She nodded. 'Is this you making your excuses and your getaway? You don't want to help me sift through the rest, just in case?'

'I wish I had time, Molly. But if Acorn House comes up...' He handed her a business card. 'In fact, if you see anything you think I might be interested in...'

'I'll phone you,' she agreed.

As Rebus made his exit, he half turned to give her a wave, but she wasn't paying attention. She just stood there, looking suddenly tiny and exhausted, dwarfed by her father's life and times, the stories he'd written and the ones he hadn't lived to tell.

29.

Rebus had called Cafferty from his flat, giving him a progress report and asking for help. Just over an hour later, his intercom buzzed. He unlocked the door and waited for the delivery. It was carried in a loose cardboard box by a young man for whom acne was proving a challenge. His head was shaved and he wore a hooded jacket under a black padded gilet.

'All right?' he said by way of greeting. Rebus showed him where to put the box, having cleared space on the table in the living room. The computer was not a make Rebus recognised. It comprised a single bulky unit with a fourteen-inch screen.

'Gold standard at one time,' the youth assured him, plugging it in. 'MS Works and Word.'

'As long as it'll play this.' Rebus handed over the floppy. The lad slotted it home and waited while the computer churned and whirred. Then he clicked the mouse.

'It's an old Word file by the look of it,' he mused. 'And not too much on it.'

'Could anything be hidden?'

'Hidden?'

'It happens,' Rebus said. 'Encryption, that sort of thing.'

'You're talking to the wrong guy.'

'Doesn't matter,' Rebus said, knowing he could hand the disk over to the forensic lab if necessary, let them explore it. For now, he had a single file of sixty-five kilobytes, which had been given the catchy title 'Doc 1'. He showed the youth out, adding a ten-pound note to whatever Cafferty had already paid. He took his time in the kitchen, opening a bottle of IPA and pouring it into a pint glass. Then he wandered through to where the computer sat waiting. Placing his drink on the table near the mouse, he lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs, then drew his chair in closer and opened the document.

The bastards took the lot! Every note, every interview, every bit of wild speculation. Plus the few photos I had. Every scrap was gone when I got home. No sign of forced entry, just the two boxes lying open, so I'd get the message loud and clear. 'We can do this, and a lot more besides.' That's what they're telling me. So here I am, past midnight and woozy with booze, but determined to get as much down as I can remember while wondering who stole my story. There's a villain called Cafferty, apparently he's close to Howard Champ, and Champ is one of the men who uses Acorn Houseand no doubt other places like itas a personal sexual playground. But Champ has other friends too. Our esteemed David Minton for one. They control the newspapersor rather, they know the men who own the media, and that's even better. Or maybe they got the cops to break in. Special Branch? MI5? They'll want to protect their own. They don't want a scandalawfully bad for business, don't you know. The cops, thoughno way THEY want their precious Chief Constable getting found out. No, sir, that can't be allowed to happen. Did he know I was getting close? Let me tell you about how sloppy he was getting, every single fucking one of them thinking they lived in a parallel universe where they were never going to be found out.

Right, here goes...

Rebus read for a further hour. There were only fifteen pages, but fifteen was enough. Booze or no booze, Spiers's memory had been unimpaired. He remembered dates, names, locations. He had spoken off the record to hotel workers, taxi drivers, and even a couple of kids from Acorn House. No names, thoughhe hadn't put their names in print, maybe to protect them? Yes, probably.

There was one name, however: Bryan Holroyd. A kid who had done a bunk, so the other kids said, fed up of being hounded by Howard Champ.

Bryan Holroyd. Rebus felt the temperature in the room drop. The dead kid? The 'accident'?

When his intercom buzzed, he ignored it, but whoever was outside wasn't about to give up. He crossed to the window and looked down. Siobhan Clarke had taken a few steps back and was peering up at him. Rebus returned to the intercom and pressed the button to let her in. He turned the PC's screen off before unlocking the door, listening to her feet as she climbed the stone staircase.

'Hiya, you,' he said, ushering her inside. 'Any news of Malcolm's dad?'

'He told you?' She watched him nod. They were standing in the living room. She noted the computer and knew it was a new addition to the roomthe box it had come in was sitting on the floor.

'Thought it was time to upgrade,' Rebus joked.

'What's going on?' she asked quietly.

'One of my private clients.'

'John...'

'What?'

She gave a sigh. 'Never mind. I'm here to deliver a bollockingdo you want to stand or would you rather sit down?'

He grabbed what little was left of his beer and made for his armchair. Clarke took the sofa.

'Ready when you are,' he told her.

'Actually, before that, let me ask you somethingwhat are the odds that Darryl Christie has someone from our side telling him stories?'

'Telling or selling?'

'Either.'

Rebus gave a shrug. 'It's a racing certainty.'

