'This is Police Scotland we're talking about, Malcolm. There'll always be someone who likes to talk.' Clarke had her phone to her ear, trying Rebus again.

'Text him instead,' Fox advised. 'Tell him we'll be at the Ox laterand we're buying.'

'It might come to that.' She looked at him. 'How are you doing anyway?'

'I'm okay.'

'Nice bit of drama at lunchtime, wasn't it? Joe Stark and his heavies barging in.'

'I missed all the action,' Fox lied. 'Pretty typical, eh?'

'Were you serious about the Ox later?'

'Only if you really want to catch John.'

'And if I don't?'

'There are other places. Some of them even serve food.'

'Sounds good to me.'

'I'll maybe bide my time till then listening to that Beth Hastie recording,' Fox said. 'Just out of interest, you understand...'

26.

Acorn House wasn't Acorn House any more. The one-time borstal was still standing, but it had become a private health clinic, specialising in cosmetic procedures. This much Rebus gleaned from the large sign fixed to the red-brick wall. The detached Victorian house was constructed of the same material. It stood on the edge of Colinton Village, a well-heeled suburb of the city whose sign welcomed visitors to 'A Historic Conservation Village'. The main road was busy with commuters heading home, so Rebus pulled his Saab up on to the pavement, leaving just about enough room for pedestrians to get past. His phone told him Siobhan Clarke had tried calling again. He knew he couldn't speak to her, not quite yet. She was quick, and would sense something was up. He could lie to her, but she wouldn't be happy until she knew what was troubling him.

He had no intention of entering the buildingwhat would be the point? It would have changed, and he barely recalled its interior anyway from his one and only visit. He really just wanted a sense of the place. Whatever garden had once lain in front of the house had been replaced with loose chippings, to create a car park capable of accommodating half a dozen clients and as many staff members. The houses to either side sat at a good distance. He imagined the windows covered in net curtainsmaybe even the original wooden shutters, the kind that could be locked from the inside. A big, anonymous place of detention where pretty much anything could happen without society outside knowing orvery possiblycaring. Kids who had pilfered, or set fire to things, or carried out muggings and housebreakings. Kids who were quick to anger, lacking empathy and good breeding. Kids gone feral.

Problem kids.

Rebus had done a quick internet search, turning up almost nothing of value. It was as if Acorn Houseexisting prior to the World Wide Webhad been not consigned to history but practically erased from it.

He pulled out his phone and rang Meadowlea.

'My name's John Rebus. I was there earlier visiting Paul Jeffriessorry again about my friend. The thing is, we weren't completely straight with you. I work for the police.'

'Yes?'

Rebus had recognised the man's voice, the same one who had spoken to him at the door.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I didn't catch your name earlier.'

'Trevor.'

'Well, Trevor, remember you were telling me about the friend who visited Mr Jeffries? I think you said they were at school together?'

'It was Zoe who mentioned that.'

'Of course it was,' Rebus apologised, 'but the name Dave Ritter rang a bell with both of you.'

'That's right.'

'I was just wondering when Mr Ritter last visited.'

'A couple of months back.'

'So he's not due any time soon? Does he phone ahead?'

'I think so.'

'Would you have a contact number for him?'

'I don't know.'

'Or his address in Ullapool? Would Mr Jeffries have a diary or an address book? Maybe you could take a look.'

'Is Paul in some sort of trouble?'

'I won't lie to youit's possible. Any strange visitors? Any letters or notes he's received that seemed a bit odd? Threatening, even?'

'Nothing like that.' Trevor sounded disturbed by the thought.

'I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, but maybe you can let me know if anything does arrive. I'll give you my mobile number.' He reeled it off. 'And if you could get me the dates Dave Ritter visited, plus anything about him that might be hidden away in Mr Jeffries' room...'

'It's against the rules to go prying into our residents' things.'

'In which case, I might have to get a search warrant.' Rebus hardened his tone. 'Ask yourself which is going to be less stressful for your residents.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

'Thank you. And you'll call me if anything even the least bit out of the ordinary happens?'

'Promise.'

'Fine then. Thanks again.'

'But you have to give your word...'

'About what?'

'You'll never let that maniac friend of yours come here again.'

Cafferty had brought a curry back to his Quartermile apartment. He ate from the containerslamb rogan josh, pilau rice, saag aloo, washed down with the remaining half-bottle of Valpolicella. He had half a mind to visit Paul Jeffries againsee how much of the old Paul was still in there, waiting to be awoken by the right trigger.

The right trigger.

