‘Sammy?’ he said. ‘Any chance you could do me a favour ... ?’

Sammy lived in a ‘colonies’ flat in Shandon. Parking was almost impossible on the narrow street outside. Rebus got as close as he could.

Sammy was waiting for them in the narrow hallway, and led them into the cramped living-room. There was a guitar on a wicker chair and Candice lifted it, setting herself on the chair and strumming a chord.

‘Sammy,’ Rebus said, ‘this is Candice.’

‘Hello there,’ Sammy said. ‘Happy Halloween.’

Candice was putting chords together now. ‘Hey, that’s Oasis.’

Candice looked up, smiled. ‘Oasis,’ she echoed.

‘I’ve got the CD somewhere ...’

Sammy examined a tower of CDs next to the hi-fi. ‘Here it is. Shall I put it on?’

‘Yes, yes.’

Sammy switched the hi-fi on, told Candice she was going to make some coffee, and beckoned for Rebus to follow her into the kitchen.

‘So who is she?’

The kitchen was tiny. Rebus stayed in the doorway.

‘She’s a prostitute. Against her will. I don’t want her pimp getting her.’

‘Where’s she from again?’

‘Sarajevo.’

‘And she doesn’t have much English?’

‘How’s your Serbo-Croat?’

‘Rusty.’

Rebus looked around. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

‘Out working.’

‘On the book?’

Rebus didn’t like Ned Farlowe. Partly it was that name: ‘Neds’ were what the Sunday Post called hooligans. They robbed old ladies of their pension books and walking-frames. Those were the Neds of this world. And Farlowe meant Chris Farlowe: ‘Out of Time’, a number one that should have belonged to the Stones. Farlowe was researching a history of organised crime in Scotland.

‘Sod’s law,’ Sammy said. ‘He needs money to buy the time to write the thing.’

‘So what’s he doing?’

‘Just some freelance stuff. How long am I babysitting?’

‘A couple of days at most. Just till I find somewhere else.’

‘What will he do if he finds her?’

‘I’m not that keen to find out.’

Sammy finished rinsing the mugs. ‘She looks like me, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes, she does.’

‘I’ve got some time off coming. Maybe I’ll phone in, see if I can stay here with her. What’s her real name?’

‘She hasn’t told me.’

‘Has she any clothes?’

‘At a hotel. I’ll get a patrol car to bring them.’

‘She’s really in danger?’

‘She might be.’

Sammy looked at him. ‘But I’m not?’

‘No,’ her father said. ‘Because it’ll be our secret.’

‘And what do I tell Ned?’

‘Keep it short, just say you’re doing your dad a favour.’

‘You think a journalist’s going to be content with that?’

‘If he loves you.’

The kettle boiled, clicked off. Sammy poured water into three mugs. Through in the living-room, Candice’s interest had shifted to a pile of American comic books.

Rebus drank his coffee, then left them to their music and their comics. Instead of going home, he made for Young Street and the Ox, ordering a mug of instant. Fifty pee. Pretty good deal, when you thought about it. Fifty pence for ... what, half a pint? A pound a pint? Cheap at twice the price. Well, one-point-seven times the price, which would take it to the price of a beer ... give or take.