‘And where there’s drugs, there’s Tarawicz?’

‘There was a rumour his men were involved.’

‘And they used machetes?’

‘One of them did. His name’s Patrick Kenneth Moynihan, known to all and sundry as “PK”.’

‘Can you give me a description?’

‘I can fax you his picture. But meantime: tall, heavy build, curly black hair and a black beard.’

He wasn’t part of the Tarawicz retinue. Two of Mr Pink’s best muscle-men had been left behind in Newcastle. For safety’s sake. Rebus pint PK down as one of the Paisley attackers - Cafferty again in the clear.

‘Thanks, Miriam. Listen, about that rumour ...’

‘Remind me.’

‘Telford supplying Tarawicz rather than the other way round: anything to back it up?’

‘We tracked Pink Eyes and his men. A couple of jaunts to the continent; only they came back clean.’

‘Leading you up the garden path?’

‘Which made us start reassessing.’

‘Where would Telford be getting the stuff?’

‘We didn’t reassess that far.’

‘Well, thanks again ...’

‘Hey, don’t leave me hanging: what’s the story?’

‘Morning Glory. Cheers, Miriam.’

Rebus went and got a coffee, put sugar in it without realising, had finished half the cup before he noticed. Tarawicz was attacking Telford. Telford was blaming Cafferty. The resulting war would destroy Cafferty and weaken Telford. Then Telford would pull off the Maclean’s break-in but be grassed up ...

And Tarawicz would fill the vacuum. That had been the plan all along. Bluesbreakers: ‘Double-Crossing Time’. Christ, it was beautiful: set the two rivals against one another and wait for the carnage to end ...

The prize: something Rebus didn’t yet know. There had to be something big. Tarawicz, the theory went, was sourcing his drugs not from London but from Scotland. From Tommy Telford.

What did Telford know? What was it that made his supply so valuable? Did it have something to do with Maclean’s? Rebus got another coffee, washed down three Paracetamol with it. His head felt ready to explode. Back at his desk, he tried Claverhouse, couldn’t get him. Paged him instead, and got an immediate call back.

‘I’m in the van,’ Claverhouse said.

‘I’ve something to tell you.’

‘What?’

Rebus wanted to know what was happening. Wanted in on the action. ‘It’s got to be face to face. Where are you parked?’

Claverhouse sounded suspicious. ‘Down from the shop.’

‘White decorator’s van?’

‘This definitely isn’t a good idea ...’

‘You want to hear what I’ve got?’

‘Sell me the idea.’

‘It clears everything up,’ Rebus lied.

Claverhouse waited for more, but Rebus wasn’t obliging. Theatrical sigh: life was hard on Claverhouse.

‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ Rebus said. He put down the phone, looked around the office. ‘Anyone got a set of overalls?’

‘Nice disguise,’ Claverhouse said, as Rebus squeezed into the front seat.

Ormiston was in the driver’s seat, plastic piece-box open in front of him. A flask of tea had been opened, steaming up the windscreen. The back of the van was full of paint-tins, brushes and other paraphernalia. A ladder was strapped to the roof, and another was leaning against the wall of the tenement beside which the van had been parked. Claverhouse and Ormiston were in white overalls, daubed with swatches of old paint. The best Rebus could come up with was a blue boilersuit, tight at the waist and chest. He pulled the first few studs open as he settled in.