After Ratty had gone, Rebus lay on his bed for a while with his forearm across his eyes. It was something you never thought about on the outside – the control you had over such simple everyday things as switching a light on or off. In here, someone else held sway. He reckoned that was one reason why ex-cons sometimes found life afterwards hard to adjust to. How the hell did you plan meals or do the shopping required – all those shelves, all those choices to be made?

  Others, of course, took to prison life as if born to it, a simple extension of the schools or other institutions they’d known throughout the course of their lives. Rebus himself had gone straight from school to the army and from there to police training, but always with questions and never quite happy to blindly follow the rules and regs. He’d survived his share of disciplinaries and reckoned he’d managed never to become just a cog, serving a function dictated from elsewhere in the machinery. If he’d wanted a quiet life he’d have refused the move to the general prison population, but the quiet life wasn’t really his thing, never had been. All the same, he knew he wasn’t the man he had been. More aches and pains, less likely to win any physical contest. Which was why, even with eyes closed, his ears remained alert to danger. Briggs would have been checking. Soon enough he’d be ready to call Rebus out on his spurious relationship with Shay Hanlon. That meant being watchful during free flow. But even here in Trinity Hall, there was Everett Harrison to consider. He was close to Briggs. So far he’d taken Rebus’s side, but that might change at any moment – and he was only a cell away, a cell directly across from Jackie Simpson’s. Jackie Simpson, whose misadventures had led to Harrison’s sentencing.

  Rebus could see it. An officer on the take; the unlocking of Harrison’s cell; padding across the floor to where the same officer was opening Simpson’s door; Mark Jamieson out for the count; a towel stuffed into Simpson’s mouth and his throat cut.

  How long would the whole thing have taken? Two or three minutes tops. Then the clean-up – bloodied clothing placed in a bag, to be carried out of the prison at shift’s end, along with the murder weapon. Rebus knew that ceramic knives could be smuggled in, no metal detectors triggered. CCTV would have caught someone leaving Harrison’s cell, but then CCTV could be wiped or altered, couldn’t it?

  Neat and tidy, and with the night-shift POs firmly in the frame…

  ‘A penny for them.’

  He flinched at the voice, swinging his legs off the bed.

  ‘Easy there,’ Novak said from the doorway. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘Who said I was scared?’

  ‘Just a convincing impression then.’ He took a couple of steps into the cell, pulling the door until it was open only a few inches. He dropped his voice a level when he spoke. ‘Blair Samms tells me you had Ratty in here earlier. Got him working for you?’

  ‘I was just taking confession.’

  ‘Aye, that tickled Samms.’ Novak turned the chair towards him and settled on it.

  ‘Say Samms was in somebody’s pocket,’ Rebus said, ‘who would your bet be?’

  ‘Darryl’s the obvious answer. But then there’s always Shay Hanlon’s buddy.’

  ‘Meaning Harrison?’

  ‘Meaning Big H,’ Novak confirmed. ‘But there are probably others, too.’

  ‘I’ve been hearing of threats against officers – not just here, but other jails. Your car went up in flames, but has there been anything else?’

  Novak considered for a moment before replying. ‘Drive-bys in the middle of the night, horns blaring. A dead cat lobbed over the garden fence. My wife even found a note in her trolley when she reached the supermarket till.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘“Play nice.”’

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘Just that.’ Novak shifted on the chair. ‘Could be something or nothing.’

  ‘No notes since that one?’ Rebus watched Novak shake his head. ‘What do you think it meant?’

  ‘Turn a blind eye; if you’re asked to do something, do it.’

  ‘You’re sure it was meant for you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘And have you been asked to turn a blind eye?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘Told Esson and her team any of this?’

  ‘What’s the point? If anything, it just makes me the more likely suspect.’

  ‘How about your CID cousin?’

  ‘Cammy? He’s a bit busy working crimes he’s got half a chance of solving.’

  ‘If I was playing devil’s advocate,’ Rebus said after a moment, ‘I’d now be saying that there’s only your word for it about these threats. Whole thing could be made up to make you look either innocent or a scapegoat.’

