'Two nights ago,' he said, 'around ten o'clock, maybe a little after.'

'Wasn't my shift,' the barman answered.

'Then whose was it?'

'Terry's.'

'And where's Terry?'

'In his kip, most likely.'

'Is he on again tonight?' When the barman nodded, Rebus pressed the flyer on him. 'I want a phone call from him, whether he served this guy or not. No phone call, it's you I'll blame.'

The barman just gave a twitch of the mouth. Clarke was standing next to Rebus. 'Guy over in the corner seems to know you,'

she said. Rebus looked and nodded, then walked over to the table, Clarke following.

'All right, Big?' Rebus said by way of greeting.

The man drinking alone – half of heavy and an inch of whisky -seemed to be enjoying his berth, one foot up on the chair next to him, a hand scratching his chest. He was wearing a faded denim shirt, undone to below the breastbone. Rebus hadn't seen him in maybe seven or eight years. He called himself Podeen – Big Podeen.

Ex-Navy, ex-bouncer, looking his age now, his huge, weatherbeaten face caving in on itself, most of the teeth having disappeared from the fleshy-lipped mouth.

'Not bad, Mr Rebus.' There were no handshakes, just slight tilts of the head and occasional eye contact.

'This your local then?' Rebus asked.

'Depends how you mean.'

'Thought you were living down the coast.'

'That was years back. People change, move on.' There was a pouch of tobacco on the table, next to a lighter and cigarette papers.

Podeen picked it up and began to play with it.

'Got something for us?'

Podeen puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. 'I was here two nights back, and your man there wasn't.' He nodded towards the flyer.

'Know who he is, though, used to see him in here round about closing time. Bit of a nighthawk, if you ask me.'

'Like yourself, Big?'

'And your good self, too, I seem to remember.'

'Pipe and slippers these days, Big,' Rebus told him. 'Cocoa and in bed by ten.'

'Can't see it somehow. Guess who I bumped into the other day -our old friend Cafferty. How come you never managed to put him away?'

'We got him a couple of times, Big.'

Podeen wrinkled his nose. 'A few years here and there. He always seemed to get back off the canvas, though, didn't he?' Podeen's eyes met Rebus again. 'Word is, you're for the gold watch. Not a bad heavyweight career, Mr Rebus, but that's what they'll always say about you…'

'What?'

'That you lacked the knockout punch.' Podeen lifted his whisky glass. 'Anyway, here's to the twilight years. Maybe we'll start seeing you in here more often. Then again, most of the pubs in this city, you'd have to keep your back to the wall – plenty of grudges, Mr Rebus, and once you're not the law any more…' Podeen gave a theatrical shrug.

'Thanks for cheering me up, Big.' Rebus glanced towards the flyer. 'Did you ever talk to him?' Podeen made a face and shook his head. 'Anyone else in here we should be asking?'

'He used to stand at the bar, as near the door as possible. It was the drink he liked, not the company.' He paused for a moment.

“You've not asked me about Cafferty.'

'Okay, what about him?'

'He said to say hello.'

Rebus stared him out. 'Is that it?'

'That's it.'

'And where did this earth-shattering exchange take place?'

'Funnily enough, just across the road. I bumped into him as he was coming out of the Caledonian Hotel.'

Which was their next destination. The vast pink-hued edifice had two doors. One led into the hotel's reception area and boasted a doorman. The other took you directly into the bar, which was open to residents and waifs alike. Rebus decided he was thirsty and ordered a pint. Clarke said she'd stick to tomato juice.

'Been cheaper across the road,' she commented.

'Which is why you're paying.' But when the bill came, he slapped a five-pound note on it, hoping for change.

Tfour chum in Mather's was right, wasn't he?' Clarke ventured.

'When I go out for the night, I always keep watch on who's coming and going, just in case I see a face I know.'

Rebus nodded. 'Number of villains we've put away, stands to reason some of them are back on the street. Just make sure you frequent a better class of watering-hole.'

'Like this place, for instance?' Clarke looked around her. 'What do you think Todorov would see in it?'

Rebus thought for a moment. 'Not sure,' he conceded. 'Maybe just a different sort of vibe.'

“Vibe?' Clarke echoed with a smile.

'Must've picked that up from you.'

'I don't think so.'

'Tibbet then. Anyway, what's wrong with it? It's a perfectly decent word.'

'It just doesn't sound right, coming from you.'

'Should have heard me in the sixties.'

'I wasn't born in the sixties.'

'Don't keep reminding me.' He'd downed half his drink, and

signalled for the barman, flyer at the ready. The barman was short and stick-thin with a shaved head. He wore a tartan waistcoat and tie, and only looked at Todorov's photo for a few seconds before starting to nod, bald pate gleaming.

'He's been in a few times recently.'

'Was he in two nights ago?' Clarke asked.

'I think so.' The barman was concentrating, brow furrowed.

Rebus knew that sometimes the reason people concentrated was to think up a convincing lie. The badge on the barman's waistcoat identified him only as Freddie.

'Just after ten,' Rebus prompted. 'He'd already had a few drinks.'

Freddie was nodding again. 'Wanted a large cognac'

'He just stayed for one?'

'I think so.'

'Did you speak to him?'

Freddie shook his head. 'But I know who he is now – I saw about it on the news. What a hellish thing to happen.'

'Hellish,' Rebus agreed.

'Did he sit at the bar?' Clarke asked. 'Or was he at a table?'

'The bar – always the bar. I knew he was foreign, but he didn't act like a poet.'

'And how do poets act, in your experience?'

'What I mean is, he just sat there with a scowl on his face. Mind you, I did see him writing stuff down.'

'The last time he was in?'

'No, before that. Had a wee notebook he kept taking from his pocket. One of the waitresses thought maybe he was an undercover inspector or doing a review for a magazine. I told her I didn't think so.'

'The last time he was here, you didn't see the notebook?'

'He was talking to somebody.'

'Who?' Rebus asked.

Freddie just shrugged. 'Another drinker. They sat pretty much where you two are.' Rebus and Clarke shared a look. 'What were they talking about?'

'Pays not to eavesdrop.'

'It's a rare bartender who doesn't like to listen in on other people's conversations.'

“They might not have been talking in English.'

What then – Russian?' Rebus's eyes narrowed.

'Could be,' Freddie seemed to concede.

'Got any cameras in here?' Rebus was looking around him.

Freddie shook his head.

'Was this other drinker male or female?' Clarke asked.

Freddie paused before answering. 'Male.'

'Description.'

Another pause. 'Bit older than him… stockier. We dim the lights at night, and it was a busy session…' He shrugged an apology.

“You're being a great help,' Clarke assured him. 'Did they talk for long?' Freddie just shrugged again. 'They didn't leave together?'

'The poet left on his own.' Freddie sounded confident about this at least.

'Don't suppose cognac comes cheap in here,' Rebus commented, taking in his surroundings.

'Sky's the limit,' the barman admitted. 'But when you've a tab running, you tend not to notice.'

'Not until your bill's handed to you at checkout,' Rebus agreed.