A tall thin woman in a white coat, standing in the doorway: Dr Jones, he presumed. Patience took his arm as they walked towards her. Halfway across the floor, Rebus turned on his heels and bolted.

Patience caught up with him outside, asked what was wrong.

‘I don’t want to know,’ he told her.

‘But, John ...’

‘Come on, Patience. All I got was a bit of blood splashed on me.’

She didn’t look convinced. ‘You need to take the test.’

He looked back towards the building. ‘Fine.’

Started walking away. ‘But some other time, eh?’

It was one in the morning when he drove back into Arden Street. No dinner date with Patience: instead, they’d visited the hospital, sat with Rhona. He’d made a silent pact with the Big Man: bring her back and I’ll keep off the booze. He’d driven Patience home. Her last words to him: ‘Take that test. Get it over and done with.’

As he locked his car, a figure appeared from nowhere. ‘Mr Rebus, long time no see.’

Rebus recognised the face. Pointy chin, misshapen teeth, the breathing a series of small gasps. The Weasel: one of Cafferty’s men. He was dressed like a down-and-out, perfect camouflage for his role in life. He was Cafferty’s eyes and ears on the street. ‘We need to talk, Mr Rebus.’

His hands were deep in the pockets of a tweed coat meant for someone eight inches taller. He glanced towards the tenement door. ‘Not in my flat,’ Rebus stated. Some things were sacrosanct.

‘Cold out here.’

Rebus just shook his head, and the Weasel sniffed hard. ‘You think it was a hit?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ Rebus answered. ‘She was meant to die?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘A pro wouldn’t fuck up.’

‘Then it was a warning.’

‘We could do with seeing your notes.’

‘Can’t do that.’

The Weasel shrugged. ‘Thought you wanted Mr Cafferty’s help?’

‘I can’t give you the notes. What about if I summarise?’

‘It’d be a start.’

‘Rover 600, stolen from George Street that afternoon. Abandoned on a street by Piershill Cemetery. Radio and some tapes lifted - not necessarily by the same person.’

‘Scavengers.’

‘Could be.’

The Weasel was thoughtful. ‘A warning ... That would mean a professional driver.’

‘Yes,’ Rebus said. ‘And not one of ours ... Doesn’t leave too many candidates. Rover 600 ... what colour?’

‘Sherwood Green.’

‘Parked on George Street?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks for that.’

The Weasel made to turn away, then paused. ‘Nice doing business with you again, Mr Rebus.’

Rebus was about to say something, then remembered he needed the Weasel more than the Weasel needed him. He wondered how much crap he’d take from Cafferty . . . how long. he’d have to take it. All his life? Had he made a contract with the devil? For Sammy, he’d have done much, much worse ...

In his flat, he stuck on the CD of Rock ‘n’ Roll Circus, skipping to the actual Stones tracks. His answering machine was flashing. Three messages. The first: Hogan.