'I'm saying this was more like someone who just needed to know they could handle the rudiments.'

'Point and squeeze.'

'Exactly. What would the recoil be like? How far could they be from their intended target and still hit it?'

'Are you saying our guy's a beginner or a pro?'

'One or the other, certainly.'

'GreatI'll stick that in the computer and see what we get.'

'No need to be sarky.' Rebus turned his head towards Blunt. 'That's what she's being, isn't it? My ears aren't deceiving me?'

Blunt decided that a shrug was the only appropriate response. But Clarke had a question of her own for him.

'The drawer from Lord Minton's desk?'

'What drawer?' Rebus interrupted.

'You'd know if your need for a cigarette last night hadn't been so urgent.'

'Ah yes,' Blunt was saying. 'Well, again it's only preliminary...'

'I'll settle for that.'

'The stain is an oil of some kind, probably a lubricant. Hard to tell its age or exact make-up without specialised equipment, and again-'

'It would cost money?' Clarke nodded. 'But?'

'But we also found a few fibres from some loose-woven material, probably predominantly grey in colour. Muslin, maybe.'

'Something nine inches by six, wrapped in muslin...' Clarke's eyes were on Rebus. He was folding his arms slowly.

'Pistol,' he said.

'Makes sense. Minton hears a noise downstairs. Unlocks the drawer and takes out the gun. But before he can use it, he's bludgeoned.'

'Attacker pockets the gun, but hasn't used one before.'

'Or one like it, at any rate. Maybe he's a bit rusty.'

'So he reckons he'd better test it before he goes after his next victim. Probably knew Minton was a cinch compared to Caffertybetter to go at Cafferty from a safe distance. Gun must have seemed like a godsend.'

'But somehow he missed.'

'He missed,' Rebus agreed.

'So he will try again?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Could be Cafferty's dropped down his list.'

'No one else has come forward to say they've had the warning.'

'Maybe it's a really short list,' Rebus offered. Then, turning to Blunt: 'What do you think, Colin?'

'I try to deal with physical data rather than speculation.'

'Tell me,' Clarke asked him, 'did the evidence from the Michael Tolland murder come here?'

The scientist thought for a moment, then nodded. 'The back door, yes.'

'And?'

'And it was prised open by some sort of tool. A crowbar or the corner of a spade. No trace evidence, unfortunately.'

'Pity,' Clarke said, the corners of her mouth turning down.

Rebus laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. 'That's precisely why you need people like us, Colinfor when your physical data just isn't there. Now tell mebecause you seem like the caring, sensible sorthave you ever considered owning a lovely wee dog?'

15.

Not wanting to risk being seen at a computer terminal by Compston and the others, Fox had ended up at the old Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue. He showed his warrant card at reception and asked for the whereabouts of the Minton inquiry. Same floor as the old Chief Constable's lair, and not far from where Fox and his Complaints team had worked, back when the Big House had been his hunting ground and errant cops his prey. There were a few nods of recognition as he moved through the building. James Page, crossing the corridor from one room to another, spotted him.

'I'm looking for Siobhan,' Fox said, pre-empting any question Page might have.

'She's out at Howden Hall, I think.'

'Okay if I leave her a note?'

Page nodded distractedly and moved off. The room he'd just been in was now home to the Minton team, including Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie. Fox nodded a greeting.

'Just trying to catch Siobhan,' he explained. 'DCI Page told me to wait. Is this her desk?'

Fox sat down in the empty chair. He waited a full half-minute, then mumbled something about doing a check and got busy at the computer. Siobhan had confided to him one night that despite hating the nickname, she used 'Shiv' as her password. Once in, Fox started checking names. He had fourSimpson, Andrews, Dyson, and Raeand he wanted to know what Police Scotland had on them.

After ten minutes, Esson asked him if he wanted tea or coffee, but he shook his head.

'Should I phone her and see how long she'll be?'

Fox shook his head again. 'Just sending her an email.'

'Using telepathy?' When Fox looked puzzled, Esson explained. 'Not very many keystrokes, DI Fox.'

For want of any lie she would be likely to accept, he just smiled and got back to work.

Rob Simpson had been part of the Stark 'family' for almost a decade, so scratch him. Callum Andrews had a criminal record stretching back to juvenile days, so Fox reckoned he couldn't be the mole. That left Jackie Dyson and Tommy Rae. Both men had seen the inside of a courtroom in the past three years, but for minor misdemeanours. As far as he could tell, both had grown up in Glasgow, leaving school at sixteen and drifting into lawlessness from there. Looked as though neither had joined the gang until a year or so ago. Fox remembered them from the beating outside the storage facility. Dyson scrawny, shaven-headed, whey-faced. Rae maybe a year or two older, with more heft to him and a scar down one cheek. A cop with scars? Well, it happened, but not often, and rarely the visible kind. A scar on your cheek came from a knife, razor or bottle. It was as if the street had given you a tattoo. No, Fox's money was on Jackie Dyson.

