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it is. I know I was stupid, but you’ve got to believe –’
    ‘Just listen, will you!’ Rebus shut up and listened. He would do whatever she told him, no question. ‘They thought you’d be here, so someone from the station just phoned. It’s Brian Holmes.’
    ‘What did he want?’
    ‘No, they were phoning about him.’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘He’s been in some sort of … I don’t know. Anyway, he’s hurt.’
    Still holding the receiver, Rebus stood up, hauling the whole apparatus off the floor with him. ‘Where is he?’
    ‘Somewhere in Haymarket, some bar …’
    ‘The Heartbreak Cafe?’
    ‘That’s it. And listen, John?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘We will talk. But not yet. Just give me time.’
    ‘Whatever you say, Patience. Bye.’ John Rebus dropped the phone from his hand and grabbed his jacket.
    Rebus was parking outside the Heartbreak Cafe barely seven minutes later. That was the beauty of Edinburgh when you could avoid traffic lights. The Heartbreak Cafe had been opened just over a year before by a chef who also happened to be an Elvis Presley fan. He had used some of his extensive memorabilia to decorate the interior, and his cooking skills to come up with a menu which was almost worth a visit even if, like Rebus, you’d never liked Elvis. Holmes had raved about the place since its opening, drooling for hours over the dessert called Blue Suede Choux. The Cafe operated as a bar too, with garish cocktails and 1950s music, plus bottled American beers whose prices would have caused convulsions in the Broadsword pub. Rebus got the idea that Holmes had become friends with the owner; certainly, he’d been spending a lot of time there since the split from Nell, and had put on a fair few pounds as a result.
    From the outside, the place looked nothing special: pale cement front wall with a narrow rectangular window in the middle, most of which was filled with neon signs advertising beers. And above this a larger neon sign flashing the name of the restaurant. The action wasn’t here, however. Holmes had been set on around the back of the place. A narrow alley, just about able to accommodate the width of a Ford Cortina, led to the patrons’ car park. This was small by any restaurant’s standards, and was also where the overflowing refuse bins were kept. Most clients, Rebus guessed, would park on the street out front. Holmes only parked back here because he spent so much time in the bar, and because his car had once been scratched when he’d left it out front.
    There were two cars in the car park. One was Holmes’, and the other almost certainly belonged to the owner of the Heartbreak Cafe. It was an old Ford Capri with a painting of Elvis on its bonnet. Brian Holmes lay between the two cars. So far no one had moved him. He would be moved soon, though, after the doctor had finished his examination. One of the officers present recognised Rebus and came over.
    ‘Nasty blow to the back of the head. He’s been out cold for at least twenty minutes. That’s how long ago he was found. The owner of the place – that’s who found him – recognised him and called in. Could be a fractured skull.’
    Rebus nodded, saying nothing, his eyes on the prone figure of his colleague. The other detective was still talking, going on about how Holmes’ breathing was regular, the usual reassurances. Rebus walked towards the body, standing over the kneeling doctor. The doctor didn’t even glance up, but ordered a uniformed constable, who was holding a flashlight over Brian Holmes, to move it a bit to the left. He then started examining that section of Holmes’ skull.
    Rebus couldn’t see any blood, but that didn’t mean much. People died all the time without losing any blood over it. Christ, Brian looked so at peace. It was almost like staring into a casket. He turned to the detective.
    ‘What’s the owner’s name again?’
    ‘Eddie Ringan.’
    ‘Is he inside?’
    The detective nodded. ‘Propping up the