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swapped the cup into his other hand, pulled out the holder on the dash and slotted the coffee cup in it. The DI exhaled deeply, gathered himself for a moment, then tugged over his seatbelt and drove off.
    At the edge of Princes Street, the tram works – that eternal gutting of the city – had diverted traffic up Lothian Road in a snaking one-way system. There were new temporary traffic lights in operation. He couldn’t keep up with the changes in the city’s road layouts. There was a burning, sneaking assumption lurking in him that said the council was orchestrating this as a revenge for the public’s rejection of its congestion charge.
    Brennan banged on the rim of the wheel, said, ‘Come on for fuck’s sake.’
    The traffic was stationary. He had a full view of a tram – immobile – that had been installed at the foot of the Castle, on the main shopping thoroughfare. The idea was to give the city a taste of things to come; Brennan knew there would be snowballs in hell before a single tram got rolling. He readied himself to curse again as the light changed; he engaged the clutch and geared the car forward.
    ‘About bloody time.’
    On Queensferry Street, Brennan removed a cigarette from his packet of Embassy Regal; he had reached the point where he didn’t care about giving up now. He had once tried to cut back, tried smoking milder brands, but now he was so entrenched in his own form of personal nihilism that he had abandoned the idea. He pressed the lighter in the dash and waited for the ping.
    By Fettes, Brennan had smoked three-quarters of the cigarette and his coffee was now cool enough to drink. He stubbed the dowp on the tarmac and walked with his coffee cup held out in front of him. The door was opened by a waiting uniform. He nodded a thank you.
    Inside, the desk sergeant greeted him. ‘Morning, Rob.’
    More nods, the standard greeting. ‘Doesn’t feel like morning.’
    ‘You were on the early start out at Straiton … Saw it on the lunchtime news.’
    ‘Aye, so did I.’
    ‘You don’t sound chuffed.’
    ‘Would you be, Charlie.’ It wasn’t a question. More of a statement to confirm his position.
    The older man leaned forward; the bright lights above the desk caught on his pate and momentarily blinded Brennan. ‘The Chief Super’s been running around like he’s got a bee in his bonnet.’
    ‘Really?’
    A look to the left, a tweak of the nose. ‘I keep expecting the wee baldy fella to show up and Benny to start slapping his head!’
    Brennan permitted himself a laugh. Chief Superintendent Bernard Hill had only been in the station a few months and had already earned himself the moniker
Benny
.
    ‘I better get up there … Though I suspect it’ll be no joke.’
    Charlie pinched his lips like he was about to whistle, rested his chin on his knuckles. ‘Aye, well … He’s already pulled the station roster, counting the overtime up, that’ll be down to you, no doubt.’
    Brennan dipped his head. He felt the blood stiffen in his veins. He had a murderer to catch, he didn’t need to have his every move costed and budgeted. He turned for the stairs. On the way up he passed a young WPC, she was carrying a blue folder and tried not to catch the officer’s attention; he remembered what it was like to be her age, at her stage on the career path, and afraid of senior officers. At that stage, Brennan had wanted to ascend the ranks, purely so he could be the one giving the orders. Was it just ego? he thought. Had his ego pushed him to this point?
    At the top of the stairs Brennan took a sip from his coffee cup. He glanced down the corridor towards the Chief Super’s office; he was in, his secretary was sitting by the door typing up some no doubt important piece of documentation, like an RSVP to the Provost’s latest black-tie event. Brennan stared for a moment longer, he thought about the short distance that the Chief Super’s office was from his own and whether it was a distance he wanted to,