All the times he’d visited the cells in Gayfield and St. Leonard ’s,hearing these selfsame tattoos. Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum. Making jokes with the jailer about it.

Thum-thum-thum-thum-thum.

The sound of hope over experience. Rebus sat down again. There was neither toilet nor basin, just a metal pail in one corner. Ancient feces smeared on the wall next to it. Messages gouged into the plaster: Big Malky Rules; Wardie Young Team; Hearts Ya Bass. Hard to believe, but someone with a bit of Latin had even been holed up here: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit. In the Scots: Whau Daur Meddle Wi’ Me? Modern equivalent: Screw Me and I’ll Screw You Right Back.

Rebus got to his feet again, knew now what was going on, should have realized from the word go.

Steelforth.

Easy for him to get his hands on some spare uniforms and dispatch three of his men on a mission, the same men he’d offered to Rebus earlier. They’d probably been watching as he’d left the hotel. Followed him from pub to pub until they picked their spot. The lane outside the Oxford Bar was perfect.

“Steelforth!” Rebus yelled at the door. “Come in here and talk to me! Are you a coward as well as a bully?” He pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing. The spy hole was closed. The hatch which would be opened at mealtimes was locked shut. He paced the cell, opened his cigarette packet but decided he needed to conserve supplies. Changed his mind and lit one anyway. The lighter spluttered-not much lighter fluid left…a toss-up which would run out first. Ten o’clock, his watch said. A long time till morning.

Monday, July 4, 2005

8

The turning of the lock woke him. The door creaked open. First off, he saw a young uniform, mouth agape in amazement. And to his left, Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae, looking irate and with his hair uncombed. Rebus checked his watch: just shy of four, which meant Monday was dawning.

“Got a blade?” he asked, mouth dry. He showed them his wrist. It was swollen, the palm and knuckles discolored. The constable produced a penknife from his pocket. “How did you get in here?” he asked, voice shaking.

“Ten o’clock last night, who was holding the fort?”

“We had a call-out,” the constable said, “locked the place before we left.”

Rebus had no reason to disbelieve the story. “How did the call-out go?”

“False alarm. I’m really sorry…why didn’t you shout or something?”

“I assume there’s nothing in the log?” The cuffs fell to the floor. Rebus started rubbing life back into his fingers.

“Nothing. And we don’t check the cells when they’re empty.”

“You knew they were empty?”

“Kept that way so we can stick any rioters in them.”

Macrae was studying Rebus’s left hand. “Need to get that seen to?”

“I’ll be fine.” Rebus grimaced. “How did you find me?”

“Text message. I’d left the phone to charge in my study. The beeping woke my wife.”

“Can I see it?”

Macrae handed over the phone. At the top of the screen was the caller’s number, and below it a capitalized message: REBUS IN DRYLAW CELLS. Rebus punched the Return Call option, but when connected all he got was a machine telling him the number was not in use. He handed the phone back to Macrae.

“Screen says the call was sent at midnight.”

Macrae failed to meet Rebus’s gaze. “It was a while before we heard it,” he said quietly. But then he remembered who he was, and stiffened his spine. “Care to tell me what happened here?”

“Some of the lads having a laugh,” Rebus improvised. He kept flexing his left wrist, trying not to show how much it was flaring with pain.

“Names?” asked Macrae.

“No names, no one gets in trouble, sir,” said Rebus.

“So if I were to return their little text message?”

“Number’s already been canceled, sir.”

Macrae studied Rebus. “Few drinks last night, eh?”

“A few.” He turned his attention back to the uniform. “Nobody’s left a cell at the front desk, by any chance?”

The young officer shook his head. Rebus leaned in toward him. “Something like this gets out…well, there’ll be a few laughs at my expense, but you’ll be the ones the joke’s really on. Cells unchecked, station left unmanned, front door unlocked…”

“The door was locked,” the constable argued.

“Still doesn’t look good for you, does it?”

Macrae patted the officer’s shoulder. “So let’s keep this to ourselves, eh? Now come on, DI Rebus, I’ll drop you home before the barricades go up again.”

Outside, Macrae paused before unlocking his Rover. “I can see why you’d want this kept quiet, but rest assured-if I find the culprits, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Yes, sir,” Rebus agreed. “Sorry to have been the cause.”

“Not your fault, John. Now hop in.”

They drove southward in silence through the city, dawn breaking to the east. A few delivery vans and bleary pedestrians, but little clue as to what the day might bring. Monday meant the Carnival of Full Enjoyment. The police knew it was a euphemism for trouble. This was when the Clown Army, the Wombles, and the Black Bloc were expected to make their move. They would try to shut the city down. Macrae had switched the radio to a local station, just in time to catch a news flash-an attempt to padlock the pumps at a gas station on Queensferry Road.

“The weekend was just for starters,” Macrae commented as he drew to a halt on Arden Street. “So I hope you enjoyed it.”

“Nice and relaxing, sir,” Rebus said, opening his door. “Thanks for the lift.” He patted the roof of the car and watched it drive off, then climbed the two flights, searching his pockets for his keys.

No keys.

Of course not: they were hanging from the lock on his door. He swore and opened up, withdrew the keys, and held them in a bunch in his right fist. Walked into the hall on tiptoe. No noises or lights. Padded past the kitchen and bedroom doorways. Into the living room. The Colliar case notes weren’t there, of course: he’d taken them to Siobhan’s. But the stuff Mairie Henderson had found for him-about Pennen Industries and Ben Webster, MP-was strewn about the place. He picked his cell phone up from the table. Nice of them to bring it back. He wondered how thoroughly they had scoured it for calls in and out, messages and texts. Didn’t really bother him: he deleted stuff at the end of each day. Didn’t mean it wasn’t still hidden on the chip somewhere…And they’d have the authority to ask his phone company for records. When you were SO12, you could do most things. He went into the bathroom and ran the tap. It always took a while for the water to run hot. He was going to spend a good fifteen or twenty minutes under the shower. He checked the kitchen and both bedrooms: nothing seemed out of place, which in itself also meant nothing. Filled the kettle and switched it on. Might the place be bugged? He’d no way of telling; didn’t think it was as easy these days as unscrewing the base from the telephone to find out. The paperwork on Pennen had been tossed about but not taken. Why? Because they knew it would be easy for him to get the same information again. It was all in the public domain, after all, only a mouse click or two away.

They’d left it because it was meaningless.

Because Rebus wasn’t anywhere near getting to whatever it was Steelforth was trying to protect.

And they’d left his keys in the lock, his phone in plain view, to add insult to injury. He flexed his left hand again, wondering how you could tell if you had a blood clot or thrombosis. He took the tea through to the bathroom, turned off the tap at the sink, shed his clothes, and climbed into the shower. He tried to empty his mind of the previous seventy-two hours. Started listing his desert island disks instead. Couldn’t decide which track off Argus to choose. He was still busy debating with himself as he got out and toweled himself dry; found himself humming “Throw Down the Sword.”