‘What was the hit?’

‘Down in Ayr. Must’ve been ... four years ago? Lot of drugs swilling around, most of them inside a dance-club ... can’t remember its name. I don’t know what happened: maybe a deal went sour, maybe someone was skimming. Whatever, there was a hit outside the club. Guy got his face half torn off with a carving knife.’

‘You put the Crab in the frame?’

‘He had an alibi, of course, and the eye-witnesses all seemed to have suffered temporary blindness. Could be a plot for the X-Files in that.’

A knife attack outside a nightclub ... Rebus tapped his desk with a pen. ‘Any idea how the attacker got away?’

‘On a motorbike. The Crab likes bikes. Crash helmet makes a good disguise.’

‘We had an almost identical attack recently. Guy on a motorbike went for a drug dealer outside one of Tommy Telford’s nightclubs. Killed a bouncer instead.’

And Cafferty denied any involvement ...

‘Well, like you say, the Crab’s in Newcastle.’

Yes, and staying put ... scared to come north. Warned off by Tarawicz. Because Edinburgh was too dangerous ... people might remember him.

‘Do you know how far away Newcastle is?’

‘A couple of hours?’

‘No distance at all by bike. Anything else I should know?’

‘Well, Telford tried the Crab in the van, but he wasn’t much good.’

‘What van?’

‘The ice-cream van.’

Rebus nearly dropped the phone. Explain,’ he said.

‘Easy: Telford’s boys were selling dope from an ice-cream van. The “five-pound special”, they called it. You handed over a fiver and got back a cone or wafer with a wee plastic bag tucked inside ...’

Rebus thanked Hannigan and terminated the call. Five-pound specials: Mr Taystee with his clients who ate ice-cream in all weathers. His daytime pitches: near schools. His nighttime pitches: outside Telford’s clubs. Five-pound specials on the menu, Telford taking his cut ... The new Merc: Mr Taystee’s big mistake. Telford’s moneymen wouldn’t have taken long to work out their boy was skimming. Telford would have decided to turn Mr Taystee into a lesson ...

It was coming together. He spun his pen, caught it, and made another call, this time to Newcastle.

‘Nice to hear from you,’ Miriam Kenworthy said. ‘Any sign of your lady friend?’

‘She’s turned up here.’

‘Great.’

‘In tow with Mr Pink Eyes.’

‘Not so great. I wondered where he’d gone.’

‘And he’s not here to see the sights.’

‘I’ll bet he isn’t.’

‘Which is really why I’m calling.’

‘Mmm?’

‘I’m just wondering if he’s ever been linked to machete attacks.’

‘Machetes? Let me think ...’

She was so quiet for so long, he thought the connection had failed. ‘You know, that does ring a bell. Let me put it up on the screen.’

Clackety-clack of her keyboard. Rebus was biting his bottom lip, almost drawing blood.

‘God, yes,’ she said. ‘A year or so back, a battle on an estate. Rival gangs, that was the story, but everyone knew what was behind it: namely, drugs and pitch incursions.’