They didn't look overly impressed, but the two men walked away anyway, back to the gates and through them.

`Your fan club?’ Siobhan Clarke guessed.

'Ach, they only want me for my body.’

Which, in a sense, was true.

It was late afternoon, and the Crazy Hose was doing no trade at all.

Those in the know just called it the Hose; those not in the know would say, 'Shouldn't it be Horse?’

But it was the Hose because its premises were an old decommissioned fire station, left vacant when they built a new edifice just up the street. And it was the. Crazy Hose Saloon because it had a wild west theme and country and western music. The main doors were painted gloss black and boasted small square barred windows. Rebus knew the place was doing no trade, because Lee Francis Bothwell was sitting on the steps outside smoking a cigarette.

Although Rebus had never met Frankie Bothwell, he knew the reputation, and there was no mistaking the mess on the steps for anything else. He was dressed like a Las Vegas act, with the face and hair of McGarrett in Hawaii 5-0. The hair had to be fake, and Rebus would lay odds some of the face was fake too.

'Mr Bothwell?’

The head nodded without the hair moving one millimetre out of coiffeured place. He was wearing a tan-coloured leather safari jacket, tight white trousers, and an opennecked shirt. The shirt would offend all but the colour blind and the truly blind. It had so many rhinestones on it, Rebus was in no doubt the rhine mines were now exhausted as a result. Around Bothwell's neck hung a simple gold chain, but he would have been better off with a neck-cast. A neckcast would have disguised the lines, the wrinkles and sags which gave away Bothwell's not insubstantial age.

'I'm Inspector Rebus, this is Detective Constable Clarke.’

Rebus had briefed Clarke on the way here, and she didn't look too stunned by the figure in front of her.

'You want a bottle of rye for the police rake?’

'No, sir. We're trying to complete a collection of magazines.’

'Huh?’ Bothwell had been studying the empty street. Just along the road was Tollcross junction, but you couldn't see it from the front steps of the Crazy Hose. Now he looked up at Rebus.

'I'm serious,' Rebus said. 'We're missing a few back issues, maybe you can help.’

'I don't get it.’

'The Floating Anarchy Factfile.’

Frankie Bothwell took off his sunglasses and squinted at Rebus. Then he ground his cigarette-end under the heel of a cowboy boot. 'That was a lifetime ago. How do you know about it?’

Rebus shrugged. Frankie Bothwell grinned. He was perking up again. 'Christ, that was a long time ago. Up in the Orkneys, peace and love, I had some fun back then. But what's it got to do with anything?’

'Do you know this man?’

Rebus handed over a copy of the photo Murdock had given him, the one from the party. It had been cropped to show Billy Cunningham's face only. 'His name's Billy Cunningham.’

Bothwell took a while studying the photo, then shook his head.

'He came here to see a country and western show a couple of weeks back.’

'We're packed most nights, Inspector, especially this time of year. I can ask the bar staff, the bouncers, see if they know him. Is he a regular?’

'We don't know, sir.’

'See, if he's a regular, he'll carry the Cowpoke Card. You get one after three visits in any one month, entitles you to thirty per cent off the admission.’

Rebus was shaking his head. 'What's he done anyway?’

'He's been murdered, Mr Bothwell.’

Bothwell screwed up his face. 'Bad one.’

Then he looked at Rebus again. 'Not the kid in that underground street?’

Rebus nodded.

Bothwell stood up, brushing dirt from his backside. 'Floating Anarchy hasn't been in circulation for twenty years. You say this kid had a copy?’

'Issue number three,' Siobhan Clarke confirmed.

Bothwell thought about it. 'Number three, that was a big printing, a thousand or so. There was momentum behind number three. After that… not so much momentum.’

He smiled ruefully. 'Can I keep the photo? Like I say, I'll ask around.’

'Fine, Mr Bothwell. We've got copies.’

`Secondhand shops maybe.’

'Pardon?’

'The magazine, maybe he got it secondhand.’

'That's a thought.’

`A kid that age, Christ.’

He shook his head. `I love kids, Inspector, that's what this place is all about. Giving kids a good time. There's nothing like it.’

'Really, sir?’

Bothwell spread his hands. `I don't mean anything… you know… nothing like that. I've always liked kids. I used to run a football team, local youth club thing. Anything for kids.’

He smiled again. 'That's because I'm still a kid myself, Inspector. Me, I'm Peter bloody Pan.’

Still holding the photo, he invited them in for a drink. Rebus was tempted, but declined. The bar would be an empty barn; no place for a drink. He handed Bothwell a card with his office number.

`I'll do my best,' Bothwell said.

Rebus nodded and turned away. He didn't say anything to Siobhan Clarke till they were back in her car.

'Well, what do you think?’

`Creepy,' she said. 'How can he dress like that?’

'Years of practice, I suppose.’

'So what do you reckon to him?’

Rebus thought about this. 'I'm not sure. Let me think about it over a drink.’

`That's very kind, sir, but I'm going out.’ She made a show of checking her watch.

'A Fringe show?’

She nodded.

`Early Tom Stoppard,' she said.

'Well.’

Rebus sniffed, 'I didn't say you were invited anyway.’

He paused. 'Who are you going with?’

She looked at him. `I'm going on my own, not that it's any of your business… sir.’

Rebus shifted a little. `You can drop me off at the Ox.’

As they drove past, there was no sign of Frankie Bothwell on the steps of the Crazy Hose Saloon.

The Ox gave Rebus a taste. He phones Patience, but got the answer-phone. He seemed to remember she was going out tonight, but couldn't recall where. He took the slow route home. In Daintry's Lounge, he stood at the bar listening in on its tough wit. The Festival only touched places like Daintry's insofar as providing posters to advertise the shows. These were as much decoration as the place ever had. He stared at a sign above the row of optics. It said, `If arseholes could fly, this place would be an airport'.

`Ready for take-off,' he said to the barmaid, proffering his empty glass.

A little later, he found himself approaching Oxford Terrace from Lennox Street, so turned into Lennox Street Lane. What had once been stables in the Lane had now become first floor homes with ground floor garages. The place was always dead. Some of the tenements on Oxford Terrace backed onto the lane. Rebus had a key to Patience's garden gate. He'd let himself in the back door to the flat. As shortcuts went, it wasn't much of one, but he liked the lane.

He was about a dozen paces from the gate when somebody grabbed him. They got him from behind, pulling him by the coat, keeping the grip tight so that he might as well have been wearing a straitjacket. The coat came up over Rebus's head, trapping him, binding his arms. A knee came up into his groin. He lashed out with a foot, which only made it all the easier to unbalance him. He was shouting and swearing as he fell. The attacker had released his grip on the coat. While Rebus struggles to get out of it, a foot caught him on the side of the head. The foot was wearing a plimsoll, which explained why Rebus hadn't heard his attacker following him. It also explained why he was still conscious after the kick.

Another kick dug into his side. And then, just as his head was emerging from his coat, the foot caught him on the chin, and all he could see were the setts beneath him, slick and shining from what light there was. The attacker's hands were on him, rifling pockets. The man was breathing hard.