`So is there some problem, Inspector?’

`Yes, there's a problem. We picked up one of your girls.’

`My what?’

`She calls herself Candice. That's about as much as we know. But foreign lassies are a new one on me. And you're fairly new around here, too.’

`I'm not getting your drift, Inspector. I supply goods and services to the entertainment sector. Are you accusing me of being a pimp?’

Rebus stuck out a foot and pushed the bike sideways. On the screen, it spun and hit a crash barrier. A moment later, the screen changed. Back to the start of the race.

`See, Inspector,' Telford said, still not turning round. `That's the beauty of games. You can always start again after an accident. Not so easy in real life.’

`What if I cut the power? Game over.’

Slowly, Telford swivelled from the hips. Now he was looking at Rebus. Close up, he looked so young. Most of the gangsters Rebus had known, they'd had a worn look, undernourished but overfed. Telford had the look of some new strain of bacteria, not yet tested or understood.

`So what is it, Rebus? Some message from Cafferty?’

'Candice,' Rebus said quietly, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his anger. With a couple of drinks in him, he'd have had Telford on the floor by now. `From tonight, she's off the game, understood?’

`I don't know any Candice.’

`Understood?’

`Hang on, let's see if I've got this. You want me to agree with you that a woman I've never met should stop touting her hole?’

Smiles from the spectators. Telford turned back to his game. `Where's this woman from anyway?’ he asked, almost casually.

`We're not sure,' Rebus lied. He didn't want Telford knowing any more than was necessary.

`Must have been a great little chat the two of you had.’

`She's scared shitless.’

`Me, too, Rebus. I'm scared you're going to bore me to death. This Candice, did she give you a taste of the goods? I'm betting it's not every scrubber would get you this het up.’

Laughter, Rebus its brunt.

`She's off the game, Telford. Don't think about touching her.’

`Not with a bargepole, pal. Myself, I'm a clean-living sort of individual. I say my prayers last thing at night.’

`And kiss your cuddly bear?’

Telford looked at him again. `Don't believe all the stories, Inspector. Here, grab a bacon sarnie on your way out, I think there's one going spare.’

Rebus stood his ground a few moments longer, then turned away. `And tell the mugs out front I said hello.’

Rebus walked back through the arcade and out into the night, heading for Nicolson Street. He was wondering what he was going to do with Candice. Simple answer: let her go, and hope she had the sense to keep moving. As he made to pass a parked car, its window slid down.

`Fucking well get in,' a voice ordered from the passenger seat. Rebus stopped, looked at the man who'd spoken, recognised the face.

'Ormiston,' he said, opening the back door of the Orion. `Now I know what he meant.’

`Who?’

`Tommy Telford. I'm to tell you he said hello.’

The driver stared at Ormiston. `Rumbled again.’

He didn't sound surprised. Rebus recognised the voice.

`Hello, Claverhouse.’

DS Claverhouse, DC Ormiston: Scottish Crime Squad, Fettes's finest. On surveillance. Claverhouse: as thin as `twa ply o' reek', as Rebus's father would have said. Ormiston: freckle-faced and with Mick McManus's hair – slick, puddingbowl cut, unfeasibly black.

`You were blown before I walked in there, if that's any consolation.’

`What the fuck were you doing?’

`Paying my respects. What about you?’

`Wasting our time,' Ormiston muttered.

The Crime Squad were out for Telford: good news for Rebus.

`I've got someone,' he said. `She works for Telford. She's frightened. You could help her.’

`The frightened ones don't talk.’

`This one might.’

Claverhouse stared at him. `And all we'd have to do is…?’

'Get her out of here, set her up somewhere.’

`Witness relocation?’

`If it comes to that.’

`What does she know?’

`I'm not sure. Her English isn't great.’

Claverhouse knew when he was being sold something. `Tell us,' he said.

Rebus told them. They tried not to look interested.

`We'll talk to her,' Claverhouse said.

Rebus nodded. `So how long has this been going on?’

`Ever since Telford and Cafferty squared off.’

`And whose side are we on?’

`We're the UN, same as always,' Claverhouse said. He spoke slowly, measuring each word and phrase. A careful man, D S Claverhouse. `Meantime, you go charging in like some bloody mercenary.’

`I've never been a great one for tactics. Besides, I wanted to see the bastard close up.’

`And?’

`He looks like a kid.’

`And he's as clean as a whistle,' Claverhouse said. `He's got a dozen lieutenants who'd take the fall for him.’

At the word `lieutenants', Rebus's mind flashed to Joseph Lintz. Some men gave orders, some carried them out: which group was the more culpable? `Tell me something,' he said, `the teddy bear story… is it true?’

Claverhouse nodded. `In the passenger seat of his Range Rover. A fucking huge yellow thing, sort they raffle in the pub Sunday lunchtime.’

`So what's the story?’

Ormiston turned in his seat. `Ever hear of Teddy Willocks? Glasgow hardman. Carpentry nails and a claw-hammer.’

Rebus nodded. `You welched on someone, Willocks came to see you with the carpentry bag.’

`But then,' Claverhouse took over, `Teddy got on the wrong side of some Geordie bastard. Telford was young, making a name for himself, and he very badly wanted an in with this Geordie, so he took care of Teddy.’

`And that's why he carries a teddy around with him,' Ormiston said. `A reminder to everyone.’

Rebus was thinking. Geordie meant someone from Newcastle. Newcastle, with its bridges over the Tyne…, ` Newcastle,' he said softly, leaning forward in his seat.

`What about it?’

`Maybe Candice was there. Her city of bridges. She might link Telford to this Geordie gangster.’

Ormiston and Claverhouse looked at one another.

`She'll need a safe place to stay,' Rebus told them. `Money, somewhere to go afterwards.’

`A first-class flight home if she helps us nail Telford.’

`I'm not sure she'll want to go home.’

`That's for later,' Claverhouse said. `First thing is to talk to her.’

`You'll need a translator.’

Claverhouse looked at him. `And of course you know just the man…?’

She was asleep in her cell, curled under the blanket, only her hair visible. The Mothers of Invention: `Lonely Little Girl'. The cell was in the women's block. Painted pink and blue, a slab to sleep on, graffiti scratched into the walls.

'Candice,' Rebus said quietly, squeezing her shoulder. She started awake, as if he'd administered an electric shock. `It's okay, it's me, John.’

She looked round blindly, focused on him slowly. `John,' she said. Then she smiled.

Claverhouse was off making phone calls, squaring things.,Ormiston stood in the doorway, appraising Candice. Not that Ormiston was known to be choosy. Rebus had tried Colquhoun at home, but there'd been no answer. So now Rebus was gesturing, letting her know they wanted to take her somewhere.

`A hotel,' he said.

She didn't like that word. She looked from him to Ormiston and back again.

`It's okay,' Rebus said. `It's just a place for you to sleep, that's all, somewhere safe. No Telford, nothing like that.’

She seemed to soften, came off the bed and stood in front of him. Her eyes seemed to say, I'll trust you, and if you let me down I won't be surprised.

Claverhouse came back. `All fixed,' he said, his examination falling on Candice. `She doesn't speak any English?’

`Not as practised in polite society.’

`In that case,' Ormiston said, `she should be fine with us.’