Rebus counted off on his fingers. ‘The drug shipments, the war with Cafferty, the Newcastle connection, the Yakuza, the prostitutes.’

He paused again, drained his tea. ‘Tall order, I know. Your boss had a meteoric rise, Brian, and he nearly made it. But that’s all over. Best thing you can do now is talk. It’s either that or spend the rest of your days waiting for the bullet or the machete to strike ...’

The lawyer started to protest. Rebus held up a hand.

‘We’ll need all of it, Brian. Including Lintz.’

‘Lintz,’ Pretty-Boy said dismissively. ‘Lintz is nothing.’

‘So where’s the harm?’

The look in Pretty-Boy’s eyes was a mix of anger, fear and disorientation. Rebus stood up.

‘I need something else to drink. What about you gentlemen?’

‘Coffee,’ the lawyer said, ‘black, no sugar.’

Pretty-Boy hesitated, then said, ‘Get me a Coke.’

And at that point - for the very first time - Rebus knew a deal might be done. He stopped the interview, Hogan switched off the tapes, and both men left the room. Hogan patted him on the back.

Farmer Watson was coming along the corridor towards them. Rebus moved to meet him, leading them away from the door.

‘I think we might be in with a shout, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘He’ll try to twist the deal, give us less than we want, but I think there’s a chance.’

Watson beamed a smile, as Rebus leaned against the wall, eyes closed. ‘I feel about a hundred years old.’

‘Experience tells,’ Hogan said.

Rebus growled at him, then they went to fetch the drinks.

‘Mr Summers,’ the lawyer said, as Rebus handed him his cup, ‘would like to tell you the story of his relationship with Joseph Lintz. But first we’ll need some assurances.’

‘What about everything else I mentioned?’

‘These can be negotiated.’

Rebus stared at Pretty-Boy. ‘You don’t trust me?’

Pretty-Boy picked up his can, said ‘No’, and drank.

‘Fine.’

Rebus walked over to the far wall. ‘In that case, you’re free to go.’

He checked his watch. ‘Soon as you’ve finished your drinks, I want you out of here. Interview Rooms are at a premium tonight. DI Hogan, mark up the tapes, will you?’

Hogan ejected both cassettes. Rebus sat down beside him and they started discussing work, as though Pretty-Boy had been dismissed from their minds. Hogan examined a sheet of paper, checking who was due to be interviewed next.

From the corner of his eye, Rebus saw Pretty-Boy leaning in towards his lawyer, whispering something. He turned on them.

‘Can you do that outside, please? We need to vacate this room.’

Pretty-Boy knew Rebus was bluffing ... knew the policeman needed him. But he realised, too, that Rebus was not bluffing about giving the file to Shoda, and he was far too intelligent not to be scared. He didn’t move from the chair, and held his lawyer’s arm so he had to stay and listen. Eventually the lawyer cleared his throat.

‘Inspector, Mr Summers is willing to answer your questions.’