect, sir, I’m sure that’s not the case.’

‘I look like a mug!’ The Farmer slammed the desk with both palms. ‘And it’s not as though this was the first time. I’ve always tried to do my best for you, you know that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Always been fair.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘And you pay me back like this?’

‘It won’t happen again, sir.’

The Farmer stared at him; Rebus held it, returned it.

‘I bloody well hope not.’

The Farmer leaned back in his chair. He’d calmed down a little. Bollocking as therapy. ‘Nothing else you want to tell me, is there, while I’ve got you here?’

‘No, sir. Except ... well ...’

‘Go on.’

The Farmer sat forward again.

‘It’s the man in the flat above me, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘I think he might be Lord Lucan.’

27

Leonard Cohen: ‘There is a War’.

They were waiting for Telford’s retaliatory strike. The Chief Constable’s idea: ‘visible presence as deterrent’. It came as no surprise to Rebus: probably even less so to Telford, who had Charles Groal ready, claiming harassment the minute the patrol cars turned up in Flint Street. How was his client supposed to carry on with his legitimate and substantial business interests, as well as his many community developments, under the pressure of unwarranted and intrusive police surveillance? ‘Community developments’ meaning the pensioners and their rent-free flats: Telford wouldn’t hesitate to use them as pawns. The media would love it.

The patrol cars would be pulled, it was just a matter of time. And afterwards: firework night all over again: That’s what everyone was expecting.

Rebus went to the hospital, sat with Rhona. The room, so familiar to him now, was an oasis where calm and order reigned, where each hour of the day brought its comforting rituals.

‘They’ve washed her hair,’ he said.

‘She’s had another scan,’ Rhona explained. ‘They had to get the gunk off afterwards.’

Rebus nodded. ‘They said you’d noticed eye movement?’