‘I lost a friend.’

‘Oh, Christ, John.’

She hugged him again. She was still warm from the bedclothes. He could smell shampoo on her hair, perfume on her neck. The people closest to me ... He pulled away gently, planted a kiss on her cheek.

‘Go get some sleep,’ he told her.

‘Come for breakfast.’

‘I just want to go home and crash.’

‘You could sleep at my place. It’s Sunday. We could stay in bed.’

‘I don’t know what time I’ll finish here.’

She found his eyes. ‘Don’t feed on it, John. Don’t keep it all inside.’

‘Okay, Doc.’

He pecked her cheek again. ‘Now vamoose.’

He managed a smile and a wink: both felt treacherous. He stood at the door and watched her leave, A lot of times while he’d been married, he’d thought of just walking. There were times when all the responsibilities and the shite at work and the pressure and the need would make him dream of escape.

He was tempted again now. Push open the door and head off to somewhere that wasn’t here, to do something that wasn’t this. But that, too, would be treachery. He had scores to settle, and a reason to settle them. He knew Telford was somewhere in the building, probably consulting with Charles Groal, saying nothing to anyone else. He wondered how the team were playing it. When would they let Telford know about the tape? When would they tell him the security guard had been a plant? When would they tell him that same man was now dead? He hoped they were being clever. He hoped they were rattling Telford’s cage.

He couldn’t help wondering - and not for the first time - if it was all worth it. Some cops treated it like a game, others like a crusade, and for most of the rest it was neither, just a way of earning their daily bread. He asked himself why he’d invited Jack Morton in. Answers: because he’d wanted a friend involved, someone who’d keep him in the game; because he’d thought Jack was bored, and would enjoy the challenge; because tactics had demanded an outsider. There were plenty of reasons. Claverhouse had asked if Morton had any family, anyone who should be informed. Rebus had told him: divorced, four kids.

Did Rebus blame Claverhouse? Easy to be wise after the event, but then Claverhouse’s reputation had been built on being wise before the event. And he’d failed ... monumentally.

Icy roads: they’d needed the gates closed. The blockade had been too easy to move with the horsepower available to a truck.

Marksmen in the building: fine in the enclosed space of the yard, but they’d failed to keep the truck there, and the marksmen had been ineffectual once the truck had reversed out.

More armed officers behind the truck: producing little but a crossfire hazard.

Claverhouse should have got them to turn off the ignition, or better still - waited for it to be turned off before making his presence known.