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'But then there'd be no Todd Goodyear.'

'God must have had his reasons.'

'Does any of it explain why you joined the police?'

'Maybe – but thanks for not making a straight assumption. So many people have tried spelling it out to me like that. “You're atoning, Todd” or “You're showing not all Goodyears are cut from the same cloth.”'

'Lazy thinking?' Clarke guessed.

'How about you, DS Clarke? What made you become a cop?'

She considered a moment before deciding to tell him the truth. 'I think I was reacting against my parents. They were typical liberal lefties, growing up in the sixties.'

'The only way to rebel was to become the Establishment?'

Goodyear smiled and nodded his understanding.

'Not a bad way of putting it,' Clarke agreed, lifting her cup to her lips. 'What does your brother think of it all?'

Tou know he's been in trouble a few times?'

'I know his name's on our books,' Clarke admitted.

Tou've been checking up on me?' But Clarke wasn't about to answer that. 'I never see him.' Goodyear paused. 'Actually, that's not strictly true – he's been in hospital, and I went to visit him.'

'Nothing serious?'

'He got himself into some stupid argument in a pub. That's just the way Sol is.'

'Is he older than you or younger?'

'Two years older. Not that you'd ever have known it – when we were kids, neighbours used to say how much more mature than him I seemed. They just meant I was better behaved – plus I used to do the shopping and stuff…' He seemed lost in the past for a moment, then shook his head clear. 'DI Rebus,' he said, 'has a bit of history with Big Ger Cafferty, doesn't he?'

Clarke was surprised by the change of subject. 'Depends what you mean,' she said warily.

'It's just gossip among the uniforms. The pair of them are supposed to be close.'

'They detest one another,' Clarke heard herself say.

'Really?'

She nodded. 'I sometimes wonder how it'll pan out…' She was almost talking to herself, because it had crossed her mind often these past few weeks. 'Any particular reason why you're asking?'

'When Sol started dealing, I think he was talked into it by Cafferty.'

'You think or you know?'

'He's never admitted it.'

'Then what makes you so sure?'

'Are cops still allowed to have hunches?'

Clarke smiled, thinking of Rebus again. 'It's frowned upon.'

'But that doesn't stop it happening.' He studied what little was left in his mug. 'I'm glad you've put my mind at rest about DI Rebus. You didn't sound surprised when I mentioned Cafferty.'

'Like you said, I did some checking.'

He gave a smile and a nod, then asked if she wanted a refill.

'One's enough for now.' Clarke drained her cup, taking only a few seconds to make up her mind. “You're based at Torphichen, right?'

'Right.'

'And can they spare you for a morning?' Goodyear's face brightened like a kid at Christmas. 'I'll give them a call,' Clarke went on,

'and tell them I've snaffled you for a few hours.' She wagged a finger in his face. 'Just a few hours, mind. Let's see how we get on.'

“You won't regret it,' Todd Goodyear said.

'That's what you said on Friday – better make sure I don't.'

My case, Clarke was thinking, and my team… and here was her first little bit of recruiting. Maybe it was his naked enthusiasm, reminding her of the cop she'd been, too, once upon a time. Or the notion of rescuing him from his time-serving partner. Then again, with Rebus on the cusp of retirement, a buffer between herself and her remaining colleagues might prove handy…

Being selfish or being kind? she asked herself.

Was it possible for an action to be both?

Roger Anderson had reversed halfway down his drive when he spotted the car blocking the gates. The gates themselves were electric, and had swung open at the push of a button, but there was a Saab on the roadway, stopping him getting out.

'Of all the inconsiderate bloody…' He was wondering which neighbour was responsible. The Archibalds two doors down always seemed to have workmen in or visitors staying. The Graysons across the road had a couple of sons home for the winter from their gap years. Then there were the cold callers and the people dropping leaflets and cards through the door… He sounded the Bentley's horn, which brought his wife to the dining-room window.

Was there someone in the Saab's passenger seat? No… they were in the bloody driving seat! Anderson thumped on the horn a couple more times, then undid his seatbelt and got out, stomping towards the offending vehicle. The window on the driver's side was sliding down, a face peering out at him.

'Oh, it's you.' One of the detectives from last night… Inspector something.

'DI Rebus,' Rebus reminded the banker. 'And how are you this morning, Mr Anderson?'

'Look, Inspector, I do intend coming to your station sometime today…'

'Whenever suits you, sir, but that's not the reason I'm here.'

'Oh?'

'After we left you on Friday, we paid a call to the other witness – Miss Sievewright.'

'Oh yes?'

'She told us you'd been to see her.'

'That's right.' Anderson glanced over his shoulder, as if checking his wife was out of earshot.

'Any particular reason, sir?'

'Just wanted to make sure she hadn't suffered any… well, she'd had a nasty shock, hadn't she?'

'Seems you gave her another one, sir.'

Anderson 's cheeks had flushed. 'I only went round there to-'

'So you've said,' Rebus interrupted. 'But what I'm wondering is, how did you know her name and address? She's not in the phone book.'

'The officer told me.'

'DS Clarke?' Rebus was frowning. But Anderson shook his head.

'When our statements were being taken. Or rather, just after.

I'd offered to run her home, you see. He happened to mention her name and Blair Street both.'

'And you wandered up and down Blair Street looking for a buzzer with her name on?'

'I don't see that I've done anything wrong.'

'In which case, I'm sure you'll have told Mrs Anderson all about it.'

'Now look here…'

But Rebus was starting his ignition. 'We'll see you at the station later… and your good lady wife, too, of course.'

He pulled away with the window still open and left it that way for the first few minutes. This time of the morning, he knew the traffic would be sluggish heading back into town. He'd only had the three pints last night, but his head felt gummy. Saturday he'd watched a bit of TV, rueing another obituary – the footballer Ferenc Puskas.

Rebus had been in his teens when the European Cup Final had come to Hampden. Real Madrid against Eintracht Frankfurt, Real wi

Jack Palance, and now Puskas, both gone for ever. That was what happened with heroes.

So: Saturday night at the Oxford Bar, sorrows drowned, any and all conversations forgotten by the next morning. Sunday: laundry and the supermarket, and news that a Russian journalist called Litvinenko had been poisoned in London. That had made Rebus sit up in his chair, increasing the volume on the TV. Gates and Curt had joked about poisoned umbrella tips, but here was

the real-life equivalent. One theory was that a meal in a sushi restaurant had contained the poison, the Russian mafia to blame.

Litvinenko was in hospital under armed guard. Rebus had decided against calling Siobhan; it was just a coincidence after all. He'd been agitated, waking each morning to dread. His last weekend as a serving officer; his last week now begi