‘They should ban nippers from places like this,’ Glenn was commenting, staring at the table of mothers and infants that was greeting this latest arrival. One of the kids was griping, and didn’t look like stopping any time soon.

‘I agree,’ Ransome said, ‘and I’d stop students coming in, too.’ He glanced over to where a solitary teenager, coffee long finished, had spread laptop and coursework over a table intended for four. The laptop was sucking electricity from a socket nearby. ‘But then the place would be half empty,’ the detective relented, ‘and we’d stick out all the more.’

‘Suppose so,’ Glenn agreed.

‘So that’s the important issues of the day taken care of… maybe we can get back to your employer?’

‘He’s keeping me and Johnno out of it.’ Glenn sounded aggrieved, and Ransome knew now why the man had asked for a meet: he had some steam to blow off. ‘But a couple of the pubs we’ve been to, he’s been asking about kids.’

‘Kids?’

Glenn saw that he’d been misunderstood. ‘Tearaways, soccer casuals… not kiddie kids.’ With a nod towards the table of young mums.

‘So give me some names.’

Glenn shook his head. ‘No idea.’

‘What does he want them for?’

‘Dunno. It all started when he bumped into this guy he was at school with. I mean, he tells me they were at school but I can’t see it – the other bloke’s a class apart, if you get my meaning. Chib and him went for a drive a few days ago, and when Chib came back he was starting to think about putting together this posse of kids.’

‘Reckon you’re being put out to pasture, Glenn?’

Even at a distance, Ransome felt the power of the big man’s stare. ‘Nobody’s putting me out of the game, Mr Ransome.’

‘All the same, if he’s putting together a “posse”, there’s got to be something they’re after.’

‘Something or someone…’ Glenn let his words hang in the air between them.

‘You’re talking about a hit?’ Ransome’s eyes widened. ‘Who could he be planning to whack?’

‘Well, there’s this big tattooed guy, foreigner, comes from Iceland or somewhere. He’s in town to collect a back payment on some merchandise. Problem is, your lot grabbed our goods. Hell’s Angels still want paying.’

‘And Chib’s unwilling to cough up?’

‘Four or five schemies with pool cues might be his way of thinking.’ Glenn paused again. ‘I doubt they’d cause this guy too many problems though, not unless they were seriously tooled up. And even if they were, there’d be others where Hate comes from.’

Ransome thought he’d misheard. ‘Hate?’ he repeated.

‘That’s what he calls himself.’

Ransome jotted down Glenn’s description of the man, then flicked back through his notebook a few pages. He’d run a check on all three of the names Laura Stanton had given him: Mike Mackenzie, Allan Cruikshank, Robert Gissing. He’d drawn a blank with Cruikshank, though she’d said he worked at First Caly. Gissing had done a bit of painting a while back, and had also written lots of boring-sounding tomes about art. Mackenzie… well, Mackenzie was some sort of computer fat-cat.

‘What does Chib’s old school pal look like?’ Ransome asked into his phone. Glenn’s description fitted Mackenzie like a glove.

‘We were in a wine bar when Chib bumped into him. Dunno what happened after that, but suddenly they’re pals.’

Ransome tapped his pen against the notepad. ‘Could mean something or nothing,’ he admitted.

‘Yeah,’ Glenn agreed.

‘So what’s the deal with Hate? Is he just scratching his arse while he waits for the cash?’

‘We’ve been looking for him. Bastard must be camping under the stars on Arthur’s Seat or something – nobody in town seems to have seen him, and trust me, he’s a hard man to miss.’

‘Is Chib bricking it?’

‘He thinks he’s got something up his sleeve.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘He’s keeping it to himself.’

‘Maybe this hit he’s planning.’

‘Maybe.’

Ransome sighed. ‘Christ on a bike, Glenn – you’re supposed to be my guy on the inside!’

‘Fuck you, too, Mr Ransome. Last thing I need right now is any more grief from you.’

The detective made a show of incredulity. ‘You think this is grief, Glenn? I’ve not got started yet. I’m still in the home team changing room with my kitbag zipped up. Grief’s what I’m saving for the moment I’m placing the cuffs on Chib Calloway’s wrists. But I don’t want to grow old in the process – and neither do you.’

‘Point taken.’ Glenn glanced at the front of his phone and Ransome knew he was checking the time. ‘Got to go. I’m supposed to be collecting from a pub at the top of Abbeyhill.’

‘Careful not to skim too much before you hand it over to our friend.’ There was silence on the other end of the phone. Skimming was a sore point with Glenn. It was how he’d ended up where he was. Walked into one of his boss’s bars one day to check the takings; walked out again twenty minutes later carrying a bag but with one side of his jacket weighted more heavily than before. Ransome stepping out in front of him and squeezing the jacket pocket, feeling the weight of coins there, the tightly banded banknotes. Tutting and shaking his head.

And to think I had you down as the brains of the operation, Glenn… Still, gives us a chance to have a little chat…

Glenn risked a full-blown glower at the detective as he stood up and shoved his phone into his pocket. Then he stomped out of the coffee shop, barging past a couple of female tourists in the doorway. One of them carried a map, and had been about to ask Glenn something, but the look on his face had changed her mind. Ransome had a little smile to himself as he lifted his mug to his mouth.

‘Ever handled a gun before, Mike?’

‘Not since I was a kid. They tended to be made of plastic and fired caps…’ Mike felt the heft of the handgun. It had a dark sheen to it, and an oily smell.

‘It’s a Browning,’ Chib explained. ‘Best of the bunch, so I hope you like it.’

They were in the workshop of an MOT garage in Gorgie, not far from where they’d both grown up, walking distance to their old school. There was a rusty-looking Sierra sitting in the only bay, cranked up above the examination pit. Wheel hubs and tyres were scattered around the place, corroded exhausts, headlamps with wires curling from them. A couple of venerable topless calendars on the wall above the workbench. The mechanics had clocked off for the night. The forecourt had been in darkness as Mike walked across it. He’d felt it as he approached the door – last chance to back out with a few shreds of dignity intact. Moment he went in and accepted a gun, that was it.

Chib had been waiting for him, arms folded and a smile scratched across his face. Knew you’d be game, the look seemed to say.

The other guns were in a flimsy-looking cardboard box that had once contained forty bags of prawn cocktail crisps. While Mike got used to the feel of the Browning, Chib brought out the sawn-off shotgun.

‘Bit rusty,’ he commented, ‘but good for the fear factor.’ He pointed it at Mike and chuckled. Mike pointed the Browning back at him. Chib cocked the gun and angled it upwards before pressing the trigger. There was a damp-sounding click. ‘Decommissioned, as promised. Normally they’d cost you a double ton a day.’

‘I’m good for it,’ Mike stated.

‘Oh, I know you are, Mike. Makes me wonder what this is all about… I’m guessing you can afford to buy near as dammit anything that takes your fancy.’

‘But what if it’s not for sale?’

‘Like that, is it?’ Chib was watching Mike switch hands with the Browning. ‘Tuck it in the back of your waistband, see how it feels.’

Mike did as he was told. ‘I can tell it’s there.’

‘Me, too – that’s a problem. Might want to think about a longer jacket, and something a good bit more roomy. There’s a couple of starting pistols. They’ve got blanks in them, just in case you need to make some noise. Plus a replica of your Browning and some old piece of junk from the Falklands or Iraq or somewhere.’