‘Rebus!’ A male voice. Tarawicz looked to his men, nodded another signal. Curtains were opened; Rebus’s bonds cut; the tape ripped from his face. Tarawicz rolled down his sleeves, put his jacket back on. Left the flex lying on the floor. One last word to Rebus: ‘We’ll speak again.’

Then he marched his men to the door, opened it.

‘Excuse us.’

Rebus was left sitting on the chair. He couldn’t move, felt too shaky to stand up.

‘Hang on a minute, chief!’ Rebus placed the voice: Abernethy. It didn’t sound as if Tarawicz was heeding the Special Branch man.

‘What’s the score?’

Now Abernethy was in the living-room, looking around.

‘Business meeting,’ Rebus croaked.

Abernethy came forward. ‘Funny old business where you have to unzip your flies.’

Rebus looked down, started to make repairs.

‘Who was that?’

Abernethy persisted.

‘A Chechen from Newcastle.’

‘Likes to travel mob-handed, does he?’

Abernethy walked around the room, found the bare flex and tut-tutted, unplugged it at the socket. ‘Fun and games,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rebus told him, ‘it’s under control.’

Abernethy laughed.

‘What do you want anyway?’

‘Brought someone to see you.’

He nodded towards the doorway. A distinguished-looking man was standing there, dressed in three quarter-length black woollen coat and white silk scarf. He was completely bald, with a huge dome of a head and cheeks reddened from cold. He had a sniffle, and was wiping his nose with a handkerchief.

‘Thought we might pop out somewhere,’ the man said, locution impeccable, his eyes everywhere but on Rebus. ‘Get a spot to eat, if you’re hungry.’

‘I’m not,’ Rebus said.

‘Something to drink then.’

‘There’s whisky in the kitchen.’

The man looked reluctant.

‘Look, pal,’ Rebus told him, ‘I’m staying right here. You can join me or you can bugger off.’

‘I see,’ the man said. He put the handkerchief away and stepped forward, stretched out a hand. ‘Name’s Harris, by the way.’

Rebus took the hand, expecting sparks to leap from his fingertips.

‘Mr Harris, let’s sit at the dining-table.’

Rebus got to his feet. He was shaky, but his knees held till he’d crossed the floor. Abernethy appeared from the kitchen with the bottle and three glasses. Left again, and returned with a milk-jug of water.

Ever the host, Rebus poured, sizing up the trembling in his right arm. He felt disoriented. Adrenaline and electricity coursing through him.

‘Slainte,’ he said, lifting the glass. But he paused with it at his nostrils. Pact with the Big Man: no drinking, and Sammy back. His throat hurt when he swallowed, but he put the glass down untouched. Harris was pouring too much water into his own glass. Even Abernethy looked disapproving.

‘So, Mr Harris,’ Rebus said, rubbing his throat, ‘just who the hell are you?’

Harris affected a smile. He was playing with his glass.

‘I’m a member of the intelligence community, Inspector. I know what that probably conjures up in your mind, but I’m afraid the reality is far more prosaic. Intelligence-gathering means just that: lots of paperwork and filing.’