Alec Bell had said the mole had been working undercover for more than three years. Some of that would have been spent getting known, establishing a reputation, moving closer to the seat of power. Two years of graft before acceptance into the fold. Having worked surveillance himself, he was intrigued by the type of officer who could immerse himself so thoroughly. Friends and family would have to be discarded for the duration, the new identity learned by rote, old haunts shunned for fear of recognition. Fox thought back to the beating, Dyson hauling Chick Carpenter back to his feet for a headbutt, then pissing on the man's car. Meantime Tommy Rae had been content to hold Carpenter's companion at bayso did that tip the scales back towards him? Rae content to remain on the periphery, unwilling to cause harm... Rae with his facial disfigurement... Call it seventythirtyseventy per cent Jackie Dyson against thirty for Rae. Fox closed down the various windows and made sure to delete his search history. His phone was buzzing, so he answered.

'Fox?' a female voice asked.

'Hello, Hastie. Do I call you Hastie or Beth?'

'If you're not already there, just to say you'll find the office empty.' All businesslike. 'Don't know when we'll be back, okay?'

'Surveillance again? A return trip to the Gimlet?'

'Bright boy. Later.' The phone went dead, and Fox got to his feet, nearly bumping into a man in a suit who was toting a box file. The man was ruddy-faced, his breathing ragged. Fox muttered an apology.

'No problem,' the man said, making his exit.

'You're honoured,' Christine Esson drawled. 'That's a rare sighting of the Charlie Sykes in its native environment.'

'He seemed busy.'

'He does a good impression. Carries that box around all day without ever feeling the need to open it.' She paused, tapping a pen against her chin. 'Do you do any impressions yourself, DI Fox?'

'Such as?'

'Man sending email.'

Fox gave a sheepish smile. 'Busted,' he said, heading for the door.

He drove to the Gimlet, unsure why. He wasn't going to get in the way, wasn't going to get close enough to be spotted by Compston's team. But maybe if there was violence, he would phone it in anonymously. Rebus had been right to castigate him, but would Rebus himself have acted differently? Fox doubted it.

The street the Gimlet sat on, an unlovely passageway between Slateford Road and Calder Road, was lined with parked cars, putting paid to his idea of finding a kerbside spot. He had a choice: reverse, or keep going? Keeping going meant passing the surveillance vehicle and maybe being spotted. But reversing would look suspicious. Biting down hard on his bottom lip, he pressed the accelerator.

He was almost level with the bar when its door burst open, men spilling out. Dennis was first, then his gang. There was blood on Rob Simpson's white shirt, and he was holding a hand over his nose. And here came the reasona hulk of a man in a stained T-shirt two sizes too small, his biceps bulging, arms tattooed. He was shouting the odds and swinging a baseball bat. But it was one against five, and the Stark gang were beginning to circle their prey. Fox noted that up close, Tommy Rae's scar was almost as red and angry as the tattooed man's face. Dyson's hand was going into his pocket, presumably for a knife. Fox gritted his teeth and pulled on the handbrake. Undoing his seat belt, he sounded his horn, got out and strode towards the melee.

'Hey!' he yelled. 'What's going on here?'

'Stay out of this, pal!' Dyson spat, the blade concealed in his fist.

'Not a fair fight,' Fox persisted. 'I'm calling the-'

Dyson pounced, his fist proving the perfect fit for Fox's unprepared jaw. Another swipe connected with the side of his face, and he could feel his knees buckling, the world spinning. As his vision started to blur, his last sight was of Alec Bell, hands glued to the surveillance car's steering wheel, mouth making the shapes of words that would probably not be welcome in church.

There was an angel peering down at him. Shrouded in white, cheeks rose-tinged.

'You're awake,' the angel said, turning into a nurse.

'Where am I?' Fox looked around. He was lying on a trolley in a white booth with a curtain draped across. He was still in his clothes. His face hurt and he had a blinding headache, which the strip lighting was doing its best to exacerbate.

'Royal InfirmaryA and E, to be precise. How are you feeling?'

Fox tried to sit up. It only took him ten or so seconds. His vision was still a bit blurry and his face felt swollen.

'How did I get here?'

'Your friend drove you.'

'Did he?'

'He did.'

Fox remembered Alec Bell's face. Oh, but they'd be furious with him for this. 'Just dumped me here?'

'Not a bit of it. He's in the waiting area. Doctor will want to take a look at you.'

'Why?'

'To check for concussion.'

'I'm fine.' He thought for a moment. 'Did you have a guy in here yesterday from CC Self Storage? Name of Chick Carpenter?'

'Rings a bell. He said some packing cases fell on him. What about you?'

'Believe it or not, the selfsame thing.'

'Get away. And these packing cases wore a ring of some kind?' She nodded towards his face. 'It's left an indentation. Yesterday, it was a size nine boot.'

Fox pressed a finger to the area indicated and wished he hadn't. 'Fancy that.' He winced, struggling to get to his feet, then patted his pockets to ensure nothing had been removed. 'Am I right in thinking you can't stop me leaving?'

'Only an idiot would walk out of here in your state.'

'That may well be true.' Fox smiled and gave a little bow.

'Men your age shouldn't be fighting.'

'I was trying to referee,' he told her.

'Will you take one bit of advice at least?' He paused, waiting. 'A bag of frozen peas will bring down the swelling.'

Nodding, he shuffled out of the cubicle and into the waiting area.

He had expected to see Alec Bell or another of the team, but it was the man from the bar, the one with the bat.

'What did they say?' the man asked.

'That fools rush in.'