Cave's face had reddened, his hands coming from behind his back so he could gesture with them.

'That lot break the law every day.’

`Now just a-.’

'No, listen for a minute. Okay, you got the Jaffas and the Tims together, but ask yourself why they were amenable. If they're not divided, they're united, and they're united for a reason. They're the same as before, only stronger. You must see that.’

'I see nothing of the sort. People can change, Inspector.’

Rebus had been hearing the line all his professional life. He sighed and toed the ground.

'You don't believe that?’

'Frankly, sir, not in this particular case, and the crime stats back me up. What you've got just now is a truce of, sorts, and it suits them because while there's a truce they can get busy carving up territory between them. Anyone threatens them, they can retaliate in spades… or even with spades. But it won't last, and when they split back into their separate gangs; there's going to be blood spilled, no way round it. Because now there'll be more at stake. Tell me, in your club tonight, how many Catholics were there?’

Cave didn't answer, he was too busy shaking his head. 'I feel sorry for you, really I do. I can smell cynicism off you like sulphur. I don't happen to believe anything you've just said.’

'Then you're every bit as naive as I am cynical, and that means they're just using you. Which is good, because the only way of looking at this is that you've been sucked into it and you accept it, knowing the truth.’

Cave's cheeks were red again. 'How dare you say that!' And he punched Rebus in the stomach, hard. Rebus had been punched by professionals, but he was unprepared and felt himself double over for a moment, getting his wind back. There was a burning feeling in his gut, and it wasn't whisky. He could hear cheering in the distance. Tiny figures were dancing up and down on the community centre roof. Rebus hoped they'd fall through it. He straightened up again.

'Is that what you call setting a good example, Mr Cave?’

Then he punched Cave solidly on the jaw. The young man stumbled backwards and almost fell.

He heard a double roar from the community centre. The youth of the Gar-B were clambering down from the roof, starting to run in his direction. Burns had started the car and was bumping it across the football pitch towards him. The car was outpacing the crowd, but only just. An empty can bounced off its rear windscreen. Burns barely braked as he caught up with Rebus. Rebus yanked the door open and got in, grazing a knee and an elbow. Then they were off again, making for the roadway.

'Well,' Burns commented, checking the rearview, 'that seemed to go off okay.’

Rebus was catching his breath and examining his elbow.

'How did you know Davey Soutar's name?’

'He's a maniac,' Burns said simply. 'I try to keep abreast of these things.’

Rebus exhaled loudly, rolling his sleeve back down. 'Never do a favour for a priest,' he said to himself.

`I'll bear that in mind, sir,' said Burns.

Rebus walked into the Murder Room next morning with a cup of delicatessen decaf and a tuna sandwich on wholemeal. He sat at his desk and peeled off the top from the styrofoam cup. From the corner of his eye he could see the fresh mound of paperwork which had appeared on his desk since yesterday. But he could ignore it for another five minutes.

The victim's fingerprints had been matched with those taken from items in Billy Cunningham's room. So now they had a name for the body, but precious little else. Murdock and Millie had been interviewed, and the Post Office were looking up their personnel files. Today, Billy's room would be searched again. They still didn't know who he was really. They still didn't know anything about where he came from or who his parents were. There was so much they didn't know.

In a murder investigation, Rebus had found, you didn't always need to know everything.

Chief Inspector Lauderdale was standing behind him. Rebus knew this because Lauderdale brought a smell with him. Not everyone could distinguish it, but Rebus could. It was as if talcum powder had been used in a bathroom to cover some less acceptable aroma. Then there was a click and the buzz of Lauderdale's battery-shaver. Rebus straightened at the sound.

'Chief wants to see you,' Lauderdale said. 'Breakfast can wait.’

Rebus stared at his sandwich.

'I said it can wait.’

Rebus nodded. 'I'll bring you back a mug of coffee, shall I, Sir?’ He took his own coffee with him, sipping it as he listened for a moment at Farmer Watson's door. There were voices inside, one of them more nasal than the other. Rebus knocked and entered. DCI Kilpatrick was sitting across the desk from the Farmer.

'Morning, John,' said the Chief Super. 'Coffee?’

Rebus raised his cup. 'Got some, sir.’

'Well, sit down.’

He sat next to Kilpatrick. 'Morning, sir.’

'Good morning, John.’

Kilpatrick was nursing a mug, but he wasn't drinking. The Farmer meantime was pouring himself a refill from his personal machine.

'Right, John,' he said at last, sitting down. 'Bottom line, you're being seconded to DCI Kilpatrick's section.’

Watson took a gulp of coffee, swilling it around his mouth. Rebus looked to Kilpatrick, who obliged with a confirmation.

'You'll be based with us at Fettes, but you're going to be our eyes and ears on this murder inquiry, liaison if you like, so you'll still spend most of your time here at St Leonard's.’

'But why?’

'Well, Inspector, this case might concern the Crime Squad.’

'Yes, sir, but why me in particular?’

'You've been in the Army. I notice you served in Ulster in the late '60s.’

`That was quarter of a century ago,' Rebus protested. An age spent forgetting all about it.

'Nevertheless, you'll agree there seem to be paramilitary aspects to this case. As you commented, the gun is not your everyday hold-up weapon. It's a type of revolver used by terrorists. A lot of guns have been corning into the UK recently. Maybe this murder will connect us to them.’

'Wait a second, you're saying you're not interested in the shooting, you're interested in the gun?’

`I think it will become clearer when I show you our operation at Fettes. I'll be through here in -‘ he looked at his watch `- say twenty minutes. That should give you time to say goodbye to your loved ones.’

He smiled.

Rebus nodded. He hadn't touched his coffee. A cooling scum had formed on its surface. 'All right, sir,' he said, getting to his feet.

He was still a little dazed when he got back to the Murder Room. Two detectives were being told a joke by a third. The joke was about a squid with no money, a restaurant bill, and the guy from the kitchen who washed up. The guy from the kitchen was called Hans.

Rebus was joining the SCS, the Bastard Brigade as some called it. He sat at his desk. It took him a minute to work out that something was missing.

'Which bollocks of you's eaten my sandwich?’

As he looked around the room, he saw that the joke had come to an untimely end. But no one was paying attention to him. A message was being passed through the place, changing the mood. Lauderdale came over to Rebus's desk. He was holding a sheet of fax paper.

'What is it?’ Rebus asked.

`Glasgow have tracked down Billy Cunningham's mother.’

'Good. Is she coming here?’

Lauderdale nodded distractedly. 'She'll be here for the formal ID.’

`No father?’

'The father and mother split up a long time ago. Billy was still an infant. She told us his name though.’

He handed over the fax sheet. 'It's Morris Cafferty.’

`What?’ Rebus's hunger left him.

'Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

Rebus read the fax sheet. 'Say it ain't so. It's just Glasgow having a joke.’