`They reckon he'll be okay, if he doesn't get an infection on the brain.’

`What do you think?’

`Message to Tommy from Big Ger. ’

`Is he one of Tommy's men?’

`He's not saying.’

`So what's his story?’

`Fell down a flight of steps, cracked his head at the bottom.’

`And the drop-off?’

`Says he can't remember.’

Claverhouse paused. `Eh, John…?’

`What?’

`One of the nurses wanted me to ask you something.’

His tone told Rebus all he needed to know. `AIDS test?’

`They just wondered.’

Rebus thought about it. Blood in his eyes, his ears, running down his neck. He looked himself over: no scratches or cuts. `Let's wait and see,' he said.

`Maybe we should pull the surveillance,' Claverhouse said, `leave them to get on with it.’

`And have a fleet of ambulances standing by to pick up the bodies?’

Claverhouse snorted. `Is this sort of thing Big Ger's style?’

`Very much so,' Rebus said, reaching for his jacket.

`But not that nightclub stabbing?’

`No.’

Claverhouse started laughing, but there was no humour to the sound. He rubbed his eyes. `Never got those chips, did we? Christ, I could use a drink.’

Rebus reached into his jacket for the quarter-bottle of Bell 's.

Claverhouse didn't seem surprised as he broke the seal. He took a gulp, chased it down with another, and handed the bottle back. `Just what the doctor ordered.’

Rebus started screwing the top back on.

`Not having one?’

`I'm on the wagon.’ Rebus rubbed a thumb over the label.

`Since when?’

`The summer.’

`So why carry a bottle around?’

Rebus looked at it. `Because that's not what it is.’

Claverhouse looked puzzled. `Then what is it?’

`A bomb.’

Rebus tucked the bottle back into his pocket. `A little suicide bomb.’

They walked back to A amp;E. Siobhan Clarke was waiting for them outside a closed door.

`They've had to sedate him,' she said. `He was up on his feet again, reeling all over the place.’

She pointed to marks on the floor airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.

`Do we have a name?’

`He's not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’

Rebus shrugged. `A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’

`Or a machete,' Claverhouse added. `Something like that.’

Clarke stared at him. `I smell whisky.’

Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.

`Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke's turn to shrug.

`Just one observation.’

`What's that?’

`I like the t-shirt.’

Claverhouse put money in the machine, got out three coffees. He'd called his office, told them the surveillance was suspended. Orders now were to stay at the hospital, see if the victim would say anything. The very least they wanted was an ID. Claverhouse handed a coffee to Rebus.

`White, no sugar.’

Rebus took the coffee with one hand. In the other he held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was his shirt. He'd have a go at cleaning it. It was a good shirt.

`You know, John,' Claverhouse said, `there's no point you hanging around.’

Rebus knew. His flat was a short walk away across The Meadows. His large, empty flat. There were students through the wall. They played music a lot, stuff he didn't recognise.

`You know Telford 's gang,' Rebus said. `Didn't you recognise the face?’

Claverhouse shrugged. `I thought he looked a bit like Danny Simpson.’

`But you're not sure?’

`If it's Danny, a name's about all we can hope to get out of him. Telford picks his boys with care.’

Clarke came towards them along the corridor. She took the coffee from Claverhouse.

`It's Danny Simpson,' she confirmed. `I just got another look, now the blood's been cleaned off.’

She took a swallow of coffee, frowned. `Where's the sugar?’

`You're sweet enough already,' Claverhouse told her.

`Why did they pick on Simpson?’ Rebus asked.

`Wrong place, wrong time?’

Claverhouse suggested.

`Plus he's pretty low down the pecking order,' Clarke added, `making it a gentle hint.’

Rebus looked at her. Short dark hair, shrewd face with a gleam to the eyes. He knew she worked well with suspects, kept them calm, listened carefully. Good on the street, too: fast on her feet as well as in her head.

`Like I say, John,' Claverhouse said, finishing his coffee, `any time you want to head off…’

Rebus looked up and down the empty corridor. `Am I in the way or something?’

`It's not that. But your job's liaison – period. I know the way you work: you get attached to cases, maybe even overattached. Look at Candice. I'm just saying…’

`You're saying, don't butt in?’

Colour rose to Rebus's cheeks: Look at Candice.

`I'm saying it's our case, not yours. That's all.’

Rebus's eyes narrowed. `I don't get it.’

Clarke stepped in. `John, I think all he means is '

`Whoah! It's okay, Siobhan. Let the man speak for himself.’

Claverhouse sighed, screwed up his empty cup and looked around for a bin. `John, investigating Telford means keeping half an eye on Big Ger Cafferty and his crew.’

`And?’

Claverhouse stared at him. `Okay, you want it spelling out? You went to Barlinnie yesterday – news travels in our business. You met Cafferty. The two of you had a chinwag.’

`He asked me to go,' Rebus lied.

Claverhouse held up his hands. `Fact is, as you've just said, he asked you and you went.’

Claverhouse shrugged.

`Are you saying I'm in his pocket?’

Rebus's voice had risen.

`Boys, boys,' Clarke said.

The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched his pockets for change. He smiled when he looked at them.

`Good evening.’

Early-thirties, black hair slicked back from his forehead. One kisscurl looped down between his eyebrows.

`Anyone got change of a pound?’

They looked in their pockets, couldn't find enough coins.

`Never mind.’

Though the machine was flashing EXACT MONEY ONLY he stuck in the pound coin and selected tea, black, no sugar. He stooped down to retrieve the cup, but didn't seem in a hurry to leave.

`You're police officers,' he said. His voice was a drawl, slightly nasal: Scottish upper-class. He smiled. `I don't think I know any of you professionally, but one can always tell.’

`And you're a lawyer,' Rebus guessed. The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. `Here to represent the interests of a certain Mr Thomas Telford.’

`I'm Daniel Simpson's legal advisor.’

`Which adds up to the same thing.’

`I believe Daniel's just been admitted.’

The man blew on his tea, sipped it.

`Who told you he was here?’

`Again, I don't believe that's any of your business, Detective…?’

`DI Rebus.’

The man transferred his cup to his left hand so he could hold out his right. `Charles Groal.’

He glanced at Rebus's tshirt. `Is that what you call "plain clothes", Inspector?’

Claverhouse and Clarke introduced themselves in turn. Groal made great show of handing out business cards.

`I take it,' he said, `you're loitering here in the hope of interviewing my client?’

`That's right,' Claverhouse said.

`Might I ask why, D S Claverhouse? Or should I address that question to your superior?’

`He's not my -' Claverhouse caught Rebus's look.

Groal raised an eyebrow. `Not your superior? And yet he manifestly is, being an Inspector to your Sergeant.’

He looked towards the ceiling, tapped a finger against his cup. `You're not strictly colleagues,' he said at last, bringing his gaze back down to focus on Claverhouse.