‘Don’t get them out of order,’ she warned. ‘I didn’t have time to staple them.’

‘Fast work.’

‘I went back into the office last night. Thought I’d get it done while no one was about. I can summarise, if you like.’

‘Just tell me who the main players are.’

She came to the table and pulled a chair over beside him, found a sequence of surveillance shots. Put names to the faces.

‘Brian Summers,’ she said, ‘better known as “Pretty-Boy”. He runs most of the working girls.’

Pale, angular face, thick black lashes, a pouting mouth. Candice’s pimp.

‘He’s not very pretty.’

Clarke found another picture. ‘Kenny Houston.’

‘From Pretty-Boy to Plug-Ugly.’

‘I’m sure his mother loves him.’

Prominent teeth, jaundiced skin. - ‘What does he do?’

‘He runs the doormen. Kenny, Pretty-Boy and Tommy Telford grew up on the same street. They’re at the heart of The Family.’

She sifted through more photos. ‘Malky Jordan ... he keeps the drugs flowing. Sean Haddow ... bit of a brainbox, runs the finances. Ally Cornwell ... he’s muscle. Deek McGrain ... There’s no religious divide in The Family, Prods and Papes working together.’

‘A model society.’

‘No women though. Telford’s philosophy: relationships get in the way.’

Rebus picked up a sheaf of paper. ‘So what have we got?’

‘Everything but the evidence.’

‘And surveillance is supposed to provide that?’

She smiled over the top of her mug. ‘You don’t agree?’

‘It’s not my problem.’

‘And yet you’re interested.’

She paused. ‘Candice?’

‘I don’t like what happened to her.’

‘Well, just remember: you didn’t get this stuff from me.’

‘Thanks, Siobhan.’

He paused. ‘Everything going all right?’

‘Fine. I like Crime Squad.’

‘Bit livelier than St Leonard’s.’

‘I miss Brian.’

Meaning her one-time partner, now out of the force.

‘You ever see him?’

‘No, do you?’

Rebus shook his head, got up to show her out.

He spent about an hour sifting through the paperwork, learning more about The Family and its convoluted workings. Nothing about Newcastle. Nothing about Japan. The core of The Family - eight or nine of them - had been at school together. Three of them were still based in Paisley, taking care of the established business. The rest were now in Edinburgh, and busy prying the city away from Big Ger Cafferty.

He went through lists of nightclubs and bars in which Telford had an interest. There were incident reports attached: arrests in the vicinity. Drunken brawls, swings taken at bouncers, cars and property damaged. Something caught Rebus’s eye: mention of a hotdog van, parked outside a couple of the clubs. The owner questioned: possible witness. But he’d never seen anything worth the recall. Name: Gavin Tay.

Mr Taystee.

Recent dodgy suicide. Rebus gave Bill Pryde a bell, asked how that investigation was going.

‘Dead end street, pal,’ Pryde said, not , sounding too concerned. Pryde: too long the same rank, and not going anywhere. Beginning the long descent into retirement.

‘Did you know he ran a hot-dog stall on the side?’