Rebus watched the Weasel shake his head.

‘I don’t know the first thing about it.’

‘Who’s your boss’s main man?’

‘Ask Mr Cafferty.’

The Weasel was looking around, as if bored by the conversation. He made a signal to the backmarker, who passed it along. Seconds later, a newish Jaguar - arterial-red paint-job cruised to a stop beside them. Rebus saw: a driver itching for a less sedentary occupation; cream leather interior; the back-marker jogging forwards, opening the door for the Weasel.

‘It’s you,’ Rebus said. The Weasel: Cafferty’s eyes and ears on the street; the man with the look and dress-code of a down-and-out. The Weasel was running the show. All the lieutenants in the various outposts ... all the tailor-made suits ... the collective which, according to police intelligence, ran Cafferty’s kingdom in their master’s absence ... they were a smokescreen. The hunched man pulling off his lumberjack hat, the man with bad teeth and a blunt razor, he was in charge.

Rebus actually laughed. The bodyguard got into the car’s passenger seat, having made sure his boss was comfortable in the back. Rebus tapped on the window. The Weasel lowered it.

‘Tell me,’ Rebus asked, ‘have you got the bottle to wrest it away from him?’

‘Mr Cafferty trusts me. He knows I’ll do right by him.’

‘What about Telford?’

The Weasel stared at him. ‘Telford’s not my concern.’

‘Then who is?’

But the window was rising again, and the Weasel - Cafferty had called him Jeffries - had turned his face away, dismissing Rebus from his mind.

He stood there, watching the car drive off. Was Cafferty making a big mistake, putting the Weasel in charge? Was it just that his best men had scarpered or gone over to the other side? Or was the Weasel every bit as sly, clever and vicious as his namesake? Back at the station, Rebus sought out Bill Pryde. Pryde was shrugging his shoulders even before Rebus had reached his desk.

‘Sorry, John, no news.’

‘Nothing at all? What about the stolen tapes?’

Pryde shook his head. ‘That’s funny, I’ve just been talking to someone who claims to know who sold them on, and who he got them from.’

Pryde sat back in his chair. ‘I wondered why you hadn’t been chasing me up. What’ve you done, hired a private eye?’

Blood was rising to his face. ‘I’ve been working my arse off on this, John, you know I have. Now you don’t trust me to do the job?’

‘It’s not like that, Bill.’

Rebus suddenly found himself on the defensive.

‘Who’ve you got working for you, John?’

‘Just people on the street.’

‘Well-connected people by the sound of it.’

He paused. ‘Are we talking villains?’

‘My daughter’s in a coma, Bill.’

‘I’m well aware of that. Now answer my question!’ People around them were staring. Rebus lowered his voice. ‘Just a few of my grasses.’

‘Then give me their names.’

‘Come on, Bill ...’

‘Pryde’s hands gripped the table. ‘These past days, I’ve been thinking you’d lost interest. Thinking maybe you didn’t want an answer.’