‘Best I could do,’ he said, holding out a black t-shirt. There was a garish print on the front, a zombie with demon’s eyes, wielding a scythe. ‘Belongs to one of the junior doctors, made me promise to get it back to him.’

Rebus dried himself off with another wad of towels. He asked Claverhouse how he looked.

‘There’s still some on your brow.’

Claverhouse wiped the bits Rebus had missed.

‘How is he?’ Rebus asked.

‘They reckon he’ll be okay, if he doesn’t get an infection on the brain.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Message to Tommy from Big Ger.’

‘Is he one of Tommy’s men?’

‘He’s not saying.’

‘So what’s his story?’

‘Fell down a flight of steps, cracked his head at the bottom.’

‘And the drop-off?’

‘Says he can’t remember.’

Claverhouse paused. ‘Eh, John ...?’

‘What?’

‘One of the nurses wanted me to ask you something.’

His tone told Rebus all he needed to know. ‘AIDS test?’

‘They just wondered.’

Rebus thought about it. Blood in his eyes, his ears, running down his neck. He looked himself over: no scratches or cuts. ‘Let’s wait and see,’ he said.

‘Maybe we should pull the surveillance,’ Claverhouse said, ‘leave them to get on with it.’

‘And have a fleet of ambulances standing by to pick up the bodies?’

Claverhouse snorted. ‘Is this sort of thing Big Ger’s style?’

‘Very much so,’ Rebus said, reaching for his jacket.

‘But not that nightclub stabbing?’

‘No.’

Claverhouse started laughing, but there was no humour to the sound. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Never got those chips, did we? Christ, I could use a drink.’

Rebus reached into his jacket for the quarter-bottle of Bell’s.

Claverhouse didn’t seem surprised as he broke the seal. He took a gulp, chased it down with another, and handed the bottle back. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

Rebus started screwing the top back on.

‘Not having one?’

‘I’m on the wagon.’ Rebus rubbed a thumb over the label.

‘Since when?’

‘The summer.’

‘So why carry a bottle around?’

Rebus looked at it. ‘Because that’s not what it is.’

Claverhouse looked puzzled. ‘Then what is it?’

‘A bomb.’

Rebus tucked the bottle back into his pocket. ‘A little suicide bomb.’

They walked back to A&E. Siobhan Clarke was waiting for them outside a closed door.

‘They’ve had to sedate him,’ she said. ‘He was up on his feet again, reeling all over the place.’

She pointed to marks on the floor airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.

‘Do we have a name?’

‘He’s not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’

‘Or a machete,’ Claverhouse added. ‘Something like that.’

Clarke stared at him. ‘I smell whisky.’

Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.

‘Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke’s turn to shrug.