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has a right side?’
    ‘Best seen when retreating.’
    Back at his desk, Rebus put a call in to the council offices and was eventually put through to Darren Rough’s social worker, a man called Andy Davies.
    ‘Do you think it was a wise move?’ Rebus asked.
    ‘Care to give me some clue what you’re talking about?’
    ‘Convicted paedophile, council flat in Greenfield, nice view of the children’s playground.’
    ‘What’s he done?’ Sounding suddenly tired.
    ‘Nothing I can pin him for.’ Rebus paused. ‘Not yet. I’m phoning while there’s still time.’
    ‘Time for what?’
    ‘To move him.’
    ‘Move him where exactly?’
    ‘How about Bass Rock?’
    ‘Or a cage at the zoo maybe?’
    Rebus sat back in his chair. ‘He’s told you.’
    ‘Of course he’s told me. I’m his social worker.’
    ‘He was taking photos of kids.’
    ‘It’s all been explained to Chief Superintendent Watson.’
    Rebus looked around the office. ‘Not to my satisfaction, Mr Davies.’
    ‘Then I suggest you take it up with your superior, Inspector.’ No hiding the irritation in the voice.
    ‘So you’re going to do nothing?’
    ‘It was your lot wanted him here in the first place!’
    Silence on the line, then Rebus: ‘What did you just say?’
    ‘Look, I’ve nothing to add. Take it up with your Chief Superintendent. OK?’
    The connection was broken. Rebus tried Watson’s office, but his secretary said he was out. He chewed on his pen, wishing plastic had a nicotine content.
    It was your lot wanted him here .
    DC Siobhan Clarke was at her desk, busy on the phone. He noticed that on the wall behind her was pinned up a postcard of a sea-lion. Walking up to it, he saw someone had added a speech balloon, issuing from the creature’s mouth: ‘I’ll have a Rebus supper, thanks.’
    ‘Ho ho,’ he said, pulling the card from the wall. Clarke had finished her call.
    ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said.
    He scanned the room. DC Grant Hood reading a tabloid, DS George Silvers frowning at his computer screen. Then DI Bill Pryde walked into the office, and Rebus knew he had his man. Curly fair hair, ginger moustache: a face just made for mischief. Rebus waved the card at him and watched Pryde’s face take on a look of false wounded innocence. As Rebus walked towards him, a phone began sounding.
    ‘That’s yours,’ Pryde said, retreating. On his way to the phone, Rebus tossed the card into a bin.
    ‘DI Rebus,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, hello. You probably won’t remember me.’ A shortlaugh on the line. ‘That used to be a bit of a joke at school.’
    Rebus, immune to every kind of crank, rested against the edge of the desk. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, wondering what kind of punch-line he was walking into.
    ‘Because it’s my name: Mee.’ The caller spelled it for him. ‘Brian Mee.’
    Inside Rebus’s head, a fuzzy photograph began to develop – mouthful of prominent teeth; freckled nose and cheeks; kitchen-stool haircut.
    ‘Barney Mee?’ he said.
    More laughter on the line. ‘I never knew why everyone called me that.’
    Rebus could have told him: after Barney Rubble in The Flintstones . He could have added: because you were a dense wee bastard. Instead, he asked Mee what he could do for him.
    ‘Well, Janice and me, we thought … well, it was my mum’s idea actually. She knew your dad. Both my parents knew him, only my dad passed away, like. They all drank at the Goth.’
    ‘Are you still in Bowhill?’
    ‘Never quite escaped. I work in Glenrothes though.’
    The photo had become clearer: decent footballer, bit of a terrier, the hair reddish-brown. Dragging his satchel along the ground until the stitching burst. Always with some huge hard sweet in his mouth, crunching down on it, nose running.
    ‘So what can I do for you, Brian?’
    ‘It was my mum’s idea. She remembered you were in the police in Edinburgh, thought maybe you could help.’
    ‘With what?’
    ‘It’s our son. Mine and Janice’s. He’s