Looking for Candice. Or for girls who might know her.

After a couple of hours, he gave up, headed back into the centre. He’d had the idea of sleeping in his car, but when he found a hotel with an empty room, the thought of en-suite facilities suddenly seemed too good to miss.

He made sure there was no mini-bar.

A long soak with his eyes closed, mind and body still racing from the drive. He sat in a chair by his window and listened to the night: taxis and yells, delivery lorries. He couldn’t sleep. He lay on the bed, watching soundless TV, remembering Candice in the hotel room, asleep under sweet wrappers. Deacon Blue: ‘Chocolate Girl.’

He woke up to breakfast TV. Checked out of the hotel and had breakfast in a cafe, then called Miriam Kenworthy’s office, relieved to find she was an early starter.

‘Come right round,’ she said, sounding bemused. ‘You’re only a couple of minutes away.’

She was younger than her telephone voice, face softer than her attitude. It was a milkmaid’s face, rounded, the cheeks pink and plump. She studied him, swivelling slightly in her chair as he told her the story.

‘Tarawicz,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘Jake Tarawicz. Real name Joachim, probably.’

Kenworthy smiled. ‘Some of us around here call him Mr Pink Eyes. He’s had dealings - meetings anyway with this guy Telford.’

She opened the brown folder in front of her. ‘Mr Pink Eyes has a lot of European connections. You know Chechnia?’

‘In Russia?’

‘It’s Russia’s Sicily, if you know what I mean.’

‘Is that where Tarawicz comes from?’

‘It’s one theory. The other is that he’s Serbian. Might explain why he set up the convoy.’

‘What convoy?’

‘Running aid lorries to former Yugoslavia. A real humanitarian, our Mr Pink.’

‘But also a way of smuggling people out?’

Kenworthy looked at him. ‘You’ve been doing your homework.’

‘Call it an educated guess.’

‘Well, it gets him noticed. He got a papal blessing six months ago. Married to an Englishwoman - not for love. She was one of his girls.’

‘But it gives him residency here.’

She nodded. ‘He hasn’t been around that long, five or six years ...’

Like Telford, Rebus thought.

‘But he’s built himself a rep, muscled in where there used to be Asians, Turks ... Story is, he started with a nice line in stolen icons. A ton of stuff has been lifted out of the Soviet bloc. And when that operation started drying, he moved into prossies. Cheap girls, and he could keep them docile with a bit of crack. The crack comes up from London - the Yardies control that particular scene. Mr Pink spreads their goods around the north-east. He also deals heroin for the Turks and sells some girls to Triad brothels.’

She looked at Rebus, saw she had his attention. ‘No racial barriers when it comes to business.’

‘So I see.’

‘Probably also sells drugs to your friend Telford, who distributes them through his nightclubs.’