'Strawman.,' said Morris Gerald Cafferty, as he was escorted into the room by two prison guards.

Earlier in the year, Rebus had promised Cafferty he would put a Glasgow gangster, Uncle Joe Toal, behind bars. It hadn't worked, despite Rebus's best efforts. Toal, pleading old age and illness, was still a free man, like a war criminal excused for senility. Ever since then, Cafferty had felt Rebus owed him.

Cafferty sat down, rolled his neck a few times, loosening it.

`So?’ he asked.

Rebus nodded for the guards to leave, waited in silence until they'd gone. Then he slipped a quarter-bottle of Bell 's from his pocket.

`Keep it,' Cafferty told him. `From the look of you, I'd say your need was greater than mine.’

Rebus put the bottle back in his pocket. `I've brought a message from Newcastle.’

Cafferty folded his arms. `Jake Tarawicz?’

Rebus nodded. `He wants you to lay off Tommy Telford.’

`What does he mean?’

`Come on, Cafferty. That bouncer who got stabbed, the dealer wounded… There's war breaking out.’

Cafferty stared at the detective. `Not my doing.’

Rebus snorted, but looking into Cafferty's eyes, he found himself almost believing.

`So who was it?’ he asked quietly.

`How do I know?’

`Nevertheless, war is breaking out.’

`That's as may be. What's in it for Tarawicz?’

`He does business with Tommy.’

`And to protect that, he needs to have me warned off by a cop?’

Cafferty was shaking his head. `You really buy that?’

`I don't know,' Rebus said.

`One way to finish this.’

Cafferty paused. `Take Telford out of the game.’

He saw the look on Rebus's face. `I don't mean top him, I mean put him away. That should be your job, Strawman.’

`I only came to deliver a message.’

`And what's in it for you? Something in Newcastle?’

`Maybe.’

`Are you Tarawicz's man now?’

`You know me better than that.’

`Do I?’

Cafferty sat back in his chair, stretched out his legs. `I wonder about that sometimes. I mean, it doesn't keep me awake at night, but I wonder all the same.’

Rebus leaned on the table. `You must have a bit salted away. Why can't you just be content with that?’

Cafferty laughed. The air felt charged; there might have been only the two of them left in the world. `You want me to retire?’

`A good boxer knows when to stop.’

`Then neither of us would be much cop in the ring, would we? Got any plans to retire, Strawman?’

Despite himself, Rebus smiled.

`Thought not. Do I have to say something for you to take back to Tarawicz?’

Rebus shook his head. `That wasn't the deal.’

`Well, if he does come asking, tell him to get some life insurance, the kind with death benefits.’

Rebus looked at Cafferty. Prison might have softened him, but only physically.

`I'd be a happy man if someone took Telford out of the game,' Cafferty went on. `Know what I mean, Strawman? It'd be worth a lot to me.’

Rebus stood up. `No deal,' he said. `Personally, I'd be happy if you wiped one another out. I'd be jumping for joy at ring-side.’

`Know what happens at ring-side?’

Cafferty rubbed at his temples. `You tend to get spattered with blood.’

`As long as it's someone else's.’

The laughter came from deep within Cafferty's chest. `You're not a spectator, Strawman. It's not in your nature.’

`And you're some kind of psychologist?’

`Maybe not,' said Cafferty. `But I know what gets people excited.’

`Cover my face as the animals cry.’

Running through the hospital, stopping nurses to ask directions. Sweat dripping off him, tie hanging loose around his neck. Taking right turns, left turns, looking for signs. Whose fault? He kept asking himself that. A message which failed to reach him. Because he was on a surveillance. Because he wasn't in radio contact. Because the station didn't know how important the message was.

Nom running, a stitch in his side. He'd run all the may from the car.

Up two flights of stairs, down corridors. The place was quiet. Middle of the night.

`Maternity!' he called to a man pushing a trolley. The man pointed to a set of doors. He pushed through them. Three nurses in a glass cubicle. One of them came out.

`Can I help?’

`I'm John Rebus. My wife… ' She gave him a hard look. `Third bed along.’

Pointing… Third bed along, curtains closed around it. He pulled the curtains open. Rhona lay on her side, face still flushed, hair sticking to her brow. And beside her, nuzzling into her, a tiny perfection with wisps of brown hair and black, unfocused eyes.

He touched the nose, ran a finger round the curves of an ear. The face twitched. He bent past it to kiss his wife.

'Rhona… I'm really sorry. They didn't get the message to me until ten minutes ago. How did it…? I mean… he's beautiful.’

`He's a she,' his wife said, turning away from him.

He didn't want anyone else taking his work. It was his. He owned it; it owned him.

`Look, John, you're going to want some time off, right?’

`I can handle things, sir.’

His gaze met the Farmer's. `Please.’

Across the hall in the CID room he nodded as everyone came up to say how sorry they were. One person stayed at their desk – Bill Pryde knew Rebus was coming to see him.

`Morning, Bill.’

Pryde nodded. They'd met in the wee small hours at the Infirmary. Ned Farlowe had been napping in a chair, so they'd stepped into the corridor to talk. Pryde looked tireder now. He had loosened the top button of his dark green shirt. His brown suit looked lived-in.

Thanks for sticking with it,' Rebus said, drawing over a chair. Thinking: I'd rather have had someone else, someone sharper…

`No problem.’

`Any news?’

`A couple of good eyewitnesses. They were waiting to cross at the lights.’

`What's their story?’

Pryde considered his reply. He knew he was dealing with a father as well as a cop. `She was crossing the road. Looked like she was heading down Minto Street, maybe making for the bus stop.’

Rebus shook his head. `She was walking, Bill. Going to a friend's in Gilmour Road.’

She'd said as much over the pizza, apologising that she couldn't stay longer. Just one more coffee at the end of the meal… one more coffee and she wouldn't have been there at that moment. Or if she'd accepted his offer of a lift… When you thought about life, you thought of it as chunks of time, but really all it was was a series of connected moments, any one of which could change you completely.

'The car was heading south out of town,' Pryde went on. `Looks like he ran a red light. Motorist sitting behind him seemed to think so.’

`Reckon he was drunk?’

Pryde nodded. `Way he was driving. I mean, could be he just lost control, but in that case why didn't he stop?’

`Description?’

Pryde shook his head. `We've got a dark car, a bit sporty. Nobody caught the licence plate.’

`It's a busy enough street, must've been other cars around.’

`A couple of people have called in.’

Pryde flicked through his notes. `Nothing helpful, but I'm going to interview them, see if I can jog a memory or two.’

`Could the car have been nicked? Maybe that's why he was in a hurry.’

`I can check.’

`I'll help you.’

Pryde considered this. `You sure?’

`Try and stop me, Bill.’

`No skid marks,' Pryde said, `no sign that he tried braking, either before or after.’

They were standing at the junction of Minto Street and Newington Road. The cross-streets were Salisbury Place and Salisbury Road. Cars, vans and buses queued at the traffic lights as pedestrians crossed the road.

It could have been any one of you, Rebus thought. Any one of them could have taken Sammy's place…