Rebus jabbing away, looking for gaps in the armour of the Telford/ Tarawicz relationship.

‘What if Cafferty wasn’t behind Paisley?’ he asked into the silence.

‘It was his men.’

‘Gone rogue.’

‘He can’t control them, that’s his look-out. He’s a joke, Rebus. He’s finished.’

Rebus didn’t say anything; listened instead to a muted conversation. Then Telford again: ‘Mr Tarawicz wants a word.’

The phone was handed over.

‘Rebus? I thought we were civilised men?’

‘In what way?’

‘When we met in Newcastle . .. I thought we came to an understanding?’

The unspoken agreement: leave Telford alone, have nothing more to do with Cafferty, and Candice and her son would be safe. What was Tarawicz getting at? ‘I’ve kept my side.’

A forced chuckle. ‘You know what Paisley represents? ‘What?’

‘The beginning of the end of Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

‘And I bet you’d send flowers to the grave.’

Dead flowers at that.

Rebus went into St Leonard’s, got settled in front of his computer screen, and took a look at the Crab.

The Crab: William Andrew Colton. Plenty of form. Rebus decided he’d like to read the files. Phoned in and requested them, backed up the request in writing. Buzzed from downstairs: a man to see him, no name supplied. Description: the Weasel.

Rebus went downstairs.

The Weasel was outside, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a green waxed jacket, torn at both pockets. A lumberjack hat with its flaps down protected his ears from the wind.

‘Let’s walk,’ Rebus said. The Weasel got into step with him. They wandered through an estate of new flats: satellite dishes and windows picked from Lego boxes. Behind the flats sat Salisbury Crags.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m not in the mood for rockclimbing.’

‘I’m in the mood for indoors.’

The Weasel tucked his chin into the upturned collar of his coat.

‘What’s the news on my daughter?’

‘We’re close, I told you.’

‘How close?’

The Weasel measured his response. ‘We’ve got the tapes from the car, the guy who sold them. He says he got them from another party.’

‘And he is ...?’

A sly smile: the Weasel knew he had control over Rebus. He’d play it out as long as possible.

‘You’re going to be meeting him fairly shortly.’

‘Even so ... say the tapes got taken from the car after it was abandoned?’

The Weasel was shaking his head. ‘That’s not how it was.’

‘Then how was it?’

He wanted to pull his tormentor down on to the ground and start hammering his skull on the pavement.

‘Give us a day or two, we’ll have everything you need.’

The wind gusted some grit towards them. They turned their faces. Rebus saw a heavy-set man loitering sixty yards behind.

‘Don’t worry,’ the Weasel said, ‘he’s with me.’

‘Getting jittery?’

‘After Paisley, Telford’s out for blood.’

‘What do you know about Paisley?’

The Weasel’s eyes became slits. ‘Nothing.’

‘No? Cafferty’s beginning to suspect some of his own men might have gone rogue.’