Sammy was waiting for them in the narrow hallway, and led them into the cramped living-room. There was a guitar on a wicker chair and Candice lifted it, setting herself on the chair and strumming a chord.

'Sammy,' Rebus said, `this is Candice.’

`Hello there,' Sammy said. `Happy Halloween.’

Candice was putting chords together now. `Hey, that's Oasis.’

Candice looked up, smiled. `Oasis,' she echoed.

`I've got the CD somewhere…’

Sammy examined a tower of CDs next to the hi-fi. `Here it is. Shall I put it on?’

`Yes, yes.’

Sammy switched the hi-fi on, told Candice she was going to make some coffee, and beckoned for Rebus to follow her into the kitchen.

`So who is she?’

The kitchen was tiny. Rebus stayed in the doorway.

`She's a prostitute. Against her will. I don't want her pimp getting her.’

`Where's she from again?’

` Sarajevo.’

`And she doesn't have much English?’

`How's your Serbo-Croat?’

`Rusty.’

Rebus looked around. `Where's your boyfriend?’

`Out working.’

`On the book?’

Rebus didn't like Ned Farlowe. Partly it was that name: `Neds' were what the Sunday Post called hooligans. They robbed old ladies of their pension books and walking-frames. Those were the Neds of this world. And Farlowe meant Chris Farlowe: `Out of Time', a number one that should have belonged to the Stones. Farlowe was researching a history of organised crime in Scotland.

`Sod's law,' Sammy said. `He needs money to buy the time to write the thing.’

`So what's he doing?’

`Just some freelance stuff. How long am I babysitting?’

`A couple of days at most. Just till I find somewhere else.’

`What will he do if he finds her?’

`I'm not that keen to find out.’

Sammy finished rinsing the mugs. `She looks like me, doesn't she?’

`Yes, she does.’

`I've got some time off coming. Maybe I'll phone in, see if I can stay here with her. What's her real name?’

`She hasn't told me.’

`Has she any clothes?’

`At a hotel. I'll get a patrol car to bring them.’

`She's really in danger?’

`She might be.’

Sammy looked at him. `But I'm not?’

`No,' her father said. `Because it'll be our secret.’

`And what do I tell Ned?’

`Keep it short, just say you're doing your dad a favour.’

`You think a journalist's going to be content with that?’

`If he loves you.’

The kettle boiled, clicked off. Sammy poured water into three mugs. Through in the living-room, Candice's interest had shifted to a pile of American comic books.

Rebus drank his coffee, then left them to their music and their comics. Instead of going home, he made for Young Street and the Ox, ordering a mug of instant. Fifty pee. Pretty good deal, when you thought about it. Fifty pence for… what, half a pint? A pound a pint? Cheap at twice the price. Well, one-point-seven times the price, which would take it to the price of a beer… give or take.

Not that Rebus was counting.

The back room was quiet, just somebody scribbling away at the table nearest the fire. He was a regular, a journalist of some kind. Rebus thought of Ned Farlowe, who would want to know about Candice, but if anyone could keep him at bay, Sammy could. Rebus took out his mobile, phoned Colquhoun's office.

`Sorry to bother you again,' he said.

`What is it now?’

The lecturer sounded thoroughly exasperated. `Those refugees you mentioned. Any chance you could have a word with them?’

`Well, I…’

Colquhoun cleared his throat. `Yes, I suppose I could talk to them. Does that mean…?’

'Candice is safe.’

`I don't have their number here.’

Colquhoun sounded fuddled again. `Can it wait till I go home?’

`Phone me when you've talked to them. And thanks.’

Rebus rang off, finished his coffee, and called Siobhan Clarke at home.

`I need a favour,' he said, feeling like a broken record.

`How much trouble will it get me in?’

`Almost none.’

`Can I have that in writing?’

`Think I'm stupid?’

Rebus smiled. `I want to see the files on Telford.’

`Why not just ask Claverhouse?’

`I'd rather ask you.’

`It's a lot of stuff. Do you want photocopies?’

`Whatever.’

`I'll see what I can do.’

Voices were raised in the front bar. `You're not in the Ox, are you?’

`As it happens, yes.’

`Drinking?’

`A mug of coffee.’

She laughed in disbelief and told him to take care. Rebus ended the call and stared at his mug. People like Siobhan Clarke, they could drive a man to drink.

It was 7 a.m. when the buzzer sounded, telling him there Was someone at his tenement's main door. He staggered along was all to the intercom, and asked who the bloody hell it was, he `The croissant man,' a rough English voice replied.

`The what?’

`Come on, dick-brain, wakey-wakey. Memory's not so hot the e days, eh?’

A name tilted into Rebus's head. 'Abernethy?, 'Now open up, it's perishing down here.’

Rebus pushed the buzzer to let Abernethy in, then jogged back the bedroom to put on some clothes. His mind felt numb Abernethy was a DI in Special Branch, London. The last time he) d been in Edinburgh had been to chase terrorists. Rebus wondered what the hell he was doing here now.

When the doorbell sounded, Rebus tucked in his shirt and walked back down the hall. True to his word, Abernethy was carrying a bag of croissants. He hadn't changed much: same faded denims and black leather bomber, same cropped brown hair spiked with gel. His face was heavy, pockmarked, and his eyes an unnerving, psycho, path's blue.

`How've you been, mate?’

Abernethy slapped Rebus's shoulder and marched past him into the kitchen. `Get the kettle on.’ Like they did this every day of the week. Like they didn't live four hundred miles apart.

'Abernethy, what the hell are you doing here?’

`Feeding you, of course, same thing the English have always done for the Jocks. Got any butter?’

`Try the butter-dish.’

`Plates?’

Rebus pointed to a cupboard.

`Bet you drink instant: am I right?’

'Abernethy…’

`Let's get this ready first, then talk; okay?’

`The kettle boils quicker if you switch it on at the plug.’

`Right.’

`And I think there's some jam.’

`Any honey?’

`Do I look like a bee?’

Abernethy smirked. `Old Georgie Flight sends his love, by the way. Word is, he'll be retiring soon.’

George Flight: another ghost from Rebus's past. Abernethy had unscrewed the top from the coffee jar and was sniffing the granules.

`How fresh is this?’

He wrinkled his nose. `No class, John.’

`Unlike you, you mean? When did you get here?’

`Hit town half an hour ago.’

`From London?’

`Stopped a couple of hours in a lay-by, got my head down. That A1 is murder though. North of Newcastle, it's like coming into a third-world country.’

`Did you drive four hundred miles just to insult me?’

They took everything through to the table in the living-room, Rebus shoving aside books and notepads, stuff about the Second World War.

`So,' he said, as they sat down, `I'm assuming this isn't a social call?’

`Actually it is, in a way. I could have just telephoned, but I suddenly thought: wonder how the old devil's getting on? Next thing I knew, I was in the car and heading for the North Circular.’

`I'm touched.’

`I've always tried to keep track of what you're up to.’

'Why?’

`Because last time we met… well, you're different, aren't you?’

`Am I?’

`I mean, you're not a team player. You're a loner, bit like me. Loners can be useful.’

`Useful?’

`For undercover, jobs that are a bit out of the ordinary.’

`You think I'm Special Branch material?’