'But have you heard anything about his whereabouts?'

'Nothing.'

'He has other old pals in the city, though, yes?'

'Honest to God, I wouldn't know.'

'You're absolutely sure about that?'

'On my kids' lives, Darryl.'

The two men locked eyes, Christie eventually releasing Dunn's sleeve. But as Dunn got out of the car and closed the door, Christie wound down the window and called him back. Dunn leaned in so his face filled the open window.

'Your kids are Lottie and Euan. She's sixteen, he's eleven. You split from their mum but I know the address. You swore to me on their lives, Davie. Bear that in mind...'

The window slid back up again, the Evoque moving off, leaving Davie Dunn standing in the roadway, his legs a little more leaden than before, his heart pounding and his mouth dry. A drink, he realised, would fix only one of these, but one out of three was a start...

16.

Christine Esson showed Rebus and Clarke what she'd done.

'And all of it on company time, so I hope you've got my back covered.'

The terrier looked at its most appealing. A bit of the vet's arm and examination table could be seen, though Esson had managed to crop most of it out. She had provided a brief description of where the dog had been found, along with an email address.

'Whose address is it?' Rebus enquired.

'Created specially,' she informed him.

'And this is on Facebook?'

'And Twitter, and a few other places. My friends will make sure it gets noticed.'

'How many friends?'

'Around three and a half thousand.'

Rebus stared at her. 'Parties at your house must be quite something.'

'She means online friends,' Clarke explained for his benefit.

'I could set up an account for you if you like,' Esson teased him.

Rebus ignored this and instead asked Clarke how many days they should give it.

'Up to you,' she said.

'Social media usually works fast or not at all,' Esson advised.

'And meantime there's a vet in Edinburgh getting rich at my expense,' Rebus made show of complaining.

'I don't see you spending your pension on much else,' Clarke commented.

'I still have to count the pennies.'

'All the way into the till of the Oxford Bar.' Clarke was smiling as she tried Malcolm Fox's number, but he didn't pick up.

Cafferty hadn't been answering his phone, but he had made plenty of calls, up and down the country. He'd also had quiet meetings in a bar near Quartermile, exchanging handfuls of banknotes for information or the vow to keep eyes and ears open and report back. He went out wearing a three-quarter-length brown coat (rather than his habitual black) and a cap and scarf (where usually he'd be bare-headed whatever the weather). Having not bothered to shave, he resembled the other old men on the street, especially when, having noted its near-ubiquity, he added a polythene carrier bag to the ensemble. The bag held the local paper and two tins of Scotch broth.

This disguisefine for the streets around Greyfriarsseemed less appropriate for the bar of the G&V hotel on George IV Bridge, so as soon as he entered, he shed coat, scarf and hat and wrapped the coat around the bag. But then he had another idea. At reception, he enquired about a room. Yes, there was a vacancy. He paid by credit card and headed upstairs. The room was fine. He deposited the bundle there and went back down to the bar, checking that his guest had not yet turned up. He sat in a corner, facing the door to the street. A couple of minutes after his Bloody Mary arrived, Darryl Christie walked in. He wore a suit and open-necked shirt and seemed unconcerned by the outside world's plummeting temperature.

Christie spotted Cafferty immediately, but kept his distance as he assessed the situation. Cafferty had, as promised, come alone. The other drinkers looked to pose no threat at all. Christie gave the briefest of nods in Cafferty's direction, took out a phone and tapped in a messagepresumably to a man parked outside, a man primed to intervene if his boss sensed trouble.

Finally, he approached the table. Rather than stand up, Cafferty lifted an olive from the bowl in front of him and popped it into his mouth. Christie played with his chair before sitting down, angling it so that he had at least a partial view of what might be happening behind him.

'I did say there'd be no funny business,' Cafferty reminded him.

'Maybe we have different senses of humour.' A waiter was hovering. Christie ordered a dirty martini.

'What the hell's that?' Cafferty asked, looking bemused.

'For research purposes. My barman tells me he makes the best in the cityI like to keep testing him.'

'I forgot you had a hotel.'

'No you didn't. And by the way, the drinks would have been gratis if we'd met there.'

'I thought neutral ground was best. How have you been, Darryl? You don't look like you're eating enough.' Cafferty pushed the olive bowl towards him.

'You look old,' Christie countered.

