‘John ...’

Claverhouse. No megaphone needed. Standing right behind him. ‘You really want to be like them?’

Like them ... Like Mean Machine. Like Telford and Cafferty and Tarawicz. He’d crossed the line before, made several trips forth and back. His foot was on Declan’s neck, the gun barrel so hot it was singeing nape-skin.

‘Please, no ... oh, Christ, please ... don’t ... don’t ...’

‘Shut up,’ Rebus hissed. He felt Claverhouse’s hand close over his, flick on the safety.

‘My responsibility, John. My fuck-up, don’t make it yours, too.’

‘Jack ...’

‘I know.’

Rebus’s vision blurred. ‘They’re getting away.’

Claverhouse shook his head. ‘Road blocks. Back-up are already on it.’

‘And Telford?’

Claverhouse checked his watch. ‘Ormie will be picking him up right about now.’

Rebus grabbed Claverhouse’s lapels. ‘Nail him!’ Sirens nearing. Rebus shouted for the drivers to move their cars, make room for the ambulance. Then he ran back to the gatehouse. Siobhan Clarke was kneeling beside Jack, stroking his forehead. Her face was streaked with tears. She looked up at Rebus and shook her head.

‘He’s gone,’ she said.

‘No.’

But he knew the truth. Which didn’t stop him saying the word over and over again.

35

They divided the gang between two different locations Torphichen and Fettes - and took Telford and a few of his ‘lieutenants’ to St Leonard’s. Result: a logistical nightmare. Claverhouse was washing Pro-Plus down with double strength coffee, part of him wanting to do things right, the other part knowing he was answerable for the blood-bath at Maclean’s. One officer dead, six wounded or otherwise injured - one of them seriously. One gunman dead, one wounded - not seriously enough to some people’s minds.

The getaway cars had been apprehended and arrests made - shots exchanged but no bloodshed. None of the gang was saying anything, not a single damned word.

Rebus was sitting in an empty Interview Room at St Leonard’s, arms on the table, head resting on arms. He’d been sitting there for a while, just thinking about loss, about how suddenly it could strike. A life, a friendship, just snatched away.

Irretrievable.

He hadn’t cried, and didn’t think he would. Instead, he felt numb, as if his soul had been spiked with novocaine. The world seemed to have slowed, like the mechanism was running down. He wondered if the sun would have the energy to rise again.

And I got him into it.

He had wallowed before in feelings of guilt and inadequacy, but nothing to measure up to this. This was overwhelming. Jack Morton, a copper with a quiet patch in Falkirk ... murdered in Edinburgh because a friend had asked a favour. Jack Morton, who’d brought himself back to life by swearing off cigarettes and booze, getting into shape, eating right, taking care of himself ... Lying in the mortuary, deep-body temperature dropping.

And I put him there.

He jumped up suddenly, threw the chair at the wall. Gill Templer walked into the room.