Clarke checked her watch. `Ninety minutes till the changeover.’

`You could do with the heating on,' Rebus offered. Claverhouse turned in his seat.

`That's what I keep telling her, but she won't have it.’

`Why not?’

He caught Clarke's eyes in the rearview. She was smiling.

`Because,' Claverhouse said, `it means running the engine, and running the engine when we're not going anywhere is wasteful. Global warming or something.’

`It's true,' Clarke said.

Rebus winked at her reflection. It looked like she'd been accepted by Claverhouse, which meant acceptance by the whole team at Fettes. Rebus, the perennial outsider, envied her the ability to conform.

`Bloody useless anyway,' Claverhouse continued. `The bugger knows we're here. The van was blown after twenty minutes, the plumber routine didn't even get Ormiston over the threshhold, and now here we are, the only sods on the whole street. We couldn't blend in less if we were doing panto.’

`Visible presence as a deterrent,' Rebus said.

`Aye, right, a few more nights of this and I'm sure Tommy'll be back on the straight and narrow.’

Claverhouse shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. `Any word of Candice?’

Sammy had asked her father the same thing. Rebus shook his head.

`You still think Taravicz snatched her? No chance she did a runner?’

Rebus snorted.

`Just because you want it to be them doesn't mean it was. My advice: leave it to us. Forget about her. You've got that Adolf thing to keep you busy.’

`Don't remind me.’

`Did you ever track down Colquhoun?’

`Sudden holiday. His office got a doctor's line.’

`I think we did for him.’

Rebus realised one of his hands was caressing his breast pocket. `So is Telford in the cafe or what?’

`Went in about an hour ago,' Clarke said. `There's a room at the back, he uses that. He seems to like the arcade, too. Those games where you sit on a motorbike and do the circuit.’

`We need someone on the inside,' Claverhouse said. `Either that or wire the place.’

`We couldn't even get a plumber in there,' Rebus said. `You think someone with a fistful of radio mikes is going to fare any better?’

`Couldn't do any worse.’ Claverhouse switched on the radio, seeking music.

`Please,' Clarke pleaded, `no country and western.’

Rebus stared out at the cafe. It was well-lit with a net curtain covering the bottom half of its window. On the top half was written `Big Bites For Small Change'. There was a menu taped to the window, and a sandwich board on the pavement outside, which gave the cafe's hours as 6.30 a.m. – 8.30 p.m. The place should have been closed for an hour.

`How are his licences?’

`He has lawyers,' Clarke said.

`First thing we tried,' Claverhouse added. `He's applied for a latenight extension. I can't see the neighbours complaining.’

`Well,' Rebus said, `much as I'd love to sit around here chatting…’

`End of liaison?’ Clarke asked. She was keeping her humour, but Rebus could see she was tired. Disrupted sleep pattern, body chill, plus the boredom of a surveillance you know is going nowhere. It was never easy partnering Claverhouse: no great fund of stories, just constant reminding that they had to do everything `the right way', meaning by the book.

`Do us a favour,' Claverhouse said.

`What?’

`There's a chippy across from the Odeon.’

`What do you want?’

`Just a poke of chips.’

'Siobhan?’

`Irn-Bru.’

`Oh, and John?’

Claverhouse added as Rebus stepped out of the car. `Ask them for a hot-water bottle while you're at it.’

A car turned into the street, speeding up then screeching to a halt outside the cafe. The back door nearest the kerb opened, but nobody got out. The car accelerated away, door still hanging open, but there was something on the pavement now, something crawling, trying to push itself upright.

`Get after them!' Rebus shouted. Claverhouse had already turned the ignition, slammed the gear-shift into first. Clarke was on the radio as the car pulled away. As Rebus crossed the street, the.man got to his feet. He stood with one hand against the cafe window, the other held to his head. As Rebus approached, the man seemed to sense his presence, staggered away from the cafe into the road.

`Christ!' he yelled. `Help me!' He fell to his knees again, both hands scrabbling at his scalp. His face was a mask of blood. Rebus crouched in front of him.

`We'll get you an ambulance,' he said. A crowd had gathered at the window of the cafe. The door had been pulled open, and two young men were watching, like they were onlookers at a piece of street theatre. Rebus recognised them: Kenny Houston and PrettyBoy. `Don't just stand there!' he yelled. Houston looked to PrettyBoy, but Pretty-Boy wasn't moving. Rebus took out his mobile, called in the emergency, his eyes fixing on Pretty-Boy: black wavy hair, eyeliner. Black leather jacket, black polo-neck, black jeans. Stones: `Paint it Black'. But the face chalk-white, like it had been powdered. Rebus walked up to the door. Behind him, the man was beginning to wail, a roar of pain echoing into the night sky.

`We don't know him,' Pretty-Boy said.

`I didn't ask if you knew him, I asked for help.’

Pretty-Boy didn't blink. `The magic word.’

Rebus got right up into his face. Pretty-Boy smiled and nodded towards Houston, who went to fetch towels.

Most of the customers had returned to their tables. One was studying the bloody palmprint on the window. Rebus saw another group of people, watching from the doorway of a room to the back of the cafe. At their centre stood Tommy Telford: tall, shoulders straight, legs apart. He looked almost soldierly.

`I thought you took care of your lads, Tommy!' Rebus called to him. Telford looked straight through him, then turned back into the room. The door closed. More screams from outside. Rebus grabbed the dishtowels from Houston and ran. The bleeder was on his feet again, weaving like a boxer in defeat.

`Take your hands down for a sec.’

The man lifted both hands from his matted hair, and Rebus saw a section of scalp rise with them, like it was attached to the skull by a hinge. A thin jet of blood hit Rebus in the face. He turned away and felt it against his ear, his neck. Blindly he stuck the towel on to the man's head.

`Hold this.’

Rebus grabbing the hands, forcing them on to the towel. Headlights: the unmarked police car. Claverhouse had his window down.

`Lost them in Causewayside. Stolen car, I'll bet. They'll be hoofing it.’

`We need to get this one to Emergency.’

Rebus pulled open the back door. Clarke had found a box of paper hankies and was pulling out a wad.

`I think he's beyond Kleenex,' Rebus said as she handed them over.

`They're for you,' she said.

It was a three-minute drive to the Royal Infirmary. Accident amp; Emergency was gearing up for firework casualties. Rebus went to the toilets, stripped, and rinsed himself off as best he could. His shirt was damp and cold to the touch. A line of blood had dried down the front of his chest. He turned to look in the mirror, saw more blood on his back. He had wet a clump of blue paper towels. There was a change of clothes in his car, but his car was back near Flint Street. The door of the toilets opened and Claverhouse came in.

`Best I could do,' he said, holding out a black t-shirt. There was a garish print on the front, a zombie with demon's eyes, wielding a scythe. `Belongs to one of the junior doctors, made me promise to get it back to him.’

Rebus dried himself off with another wad of towels. He asked Claverhouse how he looked.

`There's still some on your brow.’

Claverhouse wiped the bits Rebus had missed.

`How is he?’ Rebus asked.