`Ask her again who she works for.’

`She can't tell you, Inspector. They'd kill her. She's heard stories.’

Rebus decided to try the name he'd been thinking of, the man who ran half the city's working girls.

'Cafferty,' he said, watching for a reaction. There was none. `Big Ger. Big Ger Cafferty.’

Her face remained blank. Rebus squeezed her hand again. There was another name… one he'd been hearing recently.

` Telford,' he said. `Tommy Telford.’

Candice pulled her hand away and broke into hysterics, just as WPC Sharpe pushed open the door.

Rebus walked Dr Colquhoun out of the station, recalling that just such a walk had got him into this in the first place.

`Thanks again, sir. If I need you, I hope you won't mind if I call?’

`If you must, you must,' Colquhoun said grudgingly.

`Not too many Slavic specialists around,' Rebus said. He had Colquhoun's business card in his hand, a home phone number written on its back. `Well,' Rebus put out his free hand, `thanks again.’

As they shook, Rebus thought of something.

`Were you at the university when Joseph Lintz was Professor of German?’

The question surprised Colquhoun. `Yes,' he said at last.

`Did you know him?’

`Our departments weren't that close. I met him at a few social functions, the occasional lecture.’

`What did you think of him?’

Colquhoun blinked. He still wasn't looking at Rebus. `They're saying he was a Nazi.’

`Yes, but back then…?’

`As I say, we weren't close. Are you investigating him?’

`Just curious, sir. Thanks for your time.’

Back in the station, Rebus found Ellen Sharpe outside the Interview Room door.

`So what do we do with her?’ she asked.

`Keep her here.’

`You mean charge her?’

Rebus shook his head. `Let's call it protective custody.’

`Does she know that?’

`Who's she going to complain to? There's only one bugger in the whole city can make out what she's saying, and I've just packed him off home.’

`What if her man comes to get her?’

`Think he will?’

She thought about it. `Probably not.’

`No, because as far as he's concerned, all he, has to do is wait, and we'll release her eventually. Meantime, she doesn't speak English, so what can she give us? And she's here illegally no doubt, so if she talks, all we'd probably do is kick her out of the country. Telford 's clever… I hadn't realised it, but he is. Using illegal aliens as prossies. It's sweet.’

`How long do we keep her?’

Rebus shrugged.

`And what do I tell my boss?’

`Direct all enquiries to DI Rebus,' he said, going to open the door.

`I thought it was exemplary, sir.’

He stopped. `What?’

'Your knowledge of the charge-scale for prostitutes.’

`Just doing my job,' he said, smiling.

`One last question, sir…?’

`Yes, Sharpe?’

`Why? What's the big deal?’

Rebus considered this, twitched his nose. `Good question,' he said finally, opening the door and going in.

And he knew. He knew straight away. She looked like Sammy. Wipe away the make-up and the tears, get some sensible clothes on her, and she was the spitting image.

And she was scared.

And maybe he could help her.

`What can I call you, Candice? What's your real name?’

She took hold of his hand, put her face to it. He pointed to himself.

‘John,' he said.

`Don.’

‘John.’

`Shaun.’

‘John.’

He was smiling; so was she. ‘John.’

‘John.’

He nodded. `That's it. And you?’

He pointed at her now. `Who are you?’

She paused. 'Candice,' she said, as a little light died behind her eyes.

Rebus didn't know Tommy Telford by sight, but he knew where to find him.

Flint Street was a passageway between Clerk Street and Buccleuch Street, near the university. The shops had mostly closed down, but the games arcade always did good business, and from Flint Street Telford leased gaming machines to pubs and clubs across the city. Flint Street was the centre of his eastern empire.

The franchise had until recently belonged to a man called Davie Donaldson, but he'd suddenly retired on `health grounds'. Maybe he'd been right at that: if Tommy Telford wanted something from you and you weren't forthcoming, predictions of your future health could suddenly change. Donaldson was now in hiding somewhere: hiding not from Telford but from Big Ger Cafferty, for whom he had been holding the franchise `in trust' while Cafferty bided his time in Barlinnie jail. There were some who said Cafferty ran Edinburgh as effectively from inside as he ever had done outside, but the reality was that gangsters, like Nature, abhorred a vacuum, and now Tommy Telford was in town.

Telford was a product of Ferguslie Park in Paisley. At eleven he'd joined the local gang; at twelve a couple of woolly suits had visited him to ask about a spate of tyre slashings. They'd found him surrounded by other gang members, nearly all of them older than him, but he was at the centre, no doubt about it.

His gang had grown with him, taking over a sizeable chunk of Paisley, selling drugs and running prostitutes, doing a bit of extortion. These days he had shares in casinos and video shops, restaurants and a haulage firm, plus a property portfolio which made him landlord to several hundred people. He'd tried to make his mark in Glasgow, but had found it sealed down tight, so had gone exploring elsewhere. There were stories he'd become friendly with some big villain in Newcastle. Nobody could remember anything like it since the days when London 's Krays had rented their muscle from `Big Arthur' in Glasgow.

He'd arrived in Edinburgh a year ago, moving softly at first, buying a casino and hotel. Then suddenly he was inescapably there, like the shadow from a raincloud. With the chasing out of Davie Donaldson he'd given Cafferty a calculated punch to the gut. Cafferty could either fight or give up. Everyone was waiting for it to get messy…

The games arcade called itself Fascination Street. The machines were all flashing insistence, in stark contrast to the dead facial stares of the players. Then there were shoot-'em-ups with huge video screens and digital imprecations.

`Think you're tough enough, punk?’ one of them challenged as Rebus walked past. They had names like Harbinger and NecroCop, this latter reminding Rebus of how old he felt. He looked at the faces around him, saw a few he recognised, kids who'd been pulled into St Leonard 's. They'd be on the fringes of Telford 's gang, awaiting the call-up, hanging around like foster children, hoping The Family would take them. Most of them came from families who weren't families, latchkey kids grown old before their time.

One of the staff came in from the cafe.

`Who ordered the bacon sarnie?’

Rebus smiled as the faces turned to him. Bacon meant pig meant him. A moment's examination was all he warranted. There were more pressing demands on their attention. At the far end of the arcade were the really big machines: half-size motorbikes you sat astride as you negotiated the circuit on the screen in front of you. A small appreciative coterie stood around one bike, on which sat a young man dressed in a leather jacket. Not a market-stall jacket, something altogether more special. Quality goods. Shiny sharp-toed boots. Tight black denims. White polo neck. Surrounded by fawning courtiers. Steely Dan: `Kid Charlemagne'. Rebus found a;mace for himself in the midst of the glaring onlookers.

'"No takers for that bacon sarnie?’ he asked.

`Who are you?’ the man on the machine demanded.

`DI Rebus.’

'Cafferty's man.’ Said with conviction.

`What?’

`I hear you and him go back.’

`I put him inside.’

`Not every cop gets visiting rights though.’

Rebus realised that though Telford 's gaze was fixed on the screen, he was watching Rebus in its reflection. Watching him, talking to him, yet still managing to control the bike through hairpin bends.