He wondered how Chib Calloway would have reacted to the situation in the restaurant. But then Calloway travelled with back-up – the two men in the bar with him weren’t just there for the conversation. One of Mike’s colleagues had joked once that he should maybe think about a bodyguard, ‘now that you’re so publicly rich’. He’d meant the publication the previous Sunday of a newspaper list placing him in the top five Most Eligible Men in Scotland.

‘Nobody needs a bodyguard in Edinburgh,’ Mike had answered.

And yet, pausing at a cash machine to take out some money, he looked to right and left, assessing the level of threat. A beggar sat against the shop window next to the bank, head bowed. He looked cold and lonely. Allan had accused Mike once of being a loner – Mike couldn’t disagree; didn’t mean he was lonely. Tossing a pound coin into the beggar’s cup, he headed in the direction of home, some late-night music and his collection of paintings. He thought of the professor’s words – those poor imprisoned works of art – and then of Allan’s – grab what you can with both hands… A pub door swung on its hinges, expelling a drinker into the night. Mike dodged the stumbling man and kept on walking.

As one door closes, another one opens…

So far, it had been another bad day for Chib Calloway.

The problem with surveillance was, even if you knew you were being watched, you couldn’t always know who the watchers were. Chib owed a bit of money… all right, a lot of money. He owed other things, too, and had been keeping his head down, answering only one or two of his dozen mobile phones, the ones whose numbers only kith, kin and close associates knew. He’d had two meetings scheduled for lunchtime, but had cancelled both. He’d apologised by phone without bothering to explain why. If it got out that he was being tailed, his reputation would dip further. Instead, he’d drunk a couple of cups of coffee at Cento Tre on George Street. It was a pretty upmarket spot – a bank at one time. A lot of Edinburgh’s banks had been turned into bars and restaurants. With cash machines everywhere, banks weren’t needed. The machines had brought with them a variety of scams, of course: card numbers skimmed, the cards themselves cloned; devices attached to the machine that could transfer the necessary info to a microchip… There were some petrol stations you didn’t dare use. They sold your details on. Chib was careful that way. The gangs with the cash machine know-how all seemed to originate overseas – Albania, Croatia, Hungary. When Chib had looked into it as a possible business proposition, he’d been informed that it was something of a closed shop – which rankled, especially when the gangs then targeted Edinburgh.

It was a small city, population of under half a million. Not big enough to attract the major players, which meant a lot of the available territory belonged to Chib. He had understandings with a number of the bar and club owners. The past several years, there’d been no need for a turf war. Chib had served his apprenticeship in turf wars, building up a solid rep as a soldier. He’d worked as a bouncer for Billy McGeehan at his pool hall and at a couple of his pubs in Leith, just Saturday-night stuff, regulars becoming rowdy as the evening dragged, strangers getting uppity with the locals.

In his early teens, he had thought himself a fair footballer, but a trial with Hearts had been a washout. He was reckoned too big, too awkward.

‘Switch to rugby, son,’ had been the scout’s advice.

Rugby! As if…

He’d tried boxing as a means of keeping fit, but couldn’t seem to control himself – got in the ring and wanted to lash out with his feet, his knees, his elbows, thrash the opponent to the floor and keep on thrashing.

‘Switch to wrestling, son,’ had been the advice that time round. But then Billy McGeehan had come to him with another proposal, one that suited Chib fine: he could sign on, pretend to be looking for work, and do some cash-in-hand at weekends – enough to see him through to the next government hand-out. Slowly, Billy had taken him into his confidence, which meant that when Chib switched allegiances and started working for Lenny Corkery instead, he’d taken a fund of knowledge with him. During the war that followed, Billy had decided to up sticks to Florida, signing over the pool halls and pubs, leaving Lenny Corkery king of the hill and Chib his trusted lieutenant.

But then Lenny had dropped dead on the eleventh fairway at Muirfield, and Chib had made his move. He’d been thinking about it for a while anyway, and Lenny’s men hadn’t made any complaint – not to his face, at any rate.

‘A smooth succession is always best for business,’ one of the club owners had commented.

Smooth for the first few years, anyway…

Trouble had been brewing for a while. Not his own fault, not entirely: the cops getting lucky with a shipment of coke and eccies, just after the money had changed hands, meaning a double whammy with Chib on its receiving end. This was unfortunate, as he already owed on a shipment of grass that had come into the country by way of a Norwegian trawler. The suppliers, a Hell’s Angels chapter from a town with an unpronounceable name, had given him ninety days to settle.

That was a hundred and twenty days ago.

And counting.

He could have gone to Glasgow, secured a loan from one of the heavyweights there, but that would have meant word getting around. It would involve loss of face. Any sign of weakness, there’d be vultures hovering… and worse.

He’d demolished those two cups of Italian coffee without tasting them, but knew from his heartbeat that they’d been extra-strength. Johnno and Glenn had accompanied him, all three of them squeezed into a booth by the window, while good-looking women took the other tables, not giving them the time of day. Stuck-up bitches. He knew the type: shopping at Harvey Nicks; cocktails at the Shining Star later on; and a lettuce leaf to sustain them between times. Their husbands and boyfriends would work in banking or as lawyers – bloodsuckers, in other words. Big houses in the Grange, skiing holidays, dinner parties. It was an Edinburgh he’d hardly been aware of while growing up. As a young man, his Saturdays had been about football (if Hearts were at home and a rumble with the away fans seemed probable), or the pub. Maybe chasing skirt along Rose Street or attempting chat-ups in the St James Centre. George Street, all boutiques and jewellery windows with no prices, had seemed alien to him – and still did. Which didn’t stop him coming here: why shouldn’t he? He had the same cash in his pockets as anyone else. He wore Nicole Fahri polo tops and DKNY coats. Shoes from Kurt Geiger, socks by Paul Smith… He was as good as any other bastard. Better than the bulk of them. He lived in the real world.

‘Warts and fucking all.’

‘What’s that, boss?’ Glenn asked, making Chib realise he’d spoken the words aloud. Chib ignored him and asked a passing waitress for the bill, then turned his attention back to his two foot-soldiers. Glenn had already been outside on a recce, reporting back that there was no one loitering in the vicinity.

‘What about office windows?’ Chib had asked.

‘I checked.’

‘In one of the shops maybe, pretending to browse?’

‘I already said.’ Glenn had bristled. ‘If there’s anyone out there, they’re better than good.’

‘They don’t have to be better than good,’ Chib had snapped back. ‘Just better than you.’ Then he’d gone back to gnawing his bottom lip, the way he sometimes did when he was thinking. Until, having paid the bill, he’d come to a decision.

‘Okay then… the two of you can eff off.’

‘Boss?’ Johnno this time, trying to work out if he’d heard right.

Chib didn’t say anything, but the way he saw it was, if it was the Angels or someone like them, they’d be more likely to make their move if he was alone. And if it was the cops… well, he wasn’t sure. But at least he’d know, one way or the other. It was a plan. It was something.