The weather was kind on the trip south, the traffic manageable. The Saab seemed to enjoy long drives, or maybe it was just that at seventy miles an hour the engine noise disguised all the rattles and bumps: He drove straight to Leith cop-shop, looked at his watch and found he was quarter of an hour late. Which didn’t matter, since they were just starting the interview. Pretty-Boy was there with Charles Groal, all-purpose solicitor. Hogan was sitting with another CID officer, DC James Preston. A tape-recorder had been set up. Hogan looked nervous, realising how speculative this whole venture was, especially with a lawyer present. Rebus gave him a reassuring wink and apologised for having been detained. The burger had given him indigestion, and the coffee he’d had with it had done nothing for his frayed nerves. He had to shake his head clear of Inverness and all its implications and concentrate on Pretty-Boy and Joseph Lintz.

Pretty-Boy looked calm. He was wearing a charcoal suit with a yellow t-shirt, black suede winkle-picker boots. He smelt of expensive aftershave. In front of him on the desk: a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans and his car keys. Rebus knew he’d own a Range Rover - it was mandatory for Telford employees - but the key-ring boasted the Porsche marque, and on the street outside Rebus had parked behind a cobalt blue 944. Pretty-Boy showing a touch of individuality ...

Groal had his briefcase open on the floor beside him. On the desk in front of him: an A4 pad of ruled paper, and a fat black Mont Blanc pen.

Lawyer and client oozed money easily made and just as easily spent. Pretty-Boy used his money to buy class, but Rebus knew his background: working-class Paisley, a granite-hard introduction to life.

Hogan identified those present for the benefit of the taperecorder, then looked at his own notes.

‘Mr Summers ...’

Pretty-Boy’s real name: Brian Summers. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

Pretty-Boy made an O of his glossy lips and stared ceilingwards.

‘Mr Summers,’ Charles Groal began, ‘has informed me that he is willing to co-operate, Inspector Hogan, but that he’d like some indication of the accusations against him and their validity.’

Hogan stared at Groal, didn’t blink. ‘Who said he’s accused of anything?’

‘Inspector, Mr Summers works for Thomas. Telford, and your police force’s harassment of that individual is on record ...’

‘Nothing to do with me, Mr Groal, or this station.’

Hogan paused. ‘Nothing at all to do with my present inquiries.’

Groal blinked half a dozen times in quick succession. He looked at Pretty-Boy, who was now studying the tips of his boots.

‘You want me to say something?’

Pretty-Boy asked the lawyer.

‘I’m just ... I’m not sure if ...’

Pretty-Boy cut him off with a wave of his hand, then looked at Hogan.

‘Ask away.’

Hogan made show of studying his notes again. ‘Do you know why you’re here, Mr Summers?’

‘General vilification as part of your witch-hunt against my employer.’