'You must pray that she'll let you.’

'I stopped praying a long time ago.’

He walked back down the stairs and out into the quadrangle, wondering if it was too soon in the day for a drink at Sandy Bell's. The pub was just round the corner, and he hadn't been there in months. He noticed someone standing in front of the Frozen Sections boxes. They had the flap open, like they'd just made a deposit. Then they turned around towards Rebus and smiled.

It was Cafferty.

'Dear God.’

Cafferty closed the flap. He was dressed in a baggy black suit and open-necked white shirt, like an undertaker on his break. 'Hello, Strawman.’

The old nickname. It was like an ice-pack on Rebus's spine. 'Let's talk.’

There were two men behind Rebus, the two from the churchyard, the two who'd watched him taking a beating. They escorted him back to a newish Rover parked in the quadrangle. He caught the licence number, but felt Cafferty's hand land on his shoulder.

'We'll change plates this afternoon, Strawman.’

Someone was getting out of the car. It was weasel-face. Rebus and Cafferty got into the back of the car, weasel-face and one of the heavies into the front. The other heavy stood outside, blocking Rebus's door. He looked towards where the scaffolding stood. The workmen had vanished. There was a sign on the scaffolding, just the name of a firm and their telephone number. A light came on in practically the last dark room in Rebus's head.

Big Ger Cafferty had made no effort at disguise. His clothes didn't look quite right – a bit large and not his style but his face and hair were unchanged. A couple of students, one Asian and one Oriental, walked across the quadrangle towards the Pathology building. They didn't so much as glance at the car.

'I see your stomach cleared up.’

Cafferty smiled. 'Fresh air and exercise, Strawman. You look like you could do with both.’

'You're crazy coming back here.’

'We both know I had to.’

'We'll have you inside again in a matter of days.’

'Maybe I only need a few days. How close are you?’

Rebus stared through the windscreen. He felt Cafferty's hand cover his knee.

'Speaking as one father to another…’

'You leave my daughter out of this!'

'She's in London, isn't she? I've a lot of friends in London.’

'And I'll tear them to shreds if she so much as stubs a toe.’

Cafferty smiled. 'See? See how easy it is to get worked up when it's family?’

'It's not family with you, Cafferty, you said so yourself. It's business.’

'We could do a trade.’

Cafferty looked out of his window, as though thinking. 'Say someone's been bothering you, could be an old flame. Let's say she's been disrupting your life, making things awkward.’ He paused. 'Making you see red.’

Rebus nodded to himself. So weasel-face had witnessed the little scene with the spray-can.

'My problem, not yours.’

Cafferty sighed. `Sometimes I wonder how hard you really are.’ He looked at Rebus. 'I'd like to find out.’

'Try me.’

'I will, Strawman, one day. Trust me on that.’

'Why not now? Just you and me?’

Cafferty laughed. 'A square go? I haven't the time.’

'You used to shuffle cash around for the UVF, didn't you?’

The question caught Cafferty unaware. `Did I?’

'Till Jinky Johnson disappeared. You were in pretty tight with the terrorists. Maybe that's where you heard of the SaS. Billy was a member.’

Cafferty's eyes were glassy. 'I don't know what you're saying.’

`No, but you know what I'm talking about. Ever heard the name Clyde Moncur?’

`No.

`That sounds like another lie to me. What about Alan Fowler?’

Now Cafferty nodded. 'He was UVF.’

'Not now he isn't. Now he's SaS, and he's here. They're both here.’

'Why are you telling me?’

Rebus didn't answer. Cafferty moved his face closer. 'It's not because you're scared. There's something else… What's on your mind, Rebus?’

Rebus stayed silent. He saw Dr Curt coming out of the Pathology building. Curt's car, a blue Saab, was parked three cars away from the Rover.

'You've been busy,' Cafferty said.

Now Curt was looking over towards the Rover, at the big man standing there and the men seated inside.

'Any more names?’

Cafferty was beginning to sound impatient, losing all his cool veneer. 'I want all of them!' His right hand lashed around Rebus's throat, his left hand pushing him deep into the corner of the seat. 'Tell me all of it, all of it!' Curt had turned as though forgetting something, and was walking back towards the building. Rebus blinked away the water in his eyes. The stooge outside thumped on the bodywork. Cafferty released his grip and watched Curt going back into Pathology. He used both hands to grasp Rebus's face, turning it towards his, holding Rebus with the pressure of his palms on Rebus's cheekbones.

'We'll meet again, Rebus, only it won't be like in the song.’

Rebus felt like his head was going to crack, but then the pressure stopped.

The heavy outside opened the door and he got out fast. As the heavy got in, the driver gunned the engine. The back window went down, Cafferty looking at him, saying nothing.

The car sped off, tyres screeching, as it turned into the one-way traffic on Teviot Place. Dr Curt appeared in the Pathology doorway, then came briskly across the quadrangle.

'Are you all right? I've just phoned the police.’

`Do me a favour, when they get here tell them you were mistaken.’

`What?’

'Tell them anything, but don't tell them it was me.’

Rebus started to move off. Maybe he'd have that drink at Sandy Bell's. Maybe he'd have three.

'I'm not a very good liar,' Dr Curt called after him.

`Then the practice will be good for you,' Rebus called back.

Frankie Bothwell shook his head again.

'I've already spoken with the gentlemen from Torphichen Place. You want to ask anyone, ask them.’

He was being difficult. He'd had a difficult night, what with being dragged from his bed and then staying up till all hours dealing with the police, answering their questions, explaining the stash of cased spirits they'd found on the first floor. He didn't need this.

'But you knew Miss Docherty was upstairs,' Rebus persisted.

'Is that right?’ Bothwell wriggled on his barstool and tipped ash onto the floor.

'You were told she was upstairs.’

'Was I?’

'Your manager told you.’

'You've only got his word for that.’

'You deny he said it? Maybe if we could get the two of you together?’

`You can do what you like, he's out on his ear anyway. I sacked him first thing. Can't have people dossing upstairs like that, bad for the club's image. Let them sleep on the streets like everyone else.’

Rebus tried to imagine what resemblance the kid at the Gar-B had seen between himself and Frankie Bothwell. He was here because he was feeling reckless. Plus he'd put a few whiskies away in Sandy Bell's. He was here because he quite fancied beating Lee Francis Bothwell to a bloody mush on the dance floor.

Stripped of music and flashing lights and drink and dancers, the Crazy Hose had as much life as a warehouse full of last year's fashions. Bothwell, appearing to dismiss Rebus from his mind, lifted one foot and began to rub some dust from a cowboy boot. Rebus feared the white trousers would either split or else eviscerate their wearer. The boot was black and soft with small puckers covering it like miniature moon craters. Bothwell caught Rebus looking at it.

'Ostrich skin,' he explained.

Meaning the craters were where each feather had been plucked. 'Look like a lot of little arseholes,' Rebus said admiringly.

Bothwell straightened up. 'Look, Mr Bothwell, all I want are a couple of answers. Is that so much to ask?’

'And then you'll leave?’