  ‘You’re a hard man to please.’

  ‘Mark Jamieson reckons his supper that night could’ve been spiked. Ratty, Devo and Malachi were on duty, supervised by Watts and Samms – the man you reckon might be on the take.’

  ‘Is that what you were asking Ratty about?’

  ‘He more or less vouched for Watts and Samms.’

  ‘Leaving Malachi and Devo – if you’re ruling out Ratty himself.’

  ‘Either of them look likely to you?’

  ‘It’s easily done, a bit of powder or a pill. If asked by the right person, I’d say neither of them would say no.’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed them looking any different since that night.’

  ‘It’s not like the person asking would suddenly be filling their cell with strippers and booze.’

  ‘No, but they’d probably find themselves part of that person’s charmed circle.’

  ‘I’ve seen no sign of it, but I’ll definitely be keeping watch.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, Ratty reckons Devo is the most obvious candidate.’

  Both men became aware of voices rising down the hall, their heads turning towards the disturbance. Novak sprinted from Rebus’s cell and turned sharp left. Rebus wasn’t far behind. Prisoners had huddled around the figure of Darryl Christie, their shouts blurring with his. Officers were wading in. It looked to Rebus as though some prisoners were bent on protecting Christie while others were trying to get to him. There was a stick of some kind, jutting up above the various heads. Rebus recognised it as a pool cue.

  As he got closer, he saw that one end of the cue had been forced into Everett Harrison’s mouth. Harrison was gagging on it, face almost purple. He’d been forced to his knees and was trying to dislodge the cue with one hand while beating against Christie’s forearm with the other. Two of Christie’s lieutenants were pressing down on Harrison’s shoulders. When someone threw a punch at an officer, the alarm sounded, more bodies arriving. There was a look on Christie’s face that Rebus had witnessed once before; an intense, vibrant madness. Aided by the fresh slew of white shirts, Harrison managed to free himself of the pool cue, retching and holding a hand to his throat as he stumbled to safety. Rebus had no idea what had lit the actual fuse, but he knew something like it had been in the offing – all that anger and resentment at Jackie Simpson’s death, all the uncertainty and the feeling that to the outside world none of it – and none of them – mattered very much.

  Order was being restored, Christie dragged away towards the gate and the corridor beyond. He locked eyes with Rebus and smiled with his teeth. Harrison sat, knees pulled up to his chin, back against the wall near the pool table. He was being checked over by Samms and Novak. The gathered prisoners now looked hesitant – whose side should they take? Some turned towards the gate through which Darryl Christie had been led. Christie was a local and Christie had power, but Harrison worked for Shay Hanlon, and Hanlon, being a lesser-known quantity, had a touch of the mythic about him. Everyone knew what Darryl Christie could do, but Hanlon’s capabilities were all in the realm of the imagination. The uncertainty loomed large on several faces. Men who had been spoiling for a fight – any fight – now seemed bewildered and lost. They returned to their cells without fuss while Harrison was helped to his feet. He didn’t argue when it was suggested he be taken to the nurses’ station. He seemed unwilling or unable to speak, and kept one hand cupped around his throat.

  ‘What was that all about then?’ one officer asked, but Harrison just shook his head. Billy Groam, Rebus’s neighbour, wondered aloud if the pool cues would now be put into cold storage.

  ‘Happened with the dartboard after that one time,’ he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

  ‘Let’s all go back in our cells,’ Novak was advising. ‘Leave things to settle down.’ He had his arms outstretched, ushering his charges into their quarters. Rebus stayed put on the threshold, and when Novak approached, he told him he needed to speak to Christie.

  ‘Way beyond my pay grade, John,’ Novak informed him.

  ‘That’s why I need you to take it to the governor.’

  Novak stared at him. ‘Governor’s probably got more pressing concerns.’

  ‘Despite which, I need you to ask him.’

  ‘Owe you a favour, does he?’

