Rebus had known the theft would take place. Therefore, he’d been tipped off. Therefore, the thief had been set up. There was just one big but to the whole theory – Rebus had let the thief get away. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense at all.

‘Right,’ Holmes said, nodding to himself. ‘Right you are, sir.’ And with that, he went off to find the young offender files.

That evening, just after six, Rebus thought that since he was in the area anyway, he’d drop into Mr Wardle’s home and report the lack of progress on the case. It might be that, time having passed, Wardle would remember something else about the snatch, some crucial detail. The description he’d been able to give of the thief had been next to useless. It was almost as though he didn’t want the hassle, didn’t want the thief caught. Well, maybe Rebus could jog his memory.

The radio came to life. It was a message from DS Holmes. And when Rebus heard it, he snarled and turned the car back around towards the city centre.

It was lucky for Holmes, so Rebus said, that the traffic had been heavy, the fifteen-minute journey back into town being time enough for him to calm down. They were in the CID room. Holmes was seated at his desk, hands clasped behind his head. Rebus was standing over him, breathing hard. On the desk sat a matt-black cassette deck.

‘Serial numbers match,’ Holmes said, ‘just in case you were wondering.’

Rebus couldn’t quite sound disinterested. ‘How did you find him?’

With his hands still behind his head, Holmes managed a shrug. ‘He was on file, sir. I just sat there flipping through them till I spotted him. That acne of his is as good as a tattoo. James Iain Bankhead, known to his friends as Jib. According to the file, you’ve arrested him a couple of times yourself in the past.’

‘Jib Bankhead?’ said Rebus, as though trying to place the name. ‘Yes, rings a bell.’

‘I’d have thought it’d ring a whole fire station, sir. You last arrested him three months ago.’ Holmes made a show of consulting the file on his desk. ‘Funny, you not recognising him…’ Holmes kept his eyes on the file.

‘I must be getting old,’ Rebus said.

Holmes looked up. ‘So what now, sir?’

‘Where is he?’

‘Interview Room B.’

‘Let him stay there then. Can’t do any harm. Has he said anything?’

‘Not a word. Mind you, he did seem surprised when I paid him a visit.’

‘But he kept his mouth shut?’

Holmes nodded. ‘So what now?’ he repeated.

‘Now,’ said Rebus, ‘you come along with me, Brian. I’ll tell you all about it on the way…’

Wardle lived in a flat carved from a detached turn-of-the-century house on the south-east outskirts of the city. Rebus pressed the bell on the wall to the side of the substantial main door. After a moment, there was the muffled sound of footsteps, three clicks as locks were undone, and the door opened from within.

‘Good evening, Mr Wardle,’ said Rebus. I see you’re security-conscious at home at least.’ Rebus was nodding towards the door, with its three separate keyholes, spy-hole and security chain.

‘You can’t be too-’ Wardle broke off as he saw what Brian Holmes was carrying. ‘The deck!’

‘Good as new,’ said Rebus, ‘apart from a few fingerprints.’

Wardle opened the door wide. ‘Come in, come in.’

They entered a narrow entrance hall which led to a flight of stairs. Obviously the ground floor of the house did not belong to Wardle. He was dressed much as he had been in the shop: denims too young for his years, an open-necked shirt louder than a Wee Free sermon, and brown moccasins.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, leading them towards the stairs. ‘I really can’t. But you could have brought it round to the shop…’

‘Well, sir, we were going to be passing anyway.’ Rebus closed the door, noting the steel plate on its inner face. The door-surround too was reinforced with metal plates. Wardle turned and noticed Rebus’s interest.

‘Wait till you see the hi-fi, Inspector. It’ll all become clear.’

They could already hear the music. The bass was vibrating each step of the stairs.

‘You must have sympathetic neighbours,’ Rebus remarked.

‘She’s ninety-two,’ said Wardle. ‘Deaf as a post. I went round to explain to her about the hi-fi just after I moved in. She couldn’t hear a word I was saying.’

They were at the top of the stairs now, where a smaller hallway led into a huge open-plan living-room and kitchen. A sofa and two chairs had been pushed hard back against one wall, and there was nothing but space between them and the opposite wall, where the hi-fi system sat, with large floor-standing speakers either side of it. One rack comprised half a dozen black boxes, boasting nothing to Rebus’s eye but a single red light.

‘Amplifiers,’ Wardle explained, turning down the music.

‘What, all of them?’

‘Pre-amp and power supply, plus an amp for each driver.’

Holmes had rested the cassette deck on the floor, but Wardle moved it away immediately.

‘Spoils the sound,’ he said, ‘if there’s an extra piece of gear in the room.’

Holmes and Rebus stared at one another. Wardle was in his element now. ‘Want to hear something? What’s your taste?’

‘Rolling Stones?’ Rebus asked.

‘ Sticky Fingers, Exile, Let It Bleed?’

‘That last one,’ said Rebus.

Wardle went over to where a twenty-foot row of LPs was standing against the wall beneath the window.

‘I thought those went out with the Ark,’ said Holmes.

Wardle smiled. ‘You mean with the CD. No, vinyl’s still the best. Sit down.’ He went over to the turntable and took off the LP he’d been playing. Rebus and Holmes sat. Holmes looked to Rebus, who nodded. Holmes got up again.

‘Actually, could I use your loo?’ he asked.

‘First right out on the landing,’ said Wardle. Holmes left the room. ‘Any particular track, Inspector?’

‘“Gimme Shelter”,’ stated Rebus. Wardle nodded agreement, set the needle on the disc, rose to his feet, and turned up the volume. ‘Something to drink?’ he asked. The room exploded into a wall of sound. Rebus had heard the phrase ‘wall of sound’ before. Well, here he was with his nose pressed against it.

‘A whisky, please,’ he yelled. Wardle tipped his head towards the hall. ‘Same for him.’ Wardle nodded and went off towards the kitchen area. Pinned to the sofa as he was, Rebus looked around the room. He had eyes for everything but the hi-fi. Not that there was much to see. A small coffee table whose surface seemed to be covered with arcana to do with the hi-fi system, cleaning-brushes and such like. There were some nice-looking prints on the wall. Actually, one looked like a real painting rather than a print: the surface of a swimming-pool, someone moving through the depths. But no TV, no shelves, no books, no knick-knacks, no family photos. Rebus knew Wardle was divorced. He also knew Wardle drove a Y-registered Porsche 911. He knew quite a lot about Wardle, but not yet enough…

A healthy glass of whisky was handed to him. Wardle placed another on the floor for Holmes, then returned to the kitchen and came back with a glass for himself. He sat down next to Rebus.

‘What do you think?’

‘Fantastic,’ Rebus called back.

Wardle grinned.

‘How much would this lot cost me?’ Rebus asked, hoping Wardle wouldn’t notice how long Holmes had been out of the room.

‘About twenty-five K.’

‘You’re joking. My flat didn’t cost that.’

Wardle just laughed. But he was glancing towards the living-room door. He looked as though he might be about to say something, when the door opened and Holmes came in, rubbing his hands as though drying them off. He smiled, sat, and toasted Wardle with his glass. Wardle went over to the amplifier to turn down the volume. Holmes nodded towards Rebus. Rebus toasted no one in particular and finished his drink. The volume dipped.