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one
    who’s been caught on the hop.’

    ‘So when I tell you that I’d had a nip too many and tripped
    over my own feet, smacking the window . . .’
    ‘You’ve every right to stick to your story. I’m not a
    detective these days; nothing I can do one way or the other. But
    if you did feel you needed some help, Siobhan’s right outside
    and I’d trust her with your life. I’d probably even trust her with
    mine.’
    ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Meantime, I hope I’ve not taken you
    away from whatever it is cops like you do when they’re put out
    to pasture.’
    ‘We tend to spend our days reminiscing about the scum
    we’ve put in jail.’
    ‘And the ones who got away too, no doubt.’ Cafferty pulled
    himself back to his feet. He acted like an old man, but Rebus
    felt sure he could be dangerous when cornered or threatened.
    The eyes were still hard and cold, mirroring the calculating
    intelligence behind them. ‘Tell Siobhan to go home,’ Cafferty
    was saying. ‘And the door-to-door is wasting time and effort.
    It’s just one broken window, easily fixed.’
    ‘It’s not, though, is it?’ Rebus had followed Cafferty for a
    few steps but then stopped by the wall opposite the bay
    window. There was a framed painting there, and as Cafferty
    turned towards him, he dabbed at it with the tip of one finger.
    ‘This painting used to be over there.’ He nodded towards
    another wall. ‘And the wee painting hanging there used to be
    here. You can tell from where the emulsion has faded – means
    they’ve been swapped over recently.’
    ‘I like them better this way.’ Cafferty’s jaw had tightened.
    Rebus gave a thin smile as he reached out with both hands and
    lifted the larger painting from its hook. It had been covering a

    small, near-circular indentation in the plaster. He shut one eye
    and took a closer look.
    ‘You’ve prised out the bullet,’ he commented. ‘Nine mil,
    was it?’ He dug in his pocket for his phone. ‘Mind if I take a
    snap for my scrapbook?’
    But Cafferty’s hand had gripped him by the forearm.
    ‘John,’ he said. ‘Just leave it, okay? I know what I’m doing.’
    ‘Then tell me. Tell me what’s going on here.’
    But Cafferty shook his head and relaxed his vice-like grip.
    ‘Just go,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Enjoy the days and
    the hours. None of this is yours any more.’
    ‘Then why let me in?’
    ‘I’m wishing I hadn’t.’ Cafferty gestured towards the hole. ‘I
    thought I was being clever.’
    ‘We’re both clever, it’s why we’ve lasted as long as we
    have.’
    ‘You going to tell Clarke about this?’ Meaning the bullet
    hole.
    ‘Maybe. And maybe she’ll go get that warrant.’
    ‘None of which will get her any further forward.’
    ‘At least the hole rules out one theory.’
    ‘Oh aye?’
    ‘That you fired the gun yourself from in here.’ Rebus
    nodded towards the window. ‘At someone out there.’
    ‘That’s some imagination you’ve got.’
    The two men stared at one another until Rebus exhaled
    loudly. ‘I might as well head off then. You know where to find
    me if you need me.’ He got the painting back on its hook and
    accepted the handshake that Cafferty was offering.
    Outside, Clarke and Fox were waiting in Fox’s car. Rebus
    climbed into the back.

    ‘Well?’ Clarke asked.
    ‘There’s a bullet hole in the far wall. He’s got the bullet out
    and won’t be handing it over to us any time soon.’
    ‘You think he knows who did it?’
    ‘I’d say he hasn’t a clue – that’s what’s got him spooked.’
    ‘So what now?’
    ‘Now,’ Rebus said, reaching forward to pat Fox on the
    shoulder, ‘I get a lift home.’
    ‘Are we invited in for coffee?’
    ‘It’s a flat, not a fucking Costa. Once you’ve dropped me,
    you young things can finish the evening doing whatever takes
    your fancy.’ Rebus looked towards where the terrier was sitting
    on the pavement, watching the occupants of the car, its head
    cocked.