‘But whoever killed Lintz did so because of his past.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It doesn’t make sense otherwise.’

‘DI Abernethy tells me there’s a link with some criminal elements in Edinburgh, perhaps a question of prostitution. It all sounds sordid enough to be believable.’

‘And if it’s believable, that’s good enough for you?’

Harris stood up. ‘Thank you for listening.’

He blew his nose again, looked to Abernethy. ‘Time to go, I believe. DI Hogan is waiting for us.’

‘Harris,’ Rebus said, ‘you said yourself, Lintz had gone loopy, become a liability. Who’s to say you didn’t have him killed?’

Harris shrugged. ‘If we’d arranged it, his demise would not have been quite so obvious.’

‘Car crash, suicide, falling from a window ...?’

‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

As Harris walked to the door, Abernethy stood up and locked eyes with Rebus. He didn’t say anything, but the message was there.

This is deeper water than either of us wants to be in. So do yourself a favour, swim for shore.

Rebus nodded, reached out a hand. The two men shook.

34

Two in the morning.

Frost on the car windscreens. They couldn’t clear them: had to blend in with the other cars on the street. Back-up four units - parked in a builder’s yard just round the corner. Bulbs had been removed from street-lights, leaving the area in almost total darkness. Maclean’s was like a Christmas tree: security lights, every window blazing, same as every other night.

No heating in the unmarked cars: heat would melt the frost; exhaust fumes a dead giveaway.

‘This all seems very familiar,’ Siobhan Clarke said. The surveillance on Flint Street seemed a lifetime ago to Rebus. Clarke was in the driving seat, Rebus in the back. Two to each car. That way, they had space to duck should anyone come snooping. Not that they expected anyone to do that: the whole heist was half-baked. Telford desperate and with his mind on other things. Sakiji Shoda was still in town - a quiet word with the hotel manager had revealed a Monday morning check-out. Rebus was betting Tarawicz and his men had already gone.

‘You look pretty snug,’ Rebus said, referring to her padded skijacket. She brought a hand out of her pocket, showed him what it was holding. It looked like a slim lighter. Rebus lifted it from her palm. It was warm.

‘What the hell is it?’

Clarke smiled. ‘I got it from one of those catalogues. It’s a handwarmer.’

‘How does it work?’

‘Fuel rods. Each one lasts up to twelve hours.’

‘So you’ve got one warm hand?’

She brought her other hand out, showed him an identical rod. ‘I bought two,’ she said.

‘You might have said.’

Rebus closed his fingers around the handwarmer, stuck it deep into his pocket.

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Call it a privilege of rank.’

‘Lights,’ she warned. They dived for cover, surfaced again when the car had sped past: false alarm.

Rebus checked his watch. Jack Morton had been told to expect the truck some time between one-thirty and twofifteen. Rebus and Clarke had been in the car since just after midnight. The snipers on the roof, poor bastards, had been in position since one o’clock. Rebus hoped they had a good supply of fuel rods. He still felt jittery from the afternoon’s events. He didn’t like that he owed Abernethy such a huge favour; indeed, maybe owed him his life. He knew he could cancel it out by agreeing - along with Hogan - to soft-pedal on the Lintz inquiry. He didn’t like the idea, but all the same ... And the day’s silver lining: Candice had made the break from Tarawicz.