Darryl Christie wasn't a huge fan of Glasgow. It sprawled in a way his own city didn't. And there were still traces of the old enmity between Catholic and Protestantof course that existed in Edinburgh too, but it had never quite defined the place the way it did Glasgow. The people spoke differently here, and had a garrulousness to them that spilled over into physical swagger. They were, as they chanted on the football terraces, 'the people'. But they were not Darryl Christie's people. Edinburgh could seem tame by comparison, head always below the parapet, keeping itself to itself. In the independence referendum, Edinburgh had voted No and Glasgow Yes, the latter parading its saltired allegiance around George Square night after night, or else protesting media bias outside the BBC headquarters. The political debate had melted into a blend of carnival and stairheid rammy, so that you never knew if people were joyous or furious.

Darryl Christie had considered all the implications for his various business interests and come to the conclusion that either outcome would probably suit him just fine, so in the end he hadn't voted at all.

The place he was looking for was a restaurant off Buchanan Street. The lunchtime rush was ebbing, and as he peered through the window, he could see empty tables waiting to be cleared. Joe Stark was seated alone in one corner, his white cotton napkin tucked into his shirt collar, mopping up sauce with a hunk of bread. The other diners looked like just that, which was what had been agreed. Yes, there was a BMW outside with a couple of lookouts in the front, but that was fine too. Christie returned to the Range Rover, told his own men to stay there unless the occupants of the Beemer headed inside. Then he pushed open the door to the restaurant.

'Mr Christie?' the manager said. 'Such a pleasure. Mr Stark is waiting. Would you like to see a menu?'

'I'm fine.'

'Just a drink, then?'

'No thanks.'

Christie walked up to Joe Stark's table, pulled out a chair and sat down. Then, realising he now had his back to the room, he got up again and made to settle next to the older man on the banquette.

'I don't even let hoors get that close,' Stark warned him. 'Go sit the fuck down and I swear no one'll come up behind you with a cleaver.'

Christie did as he was told, but moved the chair until it was at a right angle to the table.

'How's the food?' he asked.

'Not bad. You know they're not releasing my son's body yet? Is that them taking the piss or what?'

'It's a murder inquirythat's the way it goes.'

'You ready to give me a name?' Stark pushed aside his plate, but continued chewing on the wad of bread.

'A name?'

'I assume that's why you're here.'

'I still don't know who killed Dennis.'

'Then what possible use are you to me?' Stark whipped away the napkin and threw it on to the plate.

'The last time we met, I told you I respected youdo you remember that?'

'I'm getting it tattooed on my bollocks.'

Christie stared at the man. Stark was avoiding eye contact, finishing his glass of red wine and searching between his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

'This is useless,' Christie said, making to get up. But Stark reached over, gripping him by the forearm.

'Sit down, son. You've come all the way from Edinburgh. Might as well say your piece.'

Christie made show of considering his options, then eased back down on to the chair. He was about to start speaking when Stark gestured for the manager, who came bounding over.

'Double espresso for me, Jerry. And whatever my guest is having.'

'I'm fine,' Christie stated.

The manager bowed and scurried away. Another table was settling up and leaving. Christie realised that the caricatures on the walls represented Scottish pop stars, though he only recognised a few.

'Well?' Stark said, leaning back and giving the young man his full attention.

'You were in Edinburgh looking for Hamish Wright, because he'd taken something that you felt belonged to you.'

'Aye?'

'And as part of that search, you went to CC Self Storage.'

'Dennis and his boys went to at least three of those places.'

'But what Dennis didn't know, I'm guessing, is that Wright's nephew works there.'

'Is that so?' Stark couldn't help looking suddenly more interested.

'And my thinking is, the nephew might know the whereabouts of the uncle.'

Stark gave a thin smile. 'Son, I know where the uncle is.'

'You do?'

'He's buried in a field somewhere outside Inverness. Dennis let Jackie Dyson have his way with himreckoned nobody was as good at wringing the truth out of a man as Jackie. Fucker made Dennis look like Greenpeace.'

'Wright died?'

'He did, aye.' Christie watched the old man nod. He didn't look in the least concerned. 'We didn't want anyone getting wind of itbest thing was to make the cops and anyone else think we were still on the hunt.'

'So they wouldn't think you'd killed him?' It was Christie's turn to nod. 'So why tell me?'

Stark fixed him with a look. 'Because that's twice now you've come to me. Makes me think we might be able to help one anothernow, and in the future. A sort of alliance against the jackals in Aberdeen and Dundee.'

'Are they starting to circle?'

'They smell blood, son. I can offer Dennis's crew the moon, but somebody out there's going to offer one of them Mars or Venus as a bonus. If they knew I had friends... well...' Stark shrugged.

'How would it work?'

'Plenty of time for that later.' Stark patted Christie's leg. 'For now, you've got me interested in this nephew.'

'And you've got me interestedyou really think we could work together?'

'Only one way to find out. Dennis was gearing up to push me aside. Everyone knew itLen and Walter were always bending my ear about it. Either his boys will make a move on me anyway, or they'll decide they need reinforcements from outside the city. It's either you with me, or you with them. But look at me, son. I'm not going to last much longerand when I croak, a good-sized chunk of Glasgow would be yours. If you take my side. On the other hand, team up with them, and you'll be surrounded by wild animalsyoung, hungry and stupid.'

Stark's coffee had arrived, along with an amaretto biscuit that he dunked and then held between his lips, sucking the thick black liquid from it.

'I'll have one of those too, actually,' Christie told the retreating manager. And he returned Joe Stark's smile, the two men readying to get down to business.

