'I got in a fight with one of Dennis Stark's bandits.'

'When?'

'Should I have a lawyer present before answering?'

Clarke turned her focus back to Rebus. 'You think it fits?'

'The two-gun theory? It fits with the bullet not being found. Couldn't be left behind or we'd have known straight away we were talking about a different gun.'

'And the note?'

'Was a fair copy. Whoever wrote it took a chance we'd not spot the differencesor else that it would take us a while to.'

'To what end?'

'To make Dennis Stark look like part of the pattern,' Fox said, realisation dawning.

'So everyone's back in the game,' Clarke added. 'Christie, Cafferty...' She caught the look on Rebus's face. 'What?'

'I've asked Darryl Christie who might have sold a pistol to Lord Minton.'

'And now you're thinking it could have been Christie himself?'

'We're in danger of getting tied in knots here,' Fox complained.

'Because that's what someone wants, Malcolm,' Rebus agreed. As if on cue, his phone started vibrating. 'And here's Darryl himself.' He got up and walked over to the windows. They were large, and if not covered in grime would have given him a clear view out on to the adjacent playing fields.

'Yes, Mr Christie?' he began, pressing the phone to his ear.

'Didn't take as long as it could have,' Darryl Christie said, sounding pleased with himself.

'You've got a name for me?'

'He says he'll talk to you only because you're not a cop.'

'Will he do it in person?'

'At the Gimlet.'

'What time?'

'Eight tonight.'

'I'll be there. Does he have a name?'

'You can call him Roddy.'

'Then that's what I'll do.' Rebus ended the call and went back to the table. 'Eight tonight at the Gimlet.'

'Are we invited?' Clarke asked.

'Might bring back painful memories for Malcolm. Besides, our merchant of death doesn't want anyone with a warrant card.'

'Are you okay about that?'

Rebus nodded. 'But I'm happy to rendezvous with the pair of you later, if you like.'

'Oxford Bar at nine?' Clarke offered.

'Delightful,' Rebus replied.

20.

It was as if the Gimlet had been vacated for their meeting, like an office with an IN USE sign placed on its door. There was a young woman behind the bar. Her bare arms were tattooed, as was her neck, and Rebus quickly lost count of her various piercings. She poured him a pint of heavy without being asked and placed it on the bar.

'First one is on Mr Dunn,' she announced. 'There won't be a second.'

'Cheers anyway,' Rebus said, hoisting the glass. There was a man seated at a table in the far corner of the large room. Sticky floor underfoot, a silent jukebox with its lights flashing, a puggy unplugged from the electrical socket. The TV on the wall above the sole occupied table was switched on and even boasted a tiny bit of volume. Sports chat, with the latest news scrolling beneath the seated presenters. Rebus wondered if its purpose was to stop the barmaid hearing anything that was said.

'Roddy?' he asked, approaching the table.

'If you like.' The man was shrunken, missing a few teeth. He could have been anywhere from mid forties to early sixties. Diet, alongside drink and smokes, had sucked the life from him. Ink stains on the back of his hands showed where ancient self-inflicted tattoos had faded. The blue veins stood out like cords. There was a packet of Silk Cut on one corner of the table, the table itself next to a solid door that Rebus knew led to a rear courtyard, an unloved concrete space used by only the most dedicated nicotine addicts.

'Thanks for meeting me,' Rebus said as he pulled out a chair. Its cheap vinyl covering had been patched with silver insulating tape. 'Nice place, eh?' He made show of inspecting the decor. 'Your local, is it?'

The man stared at him with milky, uncertain eyes.

'Get you a refill?' Rebus persisted, gesturing towards what he took to be a rum and black. He was already wishing he'd exchanged the watery pint in front of him for a nip of whisky.

'One drink and I'm out of here, same as you.'

Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. 'New owner seems to be running the place down.' He looked around again. 'Word is, a supermarket'll buy the site. Davie Dunn fronting the deal so Darryl's name doesn't come up.' He winked, as if he were sharing gossip with an old confidant.

'Just ask your questions,' his companion muttered.

No more games, then. Rebus's face tightened, his eyes hardening. Hands on knees, he leaned in towards the man whose name was not Roddy.

'You sold a gun to Lord Minton.'

'Aye.'

'You knew who he was?'

'Not until I saw him in the papers.'

'How long after you met with him was that?'

'Less than a week.'

'Did he say why he needed a gun?'

'That's not how it works. He got word to me via an intermediary, I passed back the instructions. Two grand in a Lidl bag, put in the bin by the pond in Inverleith Park. Two hours later, he retrieves the same bag.'

'Containing a nine-mil pistol wrapped in muslin?'