'And if I was a punter looking for a hot tip?'

'What's happened?'

'Joe Stark arrived fuming at Fettes because he'd found out the note left with Dennis was a copycat. This after he'd had a powwow with Darryl Christie.'

Rebus nodded his understanding. 'Well,' he said, 'you could try asking Charlie Sykes how much that hand-tailored suit of his cost.'

'That's what I thought.'

'So am I in your good books now? Bollocking deferred?'

'Afraid not. I had Laura Smith on the phone. She wasn't happy.'

'She's a crime reporterthat probably comes with the territory.'

'Any idea why she'd be so annoyed with me this time, though?'

'Do tell.'

'It's because she'd had Albert Stout on the phone, teasing her about some huge story that's brewing and how he knows about it and she doesn't. He mentioned your name before ringing off. So Laura wanted to know why I hadn't said anything. Seems to her it's all one-way traffic between us and we're supposed to be friends.'

'It's a mistake to make friends with reportersI've always told you that.'

'This isn't funny, John. Is it to do with that thing?' She nodded towards the computer.

'Yes,' Rebus admitted.

'And Lord Minton and Michael Tolland?'

'And Cafferty too.'

'Then it's more my business than yours.'

'You can't take it to Page, not yet.'

'Why not?'

'You just can't. Fob Laura Smith off with something.'

'She'll smell it.'

'Let her smell it then.' Rebus leapt from his armchair and paced the room.

'It's eating away at you, Johnyou know it and I know it. Time you opened up, a trouble shared and all that.'

'Maybe. But I'm not joking about keeping it to yourselfat least for now.'

'Why?'

'Because it's basically plutonium on a floppy disk,' Rebus said.

And then he told her.

Joe Stark was back home, seated on the bed in what had been, for the first nineteen years of his life, Dennis's room. Joe remembered the announcement that he was moving into a flat with some pals. A year later, he'd bought a place of his own. Joe had never asked how much it had cost or how Dennis could afford it. He'd always seen that the boy was all right for money without going overboard. Later on, of course, with Dennis part of the company, the spoils had been shared. They had become commercial partners rather than father and son. Joe had taken counsel earlier from Walter Grieve and Len Parker, who had argued that he needed to stamp his authority on the sides of the business that Dennis had overseen. It had to be soon, too, before others stepped in to fill the vacuum.

When Joe's phone rang, he saw it was Jackie Dyson and decided to answer.

'Jackie,' he said. 'Is this you bringing me an update?'

'A straight answer's what I need, Joe.'

'Depends on the question.'

'Did you leave a couple of us here so there's less chance of us making a move against you?'

'You've got brains, son.' Stark couldn't help smiling. 'But there's another way of looking at ityou might even say I'm protecting you. Things could get ugly at home.'

'And are we still looking for Wright's stash?'

'Reckon we're ever going to find it? I think our best chance died some time back.'

'How about whoever did for Dennis?'

'Got to be down to either Christie or Cafferty, unless you've got a better idea. That's why I want you to keep an eye on them.'

'Then that's what I'll do.'

'You'll have to track Cafferty down firstChristie tells me he's not been seen.'

'No problem.'

'And if you get wind of mutterings in the ranks...'

'I know where my loyalties lie, Mr Stark.'

'There's going to be a bit of restructuring, Jackie. By the time you come back to Glasgow, your life's going to have changed for the better. Majorly for the better, if you take my meaning.'

'I can't wait.'

'Good lad.' Stark ended the call and stretched himself out on his son's mattress. There were cracks on the ceiling. As a kid, Dennis had fretted that chunks of plaster might fall off and hit him.

If they do, Joe had advised, hit them backthey'll break before you do.

And the pair of them had laughed.

Cafferty watched from the corner as Siobhan Clarke drove away from Arden Street in her Astra. She looked distracted, her face pale. Another time, she might have spotted him, but not today, so he started walking again, ending up at the door to Rebus's tenement and pressing the bell.

'You forget something?' Rebus's voice crackled.

'She's skedaddled,' Cafferty informed him. 'So you'll have to put up with me instead.'

The lock clicked and Cafferty pushed the door open, climbing the two flights to Rebus's flat.

'You got the computer then,' he said.

'I don't want to know where it came from.'

'Oliver says you tipped himthat was a nice gesture. What did Siobhan want?'

'Fox's dad is at death's door. She decided to tell me in person.'

'Might explain why she looked like she'd had bad news. Are her and Fox close then?' Cafferty had settled in front of the computer. The first page of the document was up on the screen. 'Juicy stuff?' he asked.

'He starts by wondering if maybe you broke into his home and stole the evidence.'

'I didn't.'

'He also says that the Chief Constable of the time, Jim Broadfoot, was up to his eyes.'

'No doubt about that. Wasn't he knighted eventually?'