Anthony Wright had been in trouble a few timesspeeding offences, one very minor drugs bust and a breach of the peace. Which was how Fox managed to track down his home address. It was a maisonette in Murrayburn, not a million miles from his place of work. Anthony had the upper floor. His downstairs neighbours hadn't washed their windows in a while, and the slatted blinds needed replacing. From what he could see of the upstairs dwelling, the owner was a tad more house-proud: the curtains looked new, as did the front door with its fan-shaped frosted window and brass fittings. Fox, knowing that Anthony wasn't yet home from work, peered through the letter box, discovering littlea flight of red-carpeted stairs filled his field of vision. Framed prints of motorbikes and their leather-clad riders on the walls.

He returned to his car and waited, the radio playing at low volume. It was a quiet street, though far from gentrification. He got the feeling that if he sat there much longer, an inquisitive local would emerge to check him out. One thing he had noted: no bikes on the roadway outside the maisonette, or in the flagstoned front garden. How many had Anthony said? Five? He got out of the car again and did a little circuit, establishing that the maisonette backed on to an enclosed drying green, which boasted no enclosure larger than a garden shed. There was a park beyond, really just a stretch of well-trodden grass that could accommodate a makeshift game of football, plus a graffiti-covered set of concrete ramps, presumably for use by skateboarders. On the other side of the park sat three high-rise blocks, and next to those, two rows of lock-up garages.

Buttoning up his coat, Fox started walking, sticking to the paved route so as to save his shoes getting muddied. A cheap souped-up saloon car passed him, its occupants barely out of their teens. Both front windows were down so the world outside could share their taste in what they presumably thought was music. They paid Fox no heed though. He wasn't like Rebushe didn't look like a cop. A detective he'd once investigated when in Complaints had described him as resembling 'a soulless, spunkless middle manager from the most boring company on the planet'. Which was finehe'd been called worse. It usually meant he was closing in on a result. And the fact that he didn't stand out from the crowd could be useful. As far as the kids in the car were concerned, he barely existedif they'd thought him a threat, the car would have stopped and a scene of sorts would have ensued. Instead of which, he arrived at the lock-ups without incident.

There were a dozen of them, all but one with its doors locked tight. A car was jutting out from the twelfth, jacked up while a wheel was changed. The lock-up had power, and a radio had been plugged in, Radio 2 providing the soundtrack while a man in presentable blue overalls did his chores.

'Nice car,' Fox commented. The man had wiry silver hair and a stubbled face, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. 'Ford Capri, right? Don't see many these days.'

'Because they're rustbuckets. Dodgy engines, too.'

The bonnet was up, so Fox took a look. He had scant knowledge of cars, and to his eyes the engine looked much like any other.

'You in the market?' the man asked. 'Only I know there are collectors out thereI've had offers.'

'Motorbikes are more my thing,' Fox said. 'Friend of mine lives near here. He's got a nice collection.'

'Anthony?' The man nodded towards the lock-up opposite. 'That's where he keeps them.' Fox turned his head towards the graffiti-covered rollover door. There was the usual turn-handle with its central lock, but heavy-duty bolts and padlocks had also been added to either edge of the door.

'He was supposed to be showing me them,' Fox explained, 'but he's not home.'

'He's often heretakes one out for a run, brings it back, swaps to another. What's your favourite?'

'I like Moto Guzzis,' Fox said, remembering the brand from one of the prints on the staircase.

'About as reliable as my Capri,' the man snorted, flicking away the stub of his cigarette. 'The older ones, at any rate.'

'I'm surprised he doesn't keep them at that self-storage place where he works.' Fox was studying the surroundings. 'Bit more security than here.'

'This is handier, though, and he's carefulnever leaves the doors open long enough for anyone to get a good look.'

Fox nodded his understanding. 'Ever meet his uncle?' he asked casually.

'Uncle?'

'Uncle Hamishhe was down here a few weeks ago from Inverness. I just thought Anthony might want to show off his collection.'

'Chubby? Fiftyish? Red hair and freckles?'

Fox thought of the photographs he'd seen. 'Sounds about right,' he said.

'Anthony didn't introduce us, but aye, he was here.' The man was wiping his hands on a rag. 'I've got to say, you don't look like one of Anthony's mates.'

'What do they look like?'

'Younger than you, for a start.'

'We drink together at the Gifford.'

The man's suspicions eased. 'He's mentioned the placeseems to like it there.'

'It's all right.'

The man gave a lopsided smile. 'I thought maybe you were a cop or somethingsorry about that.'

'No problem,' Fox assured him.

'Not that you look like one, mind.'

Fox nodded slowly. 'My name's Malcolm,' he said.

'George Jones. I'd offer a handshake, but...' He showed Fox his oil-stained fingers.

'No problemI better get back and see if he's turned up. Good luck getting your Capri back on the road.'

'No chance of that,' Jones said, patting its roof. 'This isn't so much a garage as a hospiceI'm just keeping the patient comfortable until the end.'

Fox's face tightened. He offered a half-hearted wave as he turned and started to walk, pulling out his phone to call Jude. He would take over from her for an hour or two, but he knew he might well be back here later. He imagined himself calling Ricky Compston with the newsI've got Hamish Wright and his booty. Both are here when you want them...

He was almost smiling to himself as Jude answered his call.

'About bloody time you checked in,' she announced. 'Doctors want a word with us.'

'What about?'

'If you want my best guess, they're readying to pull the plug.'

'What?'

But Jude was too busy sobbing to say any more.

38.

Esson and Ogilvie stood in front of Siobhan Clarke's desk as they delivered their report, the conclusion of which was that they had found nothing much of interest.

'Nothing?' Clarke felt it necessary to check.

Ogilvie stood with his hands behind his back, happy to let his partner do the talking.

'We've got a list of everyone who works for the two companies, and we'll run it to see if anyone rings alarm bells, but I'm not hugely hopeful.'