'Is he all right?'

'Shooter missed.'

'Dearie me.'

'Maybe deliberately, who knows?' Rebus placed his empty glass on the table with a clunk.

'Cafferty's told you it was my doing?'

'You know what he's like.'

'I know he hates my guts. It's why he's talking to the Starks.'

'Joe Stark?' Rebus asked, feigning surprise.

'Came into town a couple of days back. Booked into a B and B and the owner thought I'd be interested.'

'You're sure Joe's here to see Cafferty?'

'Not Joe so much as Dennis. Cafferty wants him put in charge.'

'Of what?' Fox asked, not quite understanding.

'Of this!' Christie was on his feet, arms outstretched. 'The citymy city.'

'You sure you've not watched Scarface one too many times?' Rebus asked.

Christie sat down again, but the agitation he had been hiding was now evident in his posture. He pumped one of his knees as he spoke. 'It's the old storymy enemy's enemy is my friend. Cafferty's not got much more than a couple of years left in him. Last thing he wants is to be on his deathbed knowing I'm still around. Dennis Stark is the perfect choice. Guy's crazy, for a start. Tell him to take me down and he'll make sure it's messy. And who else is there? Cafferty doesn't know the new regimes in Aberdeen and Dundee. But he knows Joe Stark. They're like two sides of the same piece of bog paper.'

'I think you might be misreading the situation,' Fox said.

'Besides,' Rebus broke in, 'if Cafferty's getting all chummy with the Starks, that gives you all the more reason to warn him off with a bullet.'

'I've found, contrary to appearances, that a bullet is a pretty blunt instrument,' Christie said. 'Credit me with a bit more subtlety.' He was regaining his composure. 'And if shooters are involved, I'd put the Starks in the frame every single time. Could be they want to make sure Cafferty's compliantso he knows he can't muck about with them. World they live in, that's the way they do business.'

'Have you met with them?' Fox asked. 'Spoken to them?'

'Not yet.'

'Cafferty thinks Dennis is maybe being toured around the country so he can get to know the various people he needs to knowpeople just like you.'

'There's nothing in my diary, if that's what you're asking.'

'Word to the wise, Darryl,' Rebus said. 'You know yourself they're old school. You've just said as much. Subtlety isn't going to play well with them.'

'I'll bear that in mind.'

'Fox and a couple of his colleagues could maybe talk to them, let them know they're not welcome.'

'DI Fox doesn't look too sure about that.'

'No... it's just... maybe I...'

'Well anyway,' Christie said, slapping both his knees before rising to his feet again. 'Thanks for stopping by. We both know it was a waste of timeCafferty playing his usual gamesbut all the same...'

'Just wish I could have put a bigger dent in your profits.' Rebus gestured towards his empty whisky glass. 'And remember what I said about the Starks. Dennis might be the mad dog, but it's Joe who controls the leash.'

Christie gave a slow nod and preceded them into the hallway, bounding up the staircase two steps at a time.

'A young man in a hurry,' Fox commented as they left the building.

'Taking its toll, though,' Rebus said thoughtfully. 'I don't like my gangsters jumpy.' He lit a cigarette. Fox was preparing to walk to the car, but Rebus stood his ground. 'What did you mean in there? When you said he was misreading the situation?'

'Nothing.'

'There's something you know, something you're not telling. How did you find out the Starks were in town? And that they'd stopped off in Aberdeen and Dundee? I doubt you've any grasses worth the name.'

'It was mentioned at St Leonard's.'

'Why, though? The Starks have probably been over here a dozen times this past year without a red flag being raised. And Christie was right about the look on your face when I said CID could go warn the Starks off. Why isn't that a good idea, Malcolm?'

'I'm not allowed to tell you.'

'Why not?'

'That's just the way it is.'

'We're not in a Bruce Hornsby song hereyou want my help but you won't tell me anything? Well thanks a bunch, pal, but don't go thinking I'll ever be giving you my last Rolo again.'

Having said which, Rebus flicked his half-smoked cigarette at Fox's feet and stomped off towards the car.

Cafferty sat at his kitchen table. The wooden shutters had been pulled across the windows, meaning no one could see in. He'd phoned a guy he knewex-army, ran half the city's nightclub doormenand now there were two well-built young men stationed in a car on the driveway, just inside the gates. The car was facing the pavement, so that anyone walking past could see them. And every ten minutes, one of them would make a circuit of the property, peering over the wall at the back to make sure no one was in a neighbouring garden. It wasn't much, but it was something. In the past, Cafferty had employed a bodyguard, who slept in a room above the garage, but that had become an extravagance. Years before that, of course, he'd had half a dozen guys around him at all hoursused to drive his wife of the time demented. She'd get up in the night to go to the toilet, and find one of them watching her from the staircase. And when she went shopping or to meet friends, there would be the mandatory driver, who was under orders never to let her out of his sight.

Different these days, or so Cafferty had thought.

He had spent the past hour and a half making calls. Problem was, a lot of the people he'd known in the past were now reduced to ash, or had moved halfway across the world. Still, he'd put the word outhe was willing to pay top dollar for up-to-date information on the Starks, father and son, plus their associates, close or otherwise. He'd already learned that they had visited certain businesses in Aberdeen and Dundee in the previous week, which backed up his theory that Dennis was being introduced to people prior to taking over from his old man. The phone was lying on the table, fully charged and waiting for news. Next to it sat the squashed bullet. Cafferty pushed it around with a fingertip. Time was there'd have been someone in his pocket, someone from CID or the forensic lab. He would have handed it over and found out what he could. These days he hardly knew where to start, though again he had mentioned his interest to a few of the people he'd called. Maybe there was someone who knew someone.

