‘I’m saying it’s adapt or die.’

‘Have you adapted, Strawman?’

‘Maybe a little.’

‘Aye, a fucking speck, if that.’

‘We’re not talking about me though.’

‘You’re as involved as anyone. Remember that, Strawman. And sweet dreams.’

Rebus put down the phone. He felt exhausted, and depressed. The kids across the way were in bed, shutters closed. He looked around the room. Jack Morton had helped him paint it, back when Rebus was thinking of selling. Jack had helped him off the sauce, too ...

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Got back into the car and headed for Young Street. The Oxford Bar was quiet. A couple of philosophers in the corner, and through in the back-room three musicians who’d packed up their fiddles. He drank a couple of cups of black coffee, then drove to Oxford Terrace. Parked the car outside Patience’s flat, turned off the ignition and sat there for a while, jazz on the radio. He hit a good streak: Astrid Gilberto, Stan Getz, Art Pepper, Duke Ellington. Told himself he’d wait till a bad record came on, then go knock on Patience’s door.

But by then it was too late. He didn’t want to turn up unannounced. It would be ... it wouldn’t look right. He didn’t mind that it smacked of desperation, but he didn’t want her to think he was pushing. He started the engine again and moved off, drove around the New Town and down to Granton. Sat by the edge of the Forth, window down, listening to water and the nighttime traffic of HGVs.

Even with eyes closed, he couldn’t shut out the world. In fact, in those moments before sleep came, his images were at their most vivid. He wondered what Sammy dreamed about, or even if she dreamed at all. Rhona said that Sammy had come north to be with him. He couldn’t think what he’d done to deserve her.

Back into town for an espresso at Gordon’s Trattoria, then the hospital: easy to find a parking space this time of night. A taxi was idling outside the entrance. He made his way to Sammy’s room, was surprised to see someone there. His first thought: Rhona. The only illumination in the room was that given through the closed curtains. A woman, kneeling by the bed, head resting on the covers. He walked forwards. She heard him, turned, face glistening with tears.

Candice.

Her eyes widened. She stumbled to her feet.

‘I wanting see her,’ she said quietly.

Rebus nodded. In shadows, she looked even more like Sammy: same build, similar hair and shape to her face. She wore a long red coat, fished in the pocket for a paper hankie.

‘I like her,’ she said. He nodded again.

‘Does Tarawicz know where you are?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘The taxi outside?’ he guessed.

She nodded. ‘They went casino. I said sore head.’

She spoke falteringly, checking each word was right before using it.

‘Will he find out you’ve gone?’