The man nodded slowly and without emotion.

'How many bullets?'

'Seven or eightnot quite a full clip.'

Rebus studied him for a moment. 'Have you and me ever had dealings?' Roddy shook his head.

'You don't look familiar,' Rebus admitted.

'Biggest pat on the back I give myselfkeeping under the radar as far as you lot are concerned.' His eyes met Rebus's. 'Know who you are, though. Know the sort of bastard you used to be.'

'Not so much of the past tense,' Rebus chided him.

'We done?'

'Not quite. You didn't speak to Minton? How did he find you in the first place?'

'Friend of a friend of a friendthat's how it usually works.'

'Someone he maybe put away in the past?'

'You tell me.'

Rebus wasn't sure it mattered. 'So he didn't say why he wanted a gun, but did he seem nervous?'

'I heard he was twitchy. He seemed fine when he dropped the money off, though.'

'You were watching?'

'Other side of the boating pond. Nice and casual on one of the benches. Waited till he was out of sight, then got over there pronto.'

'Did you hang around to see him come back?'

Roddy nodded slowly. 'I was curious, I suppose. He looked like a toff. Shiny shoes, expensive coat. And the way he carried himselfout of the top drawer, you could tell.'

'Far from your usual client? So what did you think when he was found dead?'

'I thought he obviously had reason to buy that gun.'

'Am I allowed to ask where you got it?'

'No.'

'What if I insist?'

'Do what the hell you like.'

Rebus allowed the silence to settle. He took another sip from the stale pint, knowing he wasn't going to touch it again after that if his life depended on it.

'Okay then,' he said eventually. 'One last thing: similar sales in the recent past.'

'It's been months.'

'How many months?'

'Seven or eight. Even then, it was a loaner.'

'So you got it back?'

Roddy nodded again. 'If it's been used, I don't want to know. But if they want to sell it back pristine, I give them a price.'

'Did Minton know that?'

A shake of the head. 'His was for keeps, right from the get-go. Are we finished here?'

'Is it worth my while trawling the records to find who you really are?'

The man tipped the dregs of his drink down his throat. 'As hobbies go, it would keep you busya bit like metal-detecting, but with nothing much to show for the effort.'

'Not even a few old coins?'

'Not even a rusty bottle-top, Mr Rebus.'

Cafferty had ventured to the Sainsbury's on Middle Meadow Walk, queuing behind too many students buying garlic bread and pasta salads. Back in his flat, he had eaten his own supper of cooked chicken slices, followed by a bag of green grapes, washed down with half a bottle of screw-top Valpolicella. He was beginning to wonder about the efficacy of hiding away like this. A decade or two back, he would have been scouring the streets, primed to face any situation that warranted his participation. Had the bullet spooked him? It had, though he was loath to admit the fact. Why was he still breathing? A fluke? A nasty recoil? A beginner's finger on the trigger? Or because the whole thing had been meant as warning only? Two inches from death, he reckoned he'd been. The zing of the projectile as it passed his head. The thud of impact and the sudden chalky cloud of plaster. And there he stood, numb and unprepared. The gunman could have taken aim and fired again, no problem. But he had run. Why? The obvious answer: it had been a warning. Or the shooter was toying with him, relishing this extended period of fear mixed with uncertainty. And what a time to pick, with Christie on edge and the Starks running amok. Perfect conditions for Cafferty to make his move and reclaim his territory.

Instead of which, he cowered here, laptop open, screen awaiting his next search.

Rebus had been calling, but Cafferty hadn't answered. Rebus would know by nowknow he was no longer at home. Would the investigators be trying to pin him for the murder of Dennis Stark? Unlikelythere had been another note, hadn't there? Then again, they might see the attack on Cafferty himself as part of the plan, the perpetrator trying to disguise himself as potential victim. No, Rebus would never be that stupid. But that didn't mean others wouldn't be taken in. Anything could be happening out there, and he had no means of knowing.

He had brought his passport with him from the house, and it struck him that he could simply jet off somewhere and leave the whole bloody circus behind. He'd been to Barbados, Grand Cayman, Dubai. He had old friends in all three. Warmer climes, where dirty money became clean money. Cafferty had plenty in various accounts. He could live out the remainder of his life very nicely. Then he remembered something Rebus had let slipa lottery winner in... where? Linlithgow? Why had he mentioned that? He scratched at his forehead, then started a new search. His tongue felt furred from too much red wine, and he knew he'd better drink some water before he went to sleep.

Lottery winner. Linlithgow. Murder.

He clicked on the first result and started reading the news story. Michael Tolland... fortune, followed by double tragedy... wife dies, and then he's attacked by an intruder...