There was Rebus, of course. But why would Rebus take it to the lab on the quiet rather than handing it over to CID?

What did it matter anyway? Had to be the Starks or Darryl Christiethe Starks for the sheer hell of it, Darryl Christie as a way of welcoming them to the city and showing them the new pecking order.

Whichever it was, he would find out. And they would pay.

There was nothing for Siobhan Clarke to do now but wait. The Scotsman would run the story online in the evening, flagging it up on its Twitter feed. Probably wouldn't be until nine or ten o'clock, though, so that when the morning edition appeared they still had the print exclusive. Smith had texted to assure her that it was a front-page splash, unless one of the royals died or was caught on camera with a line of coke.

'Perish the thought,' Clarke had muttered to herself.

Esson and Ogilvie had been busy. They'd compiled a list stretching back half a decade of deaths occurring during break-insnot just private homes, but workplaces too: security guards hit with crowbars, elderly couples threatened with torture if they didn't say where their valuables were. Around three quarters of the cases had been solved.

'Or at least someone went to jail,' Esson had said, half joking.

There was one from the previous yeara woman attacked in her bedroom in Edinburgh. Her ex-husband was suspected, but there had never been enough evidence to satisfy the procurator fiscal that a guilty verdict would be reached. Another piqued Clarke's interestjust a fortnight back, in Linlithgow. Retired care worker who had, three years before, scooped a million pounds on the lottery. Spent half the money on a big new house with a view of Linlithgow Palace. The man lived alone, his wife having predeceased him. Found in his downstairs hall, skull caved in, hit from behind. Kitchen door forced open from the outside. The case was still active. Clarke had asked Esson and Ogilvie what they thought.

'Worth comparing notes?' Esson had asked in turn.

'It was news at the time,' Ogilvie added. 'The lottery win, I mean.'

'Someone knows he's got a few bob, so they burst in thinking it'll be piled up on the coffee table?' But Clarke had told them to make enquiries anyway, then had driven to the city mortuary, where, entering by the staff door, she surprised one of the assistants as he was removing his scrubs in the deserted corridor.

'Just here to see Professor Quant,' she explained.

'Upstairs.'

Clarke managed a smile of apology as she squeezed past. 'Nice tats, by the way,' she said, watching the young man starting to blush.

Deborah Quant was in her well-lit, tidy office. There was a shower cubicle behind one of the doors and Clarke could smell soap and shampoo.

'Not disturbing you?'

'Come in, Siobhan. Take a seat.'

Quant had pulled back her long red hair, fixing it with a band. 'Just finished up,' she explained. 'But I've a function this evening, so...'

Clarke had noticed the dress hanging from a hook. 'Looks lovely,' she commented.

'Better than most of the guests will deserveacademics and senior medics.'

'Taking a date?'

'Got anyone in mind?'

'I heard you'd been out a couple of times with a recent retiree.'

Quant smiled. 'Drinks and dinner only. But can you really see John sitting through a black-tie event with a load of superannuated surgeons and professors?'

'Did you ask him?'

'Actually, I did. He declined.'

'Gracefully, I'm sure.'

'The swearing was minimal. So what can I do for you, Siobhan?'

'It's the Minton inquiry. You did the autopsy.'

'I did.'

'I've looked at your report. I was just wondering if anything else had come to mind.'

'About what?'

'Lord Minton had received a threatening letterwell, just a note really.' Clarke handed over another photocopy. 'I'm wondering if that changes your thinking in any way.'

'Man died from a combination of blunt-force trauma and strangulationeither would probably have been sufficient. Attacked from the front or the side, most probably the front. Victim is on his way to the door of his study, having heard a noise, and the attacker bursts in and hits him with the same hammer he used to smash open the laundry-room window. Marks on the throat tell us the attacker had large hands, probably male.' Quant shrugged. 'This note doesn't alter any of that. Was it found in his drawer?'

'His walletwhy do you ask?'

'In the photos from the locus, the desk drawer was open a couple of inches. I thought maybe the first officers on the scene...'

'They would have known better than to touch anything.' Clarke narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the crime scene. The drawer had been closed by the time she'd visited. Nothing odd about that. 'I don't suppose you carried out another autopsy a couple of weeks back, on that lottery winner?'

'From Linlithgow?' Quant shook her head. 'That was blunt-force trauma too, wasn't it? During a break-in. No sign of strangulation, though, if I remember correctly.'

'I wouldn't mind seeing the report.'

'That's easily arranged. But of course there'll have to be a quid pro quo.'

'Meaning?'

Quant nodded towards the dress. 'You have to pretend to be me for the evening. I really just want to go home to bed.'

'Tell you what I can do,' Clarke offered. 'I can phone your mobile after the first hour or so. There's a situation and you're urgently needed...'

'Have you got my number?' Quant asked with a grin.

'Give it to me,' Clarke said.

8.

Only Ricky Compston and Alec Bell were in the office when Fox got back. They were eating custard slices and drinking tea, their feet up on their respective desks.

'Where have you been?' Compston demanded. 'Apart from whispering sweet nothings in your boss's ear.'

'Actually, I've not seen Doug Maxtone. But I did go talk to Big Ger Cafferty.'

'Feel free to keep us waiting.'

'Where are the others?'

'The Starks have been on the move. We're using two cars so we don't get clocked. Hence the exodus. That good enough for you, DI Fox?'