“We’ll be fine. What about you?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Dad. I’ve got a force field around me, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I think I might have caught a glimpse of it in Princes Street.” He placed his own hand over hers. “All the same, take care, eh?”

She smiled and stood up, saw that her mother was watching from the hallway, and shared the smile with her, too.

Rebus had been to the cafeteria before. In term time it was crowded with students, many of them just starting at the university, looking wary and even downright scared. A few years back, a second-year undergraduate had been dealing drugs; Rebus arrested him over breakfast.

The students who used the cafeteria brought laptops and iPods with them, so that even when busy the place was never noisy, except for the trilling of cell phones.

But today, the cafeteria rang with the sounds of harsh, raised voices. Rebus could sense the crackle of testosterone in the air. Two tables had been put together to form a temporary bar, from which small bottles of French lager were being sold. The No Smoking signs were being disregarded as uniformed officers slapped each other on the back and shared awkward approximations of the American high five. Stab vests had been removed, lined up against one wall, and the busy female staff were dishing out plates of fried food, red-faced either from exertion or the exaggerated compliments of the visitors.

Rebus was on the hunt for visual clues, for some sort of Newcastle insignia. At the gatehouse, he’d been directed to an old baronial-style building behind it, where a civilian assistant had found a room number for Hackman. But Rebus had knocked on the door without answer, so he had come here-the assistant’s next suggestion.

“Of course, he could still be in the field,” she’d cautioned, relishing the chance to use the phrase.

“Message received and understood,” Rebus had replied, helping to make her day even more satisfying.

There wasn’t a single Scottish accent in the cafeteria. Rebus saw uniforms from the Met and the London Transport Police, South Wales and Yorkshire…He decided to buy a mug of tea, only to be told there was no charge, having heard which he added a sausage roll and Mars Bar to his purchases. Asked a table if he could sit with them. They shifted to make some room.

“CID?” one of them guessed. Sweat had matted the man’s hair, and his face was flushed.

Rebus nodded, realizing he was the only bloke in the place not wearing a white shirt open at the neck. There was a smattering of female uniforms, too, but they were seated together, ignoring the various remarks launched in their direction.

“Looking for one of my number,” Rebus remarked casually. “A DS called Hackman.”

“You from round here then?” one of the other uniforms asked, placing Rebus’s accent. “Bloody beautiful city you’ve got. Shame we had to mess it up a bit.” His laughter was shared by his colleagues. “Don’t know any Hackman though.”

“He’s from Newcastle,” Rebus added.

“That lot over there are from Newcastle.” The officer was pointing to a table farther toward the window.

“They’re from Liverpool,” his neighbor corrected him.

“All look the bloody same to me.” There was more laughter at this.

“Where are you from then?” Rebus asked.

“Nottingham,” the first officer replied. “Guess that makes us the sheriffs. Food’s shit though, isn’t it?” He was nodding toward Rebus’s half-eaten sausage roll.

“I’ve had worse-at least it’s free.”

“That’s a proper Jock talking and no mistake.” The man laughed again. “Sorry we can’t help you find your friend.”

Rebus just shrugged. “Were you in Princes Street yesterday?” he asked, as if making conversation.

“Half the bloody day.”

“Nice bit of overtime,” his neighbor added.

“We had the same thing a few years back,” Rebus added. “Commonwealth heads of government meeting. Choggum, we called it. Few of the lads chipped a lump off their mortgages that week.”

“Mine’s going toward a vacation,” the uniform said. “Wife fancies Barcelona.”

“And while she’s there,” his neighbor said, “where will you be taking the girlfriend?” More laughter, elbows digging into ribs.

“You earned it yesterday though,” Rebus stated, getting them back on track.

“Some did,” came the reply. “Most of us sat on the bus, waiting for things to really kick off.”

His neighbor nodded. “Compared to what we’d been warned might happen, it was a walk in the park.”

“Photos in the paper this morning, at least some of you drew a bit of blood.”

“The Met boys probably. They train against Millwall fans, so yesterday was nothing special.”

“Can I try another name on you?” Rebus asked. “Guy called Jacko, might be with the Met.”

They shook their heads. Rebus decided he wasn’t going to get much more, so tucked his Mars Bar into his pocket and rose to his feet. Told them to take care and went for a wander. There were plenty of other uniforms milling about outside. If rain hadn’t been threatening, he suspected they’d be lying on the lawns. He overheard nothing approximating a Newcastle accent, and nothing about giving innocent protesters a good beating. He tried Hackman’s cell, but it was still switched off. On the verge of giving up, he decided to try Hackman’s room one last time.

And the door was opened from within.

“DS Hackman?”

“Who the hell wants to know?”

“DI Rebus.” Rebus showed his ID. “Can I have a word?”

“Not in here, there’s barely room to swing a cat. Place could do with a bit of fumigating, too. Hang on a sec…” As Hackman retreated into his room, Rebus made a quick examination: clothes strewn everywhere; empty cigarette packs; girlie mags; a personal stereo; can of cider sitting on the floor by the bed. Sound of horse racing from the TV. Hackman had picked up a phone and lighter. Patted his pockets till he found his key. Back out into the hall again. “Outside, yeah?” he suggested, leading the way whether Rebus liked it or not.

He was stocky: huge neck and close-cropped fair hair. Maybe early thirties, the face pitted and pockmarked, nose squashed to one side by a brawl too many. His white T-shirt had suffered too many washes. It rode up at the back, revealing the top of its owner’s underpants. He wore jeans and sneakers.

“Been working?” Rebus asked.

“Just back.”

“Undercover?”

Hackman nodded. “Ordinary man in the street.”

“Any trouble getting in character?”

Hackman’s mouth twitched. “Local cop?”

“That’s right.”

“I could do with a few tips.” Hackman glanced around at Rebus. “Lap bars are on Lothian Road, right?”

“There and thereabouts.”

“Which one should I grace with my hard-earned cash?”

“I’m not an expert.”

Hackman looked him up and down. “Sure about that?” he asked. They were outside now. Hackman offered Rebus a cigarette-readily received-and flicked his lighter open.

“Leith’s got its share of whorehouses, too, right?”

“Right.”

“And it’s legalized here?”

“We tend to turn a blind eye, so long as it’s kept indoors.” Rebus paused to inhale. “I’m glad to see it’s not all work and no play…”

Hackman gave a rasping laugh. “We’ve got better-looking women at home, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Your accent’s not Newcastle though.”

“Grew up near Brighton. Been in the northeast eight years.”

“See any action yesterday?” Rebus was making a show of studying the view before them-Arthur’s Seat rising skyward.

“Is this my debriefing?”

“Just wondering.”

Hackman narrowed his eyes. “What can I do for you, DI Rebus?”

“You worked the Trevor Guest murder.”

“That was two months back; plenty more in my in-box since.”

“It’s Guest I’m interested in. His trousers have turned up near Gleneagles, cash card in the pocket.”

Hackman stared at him. “He wasn’t wearing any when we found him.”