“By the time Andy got there,” Rebus said, “there was no sign of him. He’d gone heading off down towards New Street. So that’s where Andy and his partner went. They’d called it in and been authorized to unlock their guns… had them on their laps. Flak jackets on… Backup was on its way, just in case. You know where the railway passes over the bottom of New Street?”

“At Calton Road?”

Rebus nodded. “Stone railway arches. It’s pretty gloomy down there. Not much in the way of street lighting.”

Siobhan’s turn to nod: it was a desolate spot all right.

“Lots of nooks and crannies, too,” Rebus continued. “Andy’s partner thought he spotted something in the shadows. They stopped the car, got out. Saw these four guys… probably the same ones. Kept their distance, asked if they were carrying any weapons. Ordered them to place anything on the ground. The way Andy told it, it was like shadows that kept shifting…” He rested his head against the back of the seat, closed his eyes. “Wasn’t sure if what he was looking at was a shadow or flesh and blood. He was unclipping his flashlight from his belt when he thought he saw movement, a hand stretching, pointing something. He aimed his own gun, safety off…”

“What happened?”

“Something fell to the ground. It was a pistol: a replica, as it turned out. But too late…”

“He’d fired?”

Rebus nodded. “Not that he hit anyone. He was aiming at the ground. Ricochet could have gone anywhere…”

“But it didn’t.”

“No.” Rebus paused. “There had to be an inquiry: happens every time a weapon’s discharged. Partner backed him up, but Andy knew the guy was just mouthing words. He started doubting himself.”

“And the guy with the gun?”

“Four of them. None would own up to carrying it. Three were wearing parkas, and the kid from the nightclub queue wasn’t about to ID the carrier.”

“The Lost Boys?”

Rebus nodded. “That’s the neighborhood name for them. They’re the ones you ran into on Cockburn Street. The leader-his name’s Rab Fisher-he went to court for carrying the replica, but the case was booted out… waste of the lawyers’ time. And meanwhile, Andy Callis was playing it over and over again in his head, trying to sort out the shadows from the truth…”

“And this is the Lost Boys’ patch?” Siobhan asked, peering out through the windshield.

Rebus nodded. Siobhan was thoughtful, then asked: “Where did the gun come from?”

“At a guess, Peacock Johnson.”

“Is that why you wanted a word with him that day he was brought into St. Leonard’s?”

Rebus nodded again.

“And now you want a word with the Lost Boys?”

“Looks like they’ve gone home for the night,” Rebus admitted, turning his head to watch from the passenger-side window.

“You think Callis came here on purpose?”

“Maybe.”

“Looking to confront them?”

“They got off scot-free, Siobhan. Andy wasn’t too thrilled at that.”

She was thoughtful. “So why aren’t we telling all this to Craigmillar?”

“I’ll let them know.” He felt her staring. “Cross my heart.”

“It could have been an accident. That railway line would look like an escape route.”

“Maybe.”

“Nobody saw anything.”

He turned towards her. “Spit it out.”

She sighed. “It’s just the way you keep trying to fight other people’s battles for them.”

“Is that what I do?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Well, I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

“It doesn’t upset me. But sometimes…” She swallowed back what she’d been about to say.

“Sometimes?” Rebus encouraged her.

She shook her head, exhaled noisily and stretched her back, working her neck. “Thank God for the weekend. You got any plans?”

“Thought I might do some hill walking… pump some iron at the gym…”

“Just a hint of sarcasm there?”

“Just a hint.” He’d spotted something. “Slow down a bit.” He was turning to watch from the rear window. “Back the car up.”

She did so. They were on a street of low-rise flats. A supermarket cart, itself a long way from home, sat abandoned on the pavement. Rebus was looking down an alley between two blocks. One… no, two figures. Just silhouettes, so close together they seemed to merge. Then Rebus realized what was happening.

“A good old-fashioned knee-trembler,” Siobhan commented. “Who said the art of romance was dead?”

One of the faces had turned towards the car, noting the idling engine. A rough masculine voice called out: “Enjoying the view, pal? Better than you’re getting at home, eh?”

“Drive,” Rebus ordered.

Siobhan drove.

They ended up at St. Leonard’s, Siobhan explaining that her car was there, without elaborating any further. Rebus had told her he’d be okay to drive home: Arden Street was five minutes away. But by the time he parked outside his flat, his hands were burning. In the bathroom, he smeared more cream on and took a couple of painkillers, hoping he’d be able to snatch a few hours’ sleep. A whiskey might help, so he poured a large measure and sat himself down in the living room. The laptop had gone from screen-saver to sleep mode. He didn’t bother waking it, walked over to his dining table instead. He had some stuff about the SAS laid out there, alongside the copy of Herdman’s personnel file. He sat down in front of it.

Enjoying the view, pal?

Better than you’re getting at home?

Enjoying the view…?

The view was magnificent. Siobhan was in the front, next to the pilot. Rebus was tucked in behind, an empty seat next to him. The noise from the propellers was deafening.

“We could’ve taken the corporate plane,” Doug Brimson was explaining, “but the fuel bill’s massive, and it might’ve been too big for the LZ.”

LZ: landing zone. Not a term Rebus had heard since he’d left the army.

“Corporate?” Siobhan was asking.

“I’ve got a seven-seater. Companies hire me to fly them to meetings-otherwise known as ‘jollies.’ I lay on some chilled champagne, crystal glasses…”

“Sounds fun.”

“Sorry, all we’ve got today is a canteen of tea.” He offered a laugh, turning to look at Rebus. “I was in Dublin for the weekend, flew a bunch of bankers there for some rugby match. They paid for me to stay over.”

“Lucky you.”

“A few weekends back, it was Amsterdam: businessman’s stag party…”

Rebus was thinking of his own weekend. When Siobhan had picked him up this morning, she’d asked what he’d done.

“Not much,” he’d said. “You?”

“Ditto.”

“Funny, the guys down at Leith said you’d been dropping in.”

“Funny, they told me the same thing about you.”

“Enjoying it so far?” Brimson asked now.

“So far,” Rebus said. In truth, he had no great head for heights. All the same, he’d watched with fascination the aerial view of Edinburgh, amazed at how indistinguishable landmarks like the Castle and Calton Hill were from their surroundings. No mistaking the volcanic heft of Arthur’s Seat, but the buildings suffered from a uniform gray coloring. Still, the elaborate patterning of the New Town’s geometric streets was impressive, and then they were out over the Forth, passing South Queensferry and the road and rail bridges. Rebus sought Port Edgar School, saw Hopetoun House first and then the school building not half a mile distant. He could even make out the Portakabin. They were heading west now, following the M8 towards Glasgow.

Siobhan was asking Brimson if he did a lot of corporate work.

“Depends how the economy’s doing. To be honest, if a company’s sending four or five people to a meeting, it can be cheaper to charter than to fly regular business class.”

“Siobhan tells me you were in the forces, Mr. Brimson,” Rebus said, leaning as far forward as his seat belt would allow.