James Page listened as Rebus and Clarke told him their theory.

'So our killer doesn't have a gun,' Page said, 'until he takes one from Lord Minton's house? He then tests it, shoots at Cafferty and misses, and a few days later takes down Dennis Stark at point-blank range?'

'Do we know it was point blank?' Rebus asked.

'Powder burns on the deceased's jacket,' Page confirmed.

'And no bullet yet?' Clarke checked.

'No.'

'So what happened to it?'

'We don't know.' Page folded his arms. He was seated behind his desk, his phone lying in front of him. Every five or ten seconds there was another incoming text for him to ignore.

'Looks like the killer maybe took it away with him,' Rebus commented.

'Why, though?'

Rebus shrugged. 'Pity, mindbe good to verify all three bullets came from the same weapon.'

'Three?'

'The tree in the Hermitage, plus Cafferty and Stark.'

Page stared at him. 'You think there's more than one maniac out there?'

'Copycats have been known to happen.'

Page dismissed this with a scowl. 'This team who've been keeping the Starks under observation...'

'Red faces all round.'

Page's nostrils flared. 'And just how did Lord Minton get a gun in the first place?'

'Not legally,' Clarke said. 'No firearms certificate ever issued to him.'

'But with him being a lawyer and all,' Rebus added, 'he probably got to know one or two people down the years who could find him what he wanted. Thing is: why did he want it?'

'He'd been sent a threatening note,' Page reminded him.

'He'd probably had threats in the past, though. For some reason, this latest one got to him.'

'Because it had merit?' Page guessed. 'You think the gun was a recent purchase?'

'I phoned his bank and managed to get a few details,' Clarke said. 'A couple of weeks ago he took out five hundred pounds a day on four consecutive days. Normally he made do with withdrawals of a hundred or two hundred twice a week. In his wallet at time of death he had exactly thirty-five pounds.'

Page's eyes were on Rebus. 'Would two grand buy him a handgun?'

'Probably.'

'Why in batches of five hundred?'

'Maximum he could take from a cash machine each day,' Clarke explained.

'We're sure he had a gun in his desk drawer?'

'It's feasible.'

'So who sold it to him? Is there anyone in the city we know of?'

'We can make enquiries,' Rebus stated.

'Let's do that then.'

'Probably best not to say anything to the grieving father,' Rebus cautioned.

Page nodded his understanding and picked up his phone. 'I wonder how many of these texts are from the boss,' he said.

'We're not going public with the note to Stark, are we, sir?' Clarke asked.

'Not just yet.'

'And forensics are checking it?'

'For what it's worth.' But Page's attention was now firmly on the contents of his phone's screen. Rebus gestured to Clarke that it was time to go. Outside in the main office, she asked him about the pistol.

'You still have snitches working for you?'

'No,' he stated. 'But Darryl Christie might put the word out if we ask nicely.'

'And why would he do that?'

'Because right now he needs all the friends he can get.'

Clarke considered this, eventually nodding her agreement. 'You okay to talk to him?'

'In my consultative capacity, DI Clarke?'

'In your consultative capacity, Mr Rebus.'

Fox had listened to the interviews with Dennis Stark's associates.

Actually, that wasn't strictly truehe had skimmed three of them, but listened to the fourth in full. Jackie Dyson was good, very good, not once letting the mask slip. He was belligerent, obstructive, and grudging in his answers.

'You're here as a friend of the deceased, Mr Dyson,' he was reminded at one point. 'We're just looking for anything that can help us track down his killer.'

'Then get out and look,' Dyson had snarled in response. 'Because as soon as you let me out of here, that's what I'm doing.'

Fox wondered: would Dyson want to be brought in, mission scuppered? At the very least, he would be looking to talk to Compston, just to get some pointers.

Or was he beyond all that? Was he self-sufficient and comfortable in his new skin?

Was there even an opportunity for advancement, now that Dennis was gone?

Fox looked at his phonenothing from Siobhan or Rebus. For want of anything better to do, he decided to head back to St Leonard's. But once in his car, he opted for a quick detour first. He parked kerbside on Constitution Street and walked to the alleyway's opening. It was protected by police tape. A couple of elderly shoppers had stopped for a gawp, while the uniform on duty did his best to ignore them. He recognised Fox and lifted the tape. But having ducked beneath it, Fox paused.

'Anyone else been along?' he asked.

'Victim's father.'

'Plus entourage?'

The officer nodded. 'I only let the father through, though.'

