Al reappears with a bunch of flowers.

I throw my arms wide. "Al, you shouldn't have."

"Good, because I haven't." He takes me by the arm and we head to the kerb, looking for a taxi. He sniffs at the flowers. "They're for Andi."

"Andy?" I say, surprised. "All right; I'll take them." I reach for the flowers but miss.

Al nudges me in the ribs. "Not that Andy," he says, waving at a taxi with its light on. It clatters by. "They're for my wife, you buffoon, not this dissolute "eighties boom-victim moping in his gloomy mansion."

"Hotel," I correct him, and help him to wave at the next taxi. Somehow I stagger into the gutter and almost fall but Al saves me. The taxi — which was slowing down and turning towards us — steers away and picks up speed again. I glare after it. "Bastard."

"Idiot," I hear Al agreeing. He takes my arm again and starts to lead me across the street. "Come on, Mr Sobriety; we'll get one from the rank on Hanover Street."

"But my car!"

"Forget it. Pick it up tomorrow."

"Yeah, I will, and then I'm heading for the hills, I'm telling you."

"Good idea."

"Heading for the hills, I'm fucking telling you…"

"Yes, you are, aren't you?"

"… for the fucking hills, man…"

I get home and Al sees me to my door and I tell him I'm fine and he goes and I dump all my stuff down the toilet except for some speed which I snort, and the rest which I suck. Then I go to bed but I can't sleep and the phone rings and I answer it.

"Cameron; Neil."

"Oh, wow, yeah; hi, Neil."

"Yes… well, I'm just calling to say sorry, but I can't help you."

"Yeah, right… what?"

"Do the words «chase», «goose» and «wild» mean anything to you?"

"Ah, pardon?"

"Never mind. As I said, I can't help you, old son. It's a dead end, understand? There's no link; nothing to find out. It's your story, but if I were you I'd drop it."

"Ah, yeah, umm…"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm…"

"You sound stoned."

"Yeah… No!"

"Well, I'm glad we've got that cleared up. I'll reiterate; I can't help you. You're on a wild-goose chase, so just let it drop."

"Okay, okay…"

"Yes, well, I'll let you get back to whatever combination of substances it is you're currently abusing. Goodnight, Cameron."

"Yeah; "night."

I put the phone down and sit on the edge of the bed, thinking, What the fuck was that about? So these guys all just died coincidentally? There's no connection with my Mr Archer or Daniel Smout? I really don't like the sound of all this.

I lie down again and try to sleep but I can't and I can't stop thinking about guys tied to trees with nooses round their necks waiting for a train, or jerking around in baths while a drill sparks and bubbles under the water, or drowning in farm cesspits; I try to stop thinking about that sort of gory, ghastly stuff and think about Y for a while instead and have a wank and still don't sleep and eventually after a lot more not-sleeping I'm dying for a cigarette and so I get up and go out but I must have slept after all because it's half two in the morning all of a sudden and there's nowhere open and by now my head's sore but I really need some tobacco so I hoof it uphill through Royal Circus and up Howe Street until finally a cab stops and I get him to take me through the quiet streets to the Cowgate where the Kasbar's still open, God bless the awful dive that it is, and at last I can buy some fags — Regal because that's all they have behind the bar and the machine's not working but it doesn't matter; I've got a cigarette in my mouth and a pint in my hand (medicinal, and anyway I don't think they serve Perrier in the Kasbar and even if they did some seven-foot biker would probably push a glass in your face just on general principles and then drag you screaming into the gents and shove your head down an unflushed toilet but hey I'm not complaining that's part of the character of the place) and I'm happy now.

I leave at four, walking from the Cowgate up to Hunter Square where the waist-high glass-tiled roof of the underground toilets glows with hundreds of little blue marbles; one of the Lux Europae exhibits. I head down Fleshmarket Close, forgetting the station is still closed at this time in the morning, so detour up Waverley Bridge and stroll along Princes Street beneath more abstract light sculptures, watching a street-cleaning machine as it trundles growling along the road, brushing and sucking at the gutters.

I'm home by five and up again by eleven when there's a phone call that's more than ordinarily interesting that changes my plans and so I go into work and have to pay Frank ('Milltown of Towie? Give in? Molten of Toil!) his twenty quid because the Tories scraped through the Maastricht vote with less of a margin that I'd anticipated and I try to phone Neil to make sure I didn't dream that call last night, but he's out.

CHAPTER 6: EXOCET DECK

I drive the car up the little single-track road leading towards the low hills; the headlights create a deep channel of illumination between the hedges. I'm dressed in black jeans, black boots and a dark blue polo-neck over a navy shirt and two vests. I've wearing thin black leather gloves. I find a track leading off the road into a stand of trees; I take the car up as far as it will go, then turn the lights out. The clock on the dash says it's 03:10. I wait a minute; no traffic passes, so I guess I haven't been seen. My heart is thudding already.

The night is cold when I get out of the car. There's a half-moon but it's obscured ninety per cent of the time by a lot of low, fast-moving cloud producing occasional freezing gusts of rain. The wind is loud in the leaf-bare branches overhead. I head down the track to the road, then look back to the car; it's almost fully hidden. I cross the tarmac and climb a fence, then take the ski-mask from my trouser pocket and pull it over my head. I follow the line of the hedge along the side of the road, ducking once as a car drives past on the road; its headlights sweep along the hedge above me. The car carries on into the night. I start breathing again.

I get to the fence leading downhill and follow it, stumbling now and again on the rocks and stones left at the side of the field; my eyes are still adjusting to the darkness. The ground underfoot is fairly firm, not too muddy.

At the hedge marking the foot of the field I have to look for a minute to find a way through. Finally I have to crawl through and underneath it, snagging my polo-neck. Trees heard but barely seen in the darkness make a great rushing, crackling sound above me.

I scramble down a muddy, leaf-littered bank and into a chilly stream at the bottom; it flows over one boot and I whisper, "Shit," and squelch up the far bank, holding onto the cold branches of bushes and the mud-slimy roots of trees. I force my way through some bushes at the top. I can see street lights ahead, and the geometric shapes of darkened houses. I keep crouched and make my way through the low bushes, heading diagonally through the wood towards the estate. I trip over a log and fall but don't hurt myself. I come to the two-metre-high brick wall which surrounds the estate and feel my way along it, stumbling over piles of earth and building debris until I get to the corner.

I measure sixty paces along the wall and then walk away from it to the nearest tree. A patch of moonlight means I have to wait nearly five minutes for the clouds to cover the moon again before I can climb the tree. I get far enough up to see the house and identify it by its position and the garden furniture, then I climb back down, go to the wall and jump up, catching hold of the concrete ridge tiles on top of the wall and pulling myself up. I rest on the top of the wall, my hands shaking, my heart pumping hard. I look at the dark house in front of me and the screens of tall shrubs and young trees on either side concealing the two neighbouring villas.