Rebus had listened to a recording of the snitch call: ‘Be at Maclean’s factory in Slateford tonight. Two in the morning, it’s going to be turned over. Ten men, tooled up, driving a lorry. If you’re canny, you can catch all of them.’

Scots accent, but sounding long distance. Rebus smiled, looked at the turning spools, and said ‘Hello again, Crab’ out loud.

No mention of Telford, which was interesting. Telford’s men were loyal: they’d go down without saying a word. And Tarawicz wasn’t grassing up Telford. He couldn’t know the police already had taped evidence of Telford’s involvement. Which meant he was planning on letting Telford go ... No, think it through. With the plan dead in the water and ten of his best men in custody, Tarawicz didn’t need Telford under lock and key. He wanted him out in the open and worried, Yakuza breathing down his neck, all his frailties exposed. He could be picked off at any time, or made to hand over everything. No blood-letting required; it would be a simple business proposition.

‘It has to be ...’

‘Done right,’ Rebus said. ‘Claverhouse, we know, okay?’

Claverhouse lost it. ‘You’re only here because I tolerate you! So let’s get that straight for a start. I snap my fingers and you’re out of the game, understood?’

Rebus just stared at him. A line of sweat was running down Claverhouse’s left temple. Ormiston was looking up from his desk. Siobhan Clarke, briefing another officer beside a wall-chart, stopped talking.

‘I promise I’ll be a good boy,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘if you’ll promise to stop with the broken record routine.’

Claverhouse’s jaw was working, but eventually he produced a near-smile of apology.

‘Let’s get on with it then.’

Not that there was much for them to do. Jack Morton was working a double shift, wouldn’t start till three o’clock. They’d be watching the place from then on, just in case Telford changed the game-plan. This meant personnel were going to miss the big match: Hibs against Hearts at Easter Road. Rebus had his money on a 3-2 home win.

Ormiston’s summing-up: ‘Easiest quid you’ll ever lose.’

Rebus retired to one of the computers and got back to work. Siobhan Clarke had already come round snooping.

‘Writing it up for one of the tabloids?’

‘No such luck.’

He tried to keep it simple, and when he was happy with the finished product he printed off two copies. Then he went out to buy a couple of nice, bright folders ...

He dropped off one of the folders, then returned home, too restless to be much use at Fettes. Three men were waiting in his tenement stairwell. Two more came in behind him, blocking the only escape route. Rebus recognised Jake Tarawicz and one of his muscle-men from the scrapyard. The others were new to him.

‘Up the stairs,’ Tarawicz ordered. Rebus was a prisoner under escort as they climbed the steps.

‘Unlock the door.’

‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have got in some beers,’ Rebus said, searching his pockets for keys. He was wondering which was safer: let them in, or keep them out? Tarawicz made the decision for him, nodded some signal. Rebus’s arms were grabbed, hands went into his jacket and trousers, found his keys. He kept his face blank, eyes on Tarawicz.