'He'd have a seizure if I told him that,' said Ormiston. 'Here, what about the Chief? You don't think…?’

But Rebus had rung off. He didn't want to talk about Ken Smylie, didn't want to think about it. He knew as much as he needed to. Kilpatrick had been on the fringe; he was more useful to The Shield that way. Bothwell was the executioner. He'd killed Billy Cunningham and he'd ordered the deaths of Millie Docherty and Calumn Smylie. Soutar had done his master's bidding in both cases, except Millie had proved messy, and Soutar had left her where he'd killed her. Bothwell must have been furious about that, but of course Davey Soutar had other things on his mind, other plans. Bigger things.

Rebus bought the makings for the meal and added bottles of rose champagne, malt whisky and gin to the trolley. A mile and a half to the north, the shops on the Gar-B estate would be closing for the evening, pulling down heavy metal shutters, fixing padlocks, double-checking alarm systems. He paid with plastic at the check-out and drove back up the hill to Oxford Terrace. Curiously, the rust bucket was sounding healthier these days. Maybe that knock from Hay's van had put something back into alignment. Rebus had replaced the glass, but was still debating the doorframe.

At the fiat, Patience was waiting for him, back from Perth earlier than expected.

'What's this?’ she said.

'It was meant to be a surprise.’

He put down the bags and kissed her. She drew away from him slowly afterwards.

'You look an absolute mess,' she said.

He shrugged. It was true, he'd seen boxers in better shape after fifteen rounds. He'd seen punchbags in better shape.

'So it's over?’ she said.

'Finishes today.’

'I don't mean the Festival.’

'I know you don't.’

He pulled her to him again. 'It's over.’

'Did I hear a clink from one of those bags?’

Rebus smiled. 'Gin or champagne?’

'Gin and orange.’

They took the bags into the kitchen. Patience got ice and orange juice from the fridge, while Rebus rinsed two glasses. 'I missed you,' she said.

'I missed you, too.’

'Who else do I know who tells awful jokes?’

'Seems a while since I told a joke. It's a while since I heard one.’

'Well, my sister told me one. You'll love it.’

She arched back her head, thinking. 'God, how does it go?’

Rebus unscrewed the top from the gin bottle and poured liberally.

'Whoah!' Patience said. 'You don't want us getting mortal.’

He splashed in some orange. 'Maybe I do.’

She kissed him again, then pulled away and clapped her hands. 'Yes, I've got it now. There's this octopus in a restaurant, and it's 'I've heard it,' said Rebus, dropping ice into her glass.