There was silence for a moment. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

Rebus was in a car. It was the Weasel’s Jag. The Weasel was in the back with him. Their driver was missing a big chunk of his left ear. The shape made him resemble a pixie - but only from the side, and you wouldn’t want to tell him to his face.

‘You did well,’ the Weasel was saying. ‘Mr Cafferty’s pleased.’

‘How long have you been holding him?’

The Weasel smiled. ‘Nothing gets past you, Rebus.’

‘Rangers have offered me a trial in goal. How long have you had him?’

‘A few days. Had to be sure we had the right one, didn’t we?’

‘And now you’re sure?’

‘Absolutely positive.’

Rebus looked out of the window at the passing parade of shops, pedestrians, buses. The car was heading down towards Newhaven and Granton. ‘You wouldn’t be setting up some loser to take the blame?’

‘He’s genuine.’

‘You could have spent the past few days making sure he was going to say the right things.’

The Weasel seemed amused. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as that he was in Telford’s pay.’

‘Rather than Mr Cafferty’s, you mean?’

Rebus glared at the Weasel, who laughed. ‘I think you’ll find him a pretty convincing candidate.’

The way he said it made Rebus shiver. ‘He’s still alive, isn’t he?’

‘Ah, yes. How long he remains so is entirely up to you.’

‘You think I want him dead?’

‘I know you do. You didn’t go to Mr Cafferty because you wanted justice. You went out of revenge.’

Rebus stared at the Weasel. ‘You don’t sound like yourself.’

‘You mean I don’t sound like my persona - different thing entirely.’

‘And do many people get behind the persona?’

The Who: ‘Can You See the Real Me?’

The Weasel smiled again. ‘I thought you deserved it, after all the trouble you’ve gone to.’

‘I didn’t break Telford just to please your boss.’

‘Nevertheless ...’

The Weasel slid across his seat towards Rebus. ‘How’s Sammy, by the way?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘Recuperating?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good news. Mr Cafferty will be pleased. He’s disappointed you haven’t been to see him.’

Rebus took a newspaper from his pocket. It was folded at a story: FATAL STABBING AT JAIL.

‘Your boss?’ he said, handing the paper over.

The Weasel made show of reading it. “‘Aged twenty-six, from Govan ... stabbed through the heart in his cell ... no witnesses, no weapon recovered despite a thorough search.”

‘He tutted. ‘Bit careless.’

‘He’d taken up the contract on Cafferty?’

‘Had he?’

The Weasel looked amazed.

‘Fuck off,’ Rebus said, turning back to his window.

‘By the way, Rebus, if you decide not to go to trial with the driver ...’

The Weasel was holding something out. A homemade screwdriver, filed to a point, grip covered in packing-tape. Rebus looked at it in disgust.

‘I washed the blood off,’ the Weasel assured him. Then he laughed again. Rebus felt like he was being ferried straight to hell. In front of him he could see the grey expanse of the Firth of Forth, and Fife beyond it. They were coming into an area of docks, gas-plant and warehouses. It had been earmarked for a development spill-over from Leith. The whole city was changing. Traffic routes and priorities were altered overnight, cranes were kept busy on buildingsites, and the council, who always complained about being broke, had all manner of schemes underway to further alter the shape and scope of his chosen home.