`I don't know.’

He paused. `I don't think it was an accident. And the man I think is behind it… Sammy isn't the first woman he's tried to destroy.’

Rebus looked into the priest's eyes. `I want to kill him.’

`But so far you haven't?’

`I haven't even talked to him.’

`Because you're worried what you might do?’

`Or not do.’

Rebus's mobile sounded. He gave a look of apology and switched it on.

`John, it's Bill.’

`Yes, Bill?’

`Green Rover 600.2 'Yes?’

`We've got it.’

The car had been parked illegally on the street outside Piershill Cemetery. There was a parking ticket on its windscreen, dated the previous afternoon. If anyone had checked, they'd have found the driver's-side door unlocked. Maybe someone had: the car was empty, no coins, no map-books or cassettes. The fascia had been removed from the radio/cassette. There were no keys in the ignition. A car transporter had arrived, and the Rover was being winched aboard.

`I called in a favour at Howdenhall,' Bill Pryde was saying, `they've promised to fingerprint it today.’

Rebus was studying the front passenger side. No dents, nothing to suggest this car had been used as a battering ram against his daughter.

`I think maybe we need your permission, John.’

`What for?’

`Someone should go to the Infirmary and print Sammy.’

Rebus stared at the front of the car, then got out the drawing. Yes, she'd put out a hand. Her prints might be there, invisible to him.

`Sure,' he said. `No problem. You think this is it?’

`I'll tell you once we print it.’

`You steal a car,' Rebus said, `then you hit someone with it, and leave it a couple of miles away.’

He looked around. `Ever been on this street before?’

Pryde shook his head. `Me neither.’

`Someone local?’

`I'm wondering why they stole it in the first place.’

`Stick false plates on and sell it,' Pryde suggested. `Spot of joyriding maybe.’

`Joy-riders don't leave cars looking like this.’

`No, but they'd had a fright. They'd just knocked someone down.’

`And they drove all the way over here before deciding to dump it?, 'Maybe it was stolen for a job, turn over a petrol station. Then they hit Sammy and decide to jump ship. Maybe the job was this side of town.’

`Or Sammy was the job.’

Pryde put a hand on his shoulder. `Let's see what the boffins turn up, eh?’

Rebus looked at him. `You don't go for it?’

`Look, it's a feeling you've got, and that's fair enough, but right now all you've got is that student's word for it. There were other witnesses, John, and I asked them all again, and they told me the same thing: it looked like the driver lost control, that's all.’

There was an edge of irritation to Pryde's voice. Rebus knew why: long hours.

`Will Howdenhall let you know tonight?’

`They promised. And I'll phone you straight away, okay?’

`On my mobile,' Rebus said. `I'm going to be on the move.’

He looked around. `There was something about Piershill Cemetery recently, wasn't there?’

'Kids,' Pryde said, nodding. `They pushed over a load of gravestones.’

Rebus remembered now. `Just the Jewish headstones, wasn't it?’

`I think so.’

And there, sprayed on the wall near the gates, the same piece of graffiti: Won't Anyone Help?

It was late evening, and Rebus was driving. Not the M90 into Fife: tonight, he was on the M8, heading west, heading for Glasgow. He'd spent half an hour at the hospital, followed by an hour and a half with Rhona and Jackie Platt, their guest for dinner at the Sheraton. He'd worn a fresh suit and shirt. He hadn't smoked. He'd drunk a bottle of Highland Spring.

They were planning yet more tests on Sammy. The neurologist had taken them into his office and talked them through the procedures. There would probably be another operation at the end of it. Rebus could barely remember what the man had said. Rhona had asked for the occasional explanation, but these seemed no more lucid than what had gone before.

Dinner had been a subdued affair. Jackie Platt, it turned out, sold second-hand cars.

`See, John, where I really score is the obituaries. Check the local paper, hare round there and see if they've left a car behind. Quick cash offer.’

'Sammy doesn't drive, sorry,' Rebus had said, causing Rhona to drop her cutlery on to her plate.

At the end of the meal, she'd seen him out to his car, gripped one of his arms hard.

`Get the bastard, John. I want to look him in the face. Just get the bastard who did this to us.’

Her eyes were blazing.

He nodded. Stones: `Just Wanna See His Face'. Rebus wanted it, too.

The M8, which could be a nightmare at rush-hour, was a quiet drive in the evenings. Rebus knew he was making good time, and that he would soon see the outline of the Easterhouse estate against the sky. When his phone sounded, he didn't hear it at first: blame Wishbone Ash. As Argus finished, he picked up.

`Rebus.’

`John, it's Bill.’

`What've you got?’

`Forensics were good as gold. There are prints all over the car, interior and exterior. Several sets.’

He paused, and Rebus thought the connection had gone. `One good palm and finger set on the front of the bonnet…’

`Sammy's?’

`For definite.’

`So we've got our car.’

`The owner's given us a set so we can eliminate him. When we've done that…’

`We're still not home and dry, Bill. The car sat unlocked outside that cemetery, we don't know someone didn't clean it out.’

`Owner says the radio/cassette fascia was there when he left it. Also half a dozen tapes, a packet of Paracetamol, receipts for petrol and a road map. So someone cleaned it out, whether it's the bastard we want or just some scavenger.’

`At least we know it's the car.’

`I'll check again with Howdenhall tomorrow, collect any other prints and start trying to match them. Plus I'll ask around Piershill, see if anyone saw someone dumping it.’

`Meantime get some sleep, eh?’

`Try and stop me. What about you?’

`Me?’

Two cups of espresso after dinner. And with the knowledge of what lay ahead. `I'll get my head down soon enough, Bill. Talk to you tomorrow.’

On the outskirts of Glasgow, headed for Barlinnie Prison.

He'd phoned ahead, made sure they were expecting him. It was way outside any visiting hours, but Rebus had made up a story about a murder inquiry. `Follow-up questions,' was what he'd said.

`At this time of night?’

`Lothian and Borders Police, pal. Motto: Justice Never Sleeps.’

Morris Gerald Cafferty probably didn't sleep much either. Rebus imagined him lying awake at night, hands under his head, staring into the darkness.

Scheming.

Running things through his mind: how to keep his empire from falling, how best to combat threats like Tommy Telford. Rebus knew that Cafferty employed a lawyer – a middle-aged pinstripe from the New Town – to carry messages back to his gang in Edinburgh. He thought of Charles Groal, Telford's lawyer. Groal was young and sharp, like his paymaster.

`Strawman.’

He was waiting in the Interview Room, arms folded, chair set well away from the table. And of course his opening gambit was his nickname for Rebus.

`A lovely surprise, two visits in a week. Don't tell me you've another message from the Pole?’

Rebus sat down opposite Cafferty. 'Tarawicz isn't Polish.’

He glanced towards the guard who stood by the door, lowered his voice. `Another of Telford's boys got a doing.’

`How clumsy.’

`He was all but scalped. Are you looking for war?’

Cafferty drew his chair in to the table, leaned across towards Rebus. `I've never backed down from a fight.’

`My daughter got hurt. Funny that, so soon after we'd had our little chat.’

`Hurt how?’

`Hit and run.’