'Bet that made you popular.' Fox smiled and headed deeper into the alley. Forensics had picked it clean, not even a bloodstain visible. Dennis liked to go for a night-time walk, always unaccompaniedthat much had been gleaned from the interviews. Fair enough, but the guest house sat on the edge of Leith Links, a much more congenial spot than this. Had he arranged some sort of meeting? There was nothing on his phone, no texts or late-night calls. Yet something or someone had brought him here. Ducking back below the tape, Fox thanked the uniform and retraced the route Dennis had most likely taken. It was a short walk past Leith police station, and yes, there were the Links, with a kids' park visible beyond the fenced-off allotments. A large wooden board was hanging from a post in the small front garden of the guest house: LABURNUMNO VACANCIES.

The door to the guest house was yanked open from within, and Fox just had time to crouch behind a parked VW Polo as Dennis's gang emerged, Joe Stark bringing up the rear. The others carried overnight bags and backpacks. They stuffed everything into the boot of a Chrysler Voyager and got in, Jackie Dyson driving. The vehicle sped off, and five seconds later was joined by another car, driven by the unmistakable form of Alec Bell. Was the gang bound for Glasgow? They were certainly in a hurry. Looking towards the guest house again, Fox saw that the NO VACANCIES sign had been tossed to the ground.

And the front door was ajar.

He crossed the street and opened the gate, walking up the path and calling out a greeting as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. There was a man lying on the floor of the chintzy living room. Ornaments lay smashed in the fireplace. The man's hands had been tied behind his back. He'd been seated on a dining chair, which had toppled on to its side. He was conscious, bleeding from nose and mouth. Fox knelt beside him and undid the knots.

'I'm a police officer,' he assured the trembling figure. The man was in his mid fifties, overweight and breathing hard. 'You're in shock, but are you otherwise hurt? Anything broken, or are you okay to sit up?'

'I'll be all right.'

'Should I call an ambulance?'

'I'm fine, really.' The man was sitting on the floor, rubbing his wrists.

'The men who did this, they've driven off, so don't worry.'

'What men?'

Fox stared at him. 'You might be concussed.'

'No men, no men.' The man was shaking his head.

'Maybe some boxes fell on you, eh? And tied your hands behind you while they were at it?' Fox patted the man's arm reassuringly. 'Don't fret about it. But did you tell them anything?'

'Nothing to tell.'

'Sure you're going to be all right?'

'Moira will have a fit, you know.'

'Will she?'

The man was looking at the smashed ornaments. 'Her pride and joy those were...'

'Let me help you to your feet. I want to check you're able to walk.'

The man accepted Fox's assistance. He wobbled a little, but regained most of his equilibrium.

'You know Dennis Stark has been killed?' Fox asked. 'I'm guessing they want to know who knew he was staying here.'

The man nodded slowly, then his eyes widened. 'They'll come back, won't they? They'll want to hear it from Moira.'

Fox considered this. 'Might be wise to pack a few things for you and Moira. Go elsewhere for a day or two.'

'Yes,' the man agreed, nodding again.

'And maybe wash the blood off, so she doesn't get a bigger shock than is already coming to her.'

'Thank you,' the man said. He insisted on seeing Fox to the door. Fox stopped on the path, picked up the sign and reinstated it.

He walked back to Constitution Street, unsure what to do next. Carnage seemed to follow the Starks. It made sense that they should be sent packing. But how? He waved a goodbye towards the officer on cordon duty and unlocked his car. There was just under a quarter of a tank of petrol, and he had a sudden craving for something sweet, so he filled up on the nearest forecourt. Entering the shop, he noted that the place closed at ten in the evening. He selected a Bounty and a Mars bar and took out his debit card.

'Where's the nearest all-night garage?' he asked the assistant.

'Used to be one not far from here, but it went belly uphard to compete with the supermarkets.'

Fox nodded sympathetically. 'So to answer my question...?'

'Canonmills, maybe.'

'Canonmills? That's a fair distance.'

The assistant just shrugged. Fox retrieved his card from the machine and got into his car. He stayed at the pump, engine off, as he chewed on the Mars bar. Then he got back out of the car and returned to the cash desk.

'Something wrong?' the assistant asked, looking distinctly wary.

'This is the only petrol station on Leith Walk, right?'

'That's right.'

'Any others nearby?'

'One, maybe two.'

'But in the middle of the night?'

'I told you, Canonmills.'