Rebus’s voice had risen.

‘Boys, boys,’ Clarke said.

The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched his pockets for change. He smiled when he looked at them.

‘Good evening.’

Early-thirties, black hair slicked back from his forehead. One kisscurl looped down between his eyebrows.

‘Anyone got change of a pound?’

They looked in their pockets, couldn’t find enough coins.

‘Never mind.’

Though the machine was flashing EXACT MONEY ONLY he stuck in the pound coin and selected tea, black, no sugar. He stooped down to retrieve the cup, but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.

‘You’re police officers,’ he said. His voice was a drawl, slightly nasal: Scottish upper-class. He smiled. ‘I don’t think I know any of you professionally, but one can always tell.’

‘And you’re a lawyer,’ Rebus guessed. The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Here to represent the interests of a certain Mr Thomas Telford.’

‘I’m Daniel Simpson’s legal advisor.’

‘Which adds up to the same thing.’

‘I believe Daniel’s just been admitted.’

The man blew on his tea, sipped it.

‘Who told you he was here?’

‘Again, I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Detective ...?’

‘DI Rebus.’

The man transferred his cup to his left hand so he could hold out his right. ‘Charles Groal.’

He glanced at Rebus’s tshirt. ‘Is that what you call “plain clothes”, Inspector?’

Claverhouse and Clarke introduced themselves in turn. Groal made great show of handing out business cards.

‘I take it,’ he said, ‘you’re loitering here in the hope of interviewing my client?’

‘That’s right,’ Claverhouse said.

‘Might I ask why, D S Claverhouse? Or should I address that question to your superior?’

‘He’s not my -’ Claverhouse caught Rebus’s look.

Groal raised an eyebrow. ‘Not your superior? And yet he manifestly is, being an Inspector to your Sergeant.’

He looked towards the ceiling, tapped a finger against his cup. ‘You’re not strictly colleagues,’ he said at last, bringing his gaze back down to focus on Claverhouse.

‘DS Claverhouse and myself are attached to the Scottish Crime Squad,’ Clarke said.

‘And Inspector Rebus isn’t,’ Groal observed. ‘Fascinating.’

‘I’m at St Leonard’s.’

‘Then this is quite rightly part of your division. But as for the Crime Squad ...’

‘We just want to know what happened,’ Rebus went on.

‘A fall of some kind, wasn’t it? How is he, by the way?’

‘Nice of you to show concern,’ Claverhouse muttered.

‘He’s unconscious,’ Clarke said.

‘And likely to be in an operating theatre fairly soon. Or will they want to X-ray him first? I’m not very up on the procedures.’

‘You could always ask a nurse,’ Claverhouse said.

‘DS Claverhouse, I detect a certain hostility.’

‘Just his normal tone,’ Rebus said. ‘Look, you’re here to make sure Danny Simpson keeps his trap shut. We’re here to listen to whatever bunch of shite the two of you eventually concoct for our delectation. I think that’s a pretty fair summary, don’t you?’