‘Hang on,’ Jack said. ‘Someone’s at the door. I’ll call you back.’

‘Be careful.’

The phone went dead.

Rebus gave it an hour. When Jack hadn’t called, he got on the blower to Claverhouse.

‘It’s okay,’ Claverhouse told him from his mobile. ‘Tweedledee and Tweedledum came calling, took him off somewhere.’

‘You’re watching the flat?’

‘Decorator’s van parked down the street.’

‘So you’ve no idea where they’ve taken him?’

‘I’d guess he’s at Flint Street.’

‘With no back-up?’

‘That’s how we all wanted it.’

‘Christ, I don’t know ...’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘It’s not you in the firing line. And I’m the one who volunteered him.’

‘He knows the score, John.’

‘So now you wait for him either to come home or end up on a slab?’

‘Christ, John, Calvin was Charlie Chester compared to you.’

Claverhouse had lost all patience. Rebus tried to think of a comeback, slammed the phone down instead.

Suddenly he couldn’t be doing with Van the Man; put on Bowie instead, Aladdin Sane: nicely discordant, Mike Garson’s piano in key with his thoughts.

Empty juice cans and a dead pack of cigarettes stared up at him. He didn’t know Jack’s address. The only person who’d give it to him was Claverhouse, and he didn’t want to pick up their conversation. He took Bowie off halfway through side one, substituted Quadrophenia. Liner notes: ‘Schizophrenic? I’m bleeding Quadrophenic’. Which was just about right.

Quarter past midnight, the phone rang. It was Jack Morton.

‘Back home safe and sound?’

Rebus asked.

‘Right as nails.’

‘Have you spoken to Claverhouse?’

‘He can wait his turn. I said I’d phone you back.’

‘So what did you get?’

‘The third degree, basically. Some guy with dyed black hair, frizzy ... tight jeans.’

‘Pretty-Boy.’

‘Wears mascara.’

‘Looks like. So what was the gist?’

‘Second hurdle passed. Nobody’s mentioned what the job is yet. Tonight was a sort of preface. Wanted to know all about me, told me my money worries could be over. If I could help them with a “little problem” - Pretty-Boy’s words.’

‘You asked what the problem was?’

‘He wasn’t saying. If you ask me, he goes to Telford, talks it through. Then there’s another meeting, and that’s where they tell me the plan.’

‘And you’ll be miked up?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if they strip you?’

‘Claverhouse has access to some miniaturised stuff, cuff-links and the like.’

‘And your character would obviously wear cuff-links.’

‘True enough. Maybe fit a transmitter into a bookie’s pencil.’

‘Now you’re thinking.’

‘I’m thinking I’m wiped out.’

‘What was the mood like?’

‘Fraught.’

‘Any sign of Tarawicz or Shoda?’

‘Nope, just Pretty-Boy and the Gruesome Twosome.’

‘Claverhouse calls them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’

‘He’s obviously classically educated.’

Morton paused. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘When you didn’t call back.’

‘I’m touched. Do you think he’s up to it?’

‘Claverhouse?’

Rebus thought about it. ‘I’d feel better if I was in charge. But that probably puts me in a minority.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You’re a pal, Jack.’