  Rather than answer, Rebus retreated to his bed, lying down again, but this time without shading his eyes. He kept them open, unblinking, as he stared towards and beyond the ceiling.

  It was a further hour before Graves arrived at his door and announced that the boss needed to see him. As they crossed the hall, Rebus noted that the pool cues and balls had indeed been removed. As they neared Howard Tennent’s office, the man himself emerged, locking the door after him.

  ‘I’ll take it from here,’ he said to Graves. Then, watching the officer retreat the way he’d just come: ‘Is this absolutely necessary, John?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Am I allowed to ask why?’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  They began to walk. ‘Making any headway?’ Tennent eventually asked.

  ‘Of sorts – mostly ruling stuff out, but that can be useful in itself.’

  ‘What just happened with Darryl and Everett?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Are you about to ask?’ Tennent watched Rebus angle his head slightly. He looked around, but there was no one within earshot. ‘The police inquiry has stalled – no one’s saying as much, but it’s obvious. Only DI Fox seems still to have some fire in his belly.’

  ‘Probably a curry disagreeing with him.’

  ‘You don’t rate him?’

  ‘One-star reviews across the board.’

  ‘Well, I like what I’ve seen of the man.’

  ‘Stick with it, he’ll soon disappoint you.’ Rebus paused. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  Tennent glanced at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you ever hear anything about my appeal?’

  The governor shook his head.

  ‘You’d tell me if you did?’ Rebus pressed on.

  ‘Look, John, I don’t think you should be in here any more than you do. But no one’s going to tell me before they tell you.’

  Tennent focused on unlocking yet another solid metal door. They were headed to SRU, where Rebus had spent his first three months. Solitary was part of this complex – two cells, neither of them roomy, each with a sink and toilet with no privacy, every ablution visible from the spyhole. No phones or TVs here, no kettles or bookshelves. A solid concrete ledge for a bed, with only a thin mattress and blanket. Plus a sliver of window so high up the wall it was rendered all but meaningless.

  The officer in charge of the unit was waiting for them. He nodded a curt greeting to Rebus as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Darryl Christie sat on the ledge, head bowed.

  ‘You need to wait out here,’ Rebus told Tennent as he stepped inside, pulling the door closed after him.

  ‘You sound like you own the place,’ Christie commented without raising his head.

  ‘That would mean filling your shoes, Darryl. I’m not sure they’d fit.’

  ‘I own the square root of fuck all, that’s the truth of it.’ Christie couldn’t contain the bitterness spilling out of him.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Rebus waited, but all he received was a slow shake of the head. After half a minute, Christie’s head shot up, his eyes fixing on to Rebus’s. ‘You and Malcolm Fox go back a ways, aye?’

  ‘We’ve had our moments.’

  ‘He’s Organised Crime – wankers crawled all over me back in the day, phone taps, the lot. Far as I know, their hard-on’s not gone away just because I have.’

  ‘What’s Organised Crime got to do with this?’

  There was that smile again, that dangerous smile. ‘Everything,’ Christie stated.

  ‘How long do I have to wait for you to bring up his name?’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Shay Hanlon.’

  ‘That bastard,’ Christie snarled.

  ‘Harrison works for Hanlon. The two of you have always seemed amicable, but something’s changed. You can’t get to Hanlon, but you can have a go at the next best thing – so you did.’

  ‘Were you this smart in school? Arm always shooting up to answer the teacher’s question?’

  ‘Actually, I was pretty average. Bunked off a lot. I’ve tried making up for it since.’

  Christie had made his mind up. He checked over Rebus’s shoulder that the door was closed, but even so he rose to his feet, leaning his mouth in towards Rebus’s left ear.

  ‘A couple of my guys have been got at. Shooters pointed at them, told to leave the city or else. The attackers ride motorbikes and have Scouse accents.’

  ‘Scouse means Hanlon,’ Rebus agreed.

  ‘The lads he’s threatened are top of the class. When they walk, all that’s left are the narrow passes and dunces.’

  ‘Hanlon’s making his play,’ Rebus surmised.