That was another thing: he'd been thinking about a gun, wondering if he needed one. Would a gun make him feel any safer? He wasn't sure. He'd always had muscle around him in the past, but who could he trust? Andrew Goodman would lend him guys. Thing was, they wouldn't be Cafferty's men, not the way Dennis had soldiers and Joe his trusted cronies. Darryl Christie had not as yet found a lieutenanthe had infantry, but no one other than himself to marshal them. When his phone buzzed, he saw that it was Christie calling. Despite himself, he smiled, wiping grease from his fingers as he swallowed a final dollop of food.

It was as if they were on the same wavelength.

'Just thinking about you,' Cafferty admitted, answering.

'In a good way, I hope.'

'Always, Darryl. What's on your mind?'

'The police have been stringing Joe Stark along, telling him his son was part of this thing with the notes. Turns out not to be true.'

'I can see why they'd want to keep Joe in the dark.' Cafferty was sucking a finger clean. 'Once he starts to take it personally...'

'Well that's the stage we're entering. So if I were you, I wouldn't move too far from that hotel room of yours.'

'There is an alternative, you know.'

'You and me? We team up and take out the threat?'

'It's how wars are often fought.'

'How about I team up with Joe instead? With Dennis gone, he needs someone to replace him, no?'

'I doubt Dennis's men would warm to that scenario. You'd have to go through every single one of them, and that's not really your style.'

'Then we're left with The Good, the Bad and the Ugly you, me and Joe, standing in a cemetery wondering who to aim at first.'

Cafferty smiled. 'Wasn't there buried treasure in that scene too?'

'There was.'

'And two out of three alive at the end?'

'You're thinking those are pretty good odds?'

'I prefer not to gamble these days, son. As you get older, you realise just how much you hate losing.'

'Then walk away. Keep everything you've got.'

'Sounds good.'

'It's the only sensible option, I promise you.'

Christie ended the call. Cafferty placed the phone on the worktop and picked up the wine, draining it and stifling a sour belch.

Walk away. Those had been the words, but Cafferty knew that wasn't how Christie visualised thingsat the end of his version of the film, Cafferty had a noose around his neck. Either that, or he was lying cold and dead on the ground.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose.

'And then there's Acorn House,' he muttered to himself, bringing back the memory of the one time he wished he had just walked away...

Joe Stark stared from his hotel window at a passing parade of night-time buses. He could hear trains as they squealed to a halt every few minutes at one of the platforms in the station opposite. There were tannoyed announcements too, and occasional drunken shouts from pedestrians. His home back in Glasgow was a detached 1960s property in a quiet neighbourhood, the same house Dennis had grown up in. Joe had been thinking about the lad with mixed emotions. It wasn't that he wouldn't miss him. On the other hand, Dennis had been readying to topple him, Joe knew that for a fact. He'd been greedy, and hungry for itWalter and Len had said as much on more than one occasion, having picked up whispers from Glasgow's pubs and clubs. It had only been a matter of timeweeks rather than months. Dennis's lads were probably gathered in one of the other bedrooms, plotting. Or maybe deciding whether to plot. Joe knew he couldn't look weak. He had to seem to be filled with bile and ready to wreak revenge.

But who was in the frame? Did it matter? He could strike down Cafferty or Christie or a complete bloody stranger for that matter. What counted was to take out somebody.

He was a good kid, Walter Grieve had said, because it was the sort of sentiment you were duty-bound to express. But one look at Walter had told Joe the man didn't really believe itand with good reason. Because in toppling his father, Dennis and his gang would have been obliged to take Walter and Len out of the game too.

Truth was, Joe wished he could feel something other than an echoing emptiness. He'd tried to force a few private tears, but none had come. If his wife were still alive, it would be different. It would all be different. Slowly, as he continued to stare from the window, Joe Stark began replacing images of his son with those of his dear-departed Cath.

And finally his stubborn eyes began to water.

The white car was parked directly outside Rebus's flat. Having been unable to find a space on Arden Street, Rebus had left his own Saab on the next street over. As he approached the front door of the tenement, the window slid down on the driver's side of the Evoque.

'Any chance of a word?' Darryl Christie said.

'I'm busy.'

'It'll take five minutes. I can come up, if you like.'

'No way.'

'Then get in.'

The window slid closed. Christie was starting the engine as Rebus got in. He reversed out of the space and headed downhill towards the Meadows.

'Taking me somewhere nice?' Rebus enquired.

'Driving helps me think. Are you keeping busy?'

'Not bad.'

'You heard about the Gimlet?'

'A sad loss to few.'

'Maybe so, but it's where I learned the ropes. You could call that a sentimental attachment.'

'Any idea who did it?'

Christie gave him a sharp glance. 'Isn't that a question for the police? Not that any of your lot seem interested. Wonder why that is.'

'Probably reckon it's an insurance job.'