‘Visible presence as a deterrent,’ Rebus said.

‘Aye, right, a few more nights of this and I’m sure Tommy’ll be back on the straight and narrow.’

Claverhouse shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. ‘Any word of Candice?’

Sammy had asked her father the same thing. Rebus shook his head.

‘You still think Taravicz snatched her? No chance she did a runner?’

Rebus snorted.

‘Just because you want it to be them doesn’t mean it was. My advice: leave it to us. Forget about her. You’ve got that Adolf thing to keep you busy.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Did you ever track down Colquhoun?’

‘Sudden holiday. His office got a doctor’s line.’

‘I think we did for him.’

Rebus realised one of his hands was caressing his breast pocket. ‘So is Telford in the cafe or what?’

‘Went in about an hour ago,’ Clarke said. ‘There’s a room at the back, he uses that. He seems to like the arcade, too. Those games where you sit on a motorbike and do the circuit.’

‘We need someone on the inside,’ Claverhouse said. ‘Either that or wire the place.’

‘We couldn’t even get a plumber in there,’ Rebus said. ‘You think someone with a fistful of radio mikes is going to fare any better?’

‘Couldn’t do any worse.’ Claverhouse switched on the radio, seeking music.

‘Please,’ Clarke pleaded, ‘no country and western.’

Rebus stared out at the cafe. It was well-lit with a net curtain covering the bottom half of its window. On the top half was written ‘Big Bites For Small Change’. There was a menu taped to the window, and a sandwich board on the pavement outside, which gave the cafe’s hours as 6.30 a.m. - 8.30 p.m. The place should have been closed for an hour.

‘How are his licences?’

‘He has lawyers,’ Clarke said.

‘First thing we tried,’ Claverhouse added. ‘He’s applied for a latenight extension. I can’t see the neighbours complaining.’

‘Well,’ Rebus said, ‘much as I’d love to sit around here chatting ...’

‘End of liaison?’ Clarke asked. She was keeping her humour, but Rebus could see she was tired. Disrupted sleep pattern, body chill, plus the boredom of a surveillance you know is going nowhere. It was never easy partnering Claverhouse: no great fund of stories, just constant reminding that they had to do everything ‘the right way’, meaning by the book.

‘Do us a favour,’ Claverhouse said.

‘What?’

‘There’s a chippy across from the Odeon.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a poke of chips.’

‘Siobhan?’

‘Irn-Bru.’

‘Oh, and John?’

Claverhouse added as Rebus stepped out of the car. ‘Ask them for a hot-water bottle while you’re at it.’

A car turned into the street, speeding up then screeching to a halt outside the cafe. The back door nearest the kerb opened, but nobody got out. The car accelerated away, door still hanging open, but there was something on the pavement now, something crawling, trying to push itself upright.

‘Get after them!’ Rebus shouted. Claverhouse had already turned the ignition, slammed the gear-shift into first. Clarke was on the radio as the car pulled away. As Rebus crossed the street, the .man got to his feet. He stood with one hand against the cafe window, the other held to his head. As Rebus approached, the man seemed to sense his presence, staggered away from the cafe into the road.