'That's because I am. But I'm wise, too.'

'Oh aye?'

'I know, for example, what happened at the Gimlet.'

'The Gimlet's nothing to do with me these days.'

'I know someone else runs it, but that's not quite the same thing.' Cafferty laid his drink's straw aside, along with the hunk of celery, and supped from the lip of the glass. 'Besides which, when Dennis Stark pays a visit, who else is Davie Dunn going to turn to?'

'You brought me here so you can gloat?'

'Far from it, Darryl. The way the Starks are going, they're riling the whole citymy friends as well as yours.'

'I thought your friends were all headstones.'

'Not quite.'

'So what are you saying?'

'I'm saying I'm not on Joe Stark's side.'

'Is that right?'

'In fact, there's a chance I'm on their hit list, same as you seem to bemaybe even more so.' Cafferty paused as Christie's drink arrived. There wasn't much of it, which usually, in Cafferty's experience, made it lethal. Christie took a sip. 'How does it measure up?'

But Christie just shrugged and placed the glass on the table.

'You've heard about the notes?' Cafferty asked.

'Notes?'

'One went to Lord Minton, just before he was killed.'

'Front-page news.' Christie nodded.

'Another came to me.' He had Christie's full attention now. 'I'd show it to you, but the police took it for testing.'

'You went to the cops?' Christie sounded disbelieving.

'Actually, I went to Rebusnot quite the same thing. But he passed it along. Ask him if you don't believe me. And if you're not minded to believe him, try Siobhan Clarke.'

'Okay, so you got a note.'

'I've been wondering if the Starks sent it, along with the bullet that came a few days later.'

Christie sat silently for fifteen seconds, deep in thought. 'Doesn't sound their style,' he concluded.

'Maybe.'

'How do you connect to this guy Minton?'

'He was a prosecutor. Not that he ever worked a trial involving me or one of mine, not that I can find. You ever meet him?'

'No.'

Cafferty shrugged and lifted his glass again.

'I'm still not sure why you're telling me any of this,' Christie said.

'I just thought you might be concerned for my welfare.' Cafferty waited for Christie to realise he was joking. The younger man did eventually manage half a smile. 'But the truth is,' Cafferty continued, 'I can see a time coming when you might need me and I might need you.'

'To kick the Starks out of town?'

'Something like that.'

'And what do you bring to that particular fight?' Christie stared hard at him. It was a serious question.

'Whatever you might feel you need.'

'They were going to stick a knife into Davie Dunn.'

'And Chick Carpenter ended up in hospital,' Cafferty agreed.

'With you or without you, I'm having them.'

'You know why they're here?'

'Supposedly looking for a trucker and some missing merch.'

'You're not convinced?'

'I'm convinced they're asking.' Christie had finished his drink in three swallows.

'Want another?' Cafferty asked. Christie shook his head.

'I need to be elsewhere.' He peered at Cafferty. 'Who do you really think took that shot at you?'

'I'll admit you were on the list for a while.'

'And now?'

'It's been a long time since I pissed anyone offapart from you, obviously.'

'So if it's a grudge, they've been nurturing it?' Christie was rising to his feet and sending another text, presumably to the same destination as before. 'All those bodies you've buried down the years, all those families left wondering...'

'Business like ours, Darryl, it's dog-eat-dog.' Cafferty was standing now too.

'Dog-eat-dog,' Christie agreed. He looked around for their waiter.

'I've got these,' Cafferty assured him. A car was drawing up outside. Cafferty recognised the white Range Rover Evoque. 'Your carriage awaits.' He extended his hand. The two men shook. 'I'd been told you had a swagger to you these days,' Cafferty commented, releasing his grip. 'But attitude will only take you so far. When I was your age, I was getting dirty, and to be honest, I'm still that way inclined.' He paused, locking eyes with the younger man. 'Whereas you...'

'Yes?'

'All I can really see is a shiny fucking suit.' Cafferty shrugged and offered a thin smile. 'No offence, son.'

Christie's face grew thunderous. 'See you around,' he snarled, stalking towards the exit. Still smiling, Cafferty signalled for the bill. He signed for it, then walked towards the lift, taking out the keycard to his room, making sure it was nice and visible. He knew the white car was still outside, probably with the window nearest the hotel lowered so its occupants could get a better view. They would think they knew where to find Cafferty should they want him.

Let them think.