  ‘I need to know what Fox knows. Do you think he’d tell you?’

  The only credible answer to this being ‘not a chance in hell’, Rebus kept his mouth shut. Not that Christie seemed to be paying attention, his head filled with fizzing energy.

  ‘If Hanlon’s back on UK soil, I can plan a hit. Even if he’s not, I need to know who he’s got in charge up here.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t ask Harrison.’

  Christie considered for a moment. ‘Aye, well… that’d been on my mind, but then when I started walking towards him, he had a big smarmy grin on his coupon and I just wanted it gone – because that grin told me he knew that I knew. He reckons his boss can just waltz into my city, after all the sweat I’ve broken. I needed to show him, and there was Mark Jamieson lining up a shot, the cue almost winking at me as I made to pass him…’

  ‘I reckon that’s a bridge burned then.’

  ‘Which is why I need access to Fox and his shiny-suited brethren.’

  Rebus pretended to be thinking. ‘I’ll need a phone.’

  ‘Easiest thing in the world.’

  ‘Not with you stuck in here for the foreseeable.’

  Christie shook his head at Rebus’s naivety. ‘Third shower stall from the left. Reach down into the drain. It should have plenty of charge and credit. You can hang on to it after – call it your reward.’ He stood back a little so Rebus could see the finger he was wagging at him. ‘But I want that info, John. If I don’t get it, I won’t be a very happy monkey.’

  ‘Lucky for me there are no pool cues left for you to use.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that – I’ve been known to improvise. I’m sure I’ll think of something to hurt you with.’

  ‘Noted.’ Rebus stepped past Christie and pushed open the door. Tennent was just the other side, his face giving nothing away. Either he’d heard or he hadn’t. Rebus wasn’t sure it mattered.

  ‘We’ll talk later, Darryl,’ the governor said sternly.

  ‘And to think they call it solitary,’ Christie shot back. ‘A man can’t get five minutes’ peace…’

  Rebus waited until late afternoon to roll up his towel and head for the showers. The younger guys, the ones who worked out, thought nothing of stripping off in their cell and walking there in flip-flops or trainers, a towel wrapped around their waist. But that wasn’t Rebus’s way. He undressed in the shower cubicle itself, stepping out to lay aside his clothes before going back in, hanging the towel over the chest-high door. The floor and walls were damp from the previous occupant. He turned on the water – it was never more than tepid at this time of day – and peered over the top of the door to check no one was in the vicinity. Then he crouched and worked his fingernails under the edge of the grating covering the run-off. Whatever screws it had once held had been removed, the fact disguised by thick dollops of soap pushed into each screw hole. The whole thing was prised off with ease.

  Rebus stared into the drain, seeing nothing at first. But there was a thin wire hooked over the rim just below floor level, and when he pulled on it, he felt resistance. The clear polythene bag it was tied to eventually emerged. He could make out the small, dark lozenge inside. He unwound the wire and placed it back in the drain, then slid the grating into place. Turning off the water, he started drying himself. Had the police search neglected the showers? Or had it just not been thorough enough? He supposed the phone could have been placed in the drain after any search had taken place, but it must have been secreted somewhere. Furthermore, the drain could just as easily have concealed a weapon – maybe even a knife with a serrated edge.

  The other stalls were empty, so he inspected them, but the drain covers were screwed down tight. His heart was beating a little faster than usual as he got dressed and, the phone wrapped in his towel, walked back to his cell, trying hard not to quicken his usual pace. The phone went into the little safe beneath his bed. For once, he locked it afterwards.

  That evening, after bang-up, he clambered onto the toilet seat and fired up the phone, calling Christine Esson’s number. She took her time answering.

  ‘It’s John,’ Rebus whispered to the handset. There was no immediate reply as he listened to the background sounds. ‘You’re in a pub?’ he guessed. He heard her hold the phone away from her as she explained to someone that she’d be back in two minutes.

  ‘Which bar is it?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘Jeremiah’s Taproom,’ Esson eventually said. ‘It’s near Gayfield Square.’