Monday morning saw Rebus back at work and in the Chief Super's office. `Farmer' Watson was pouring coffee for himself and Chief Inspector Frank Lauderdale, Rebus having refused. He was strictly decaf these days, and the Farmer didn't know the meaning of the word.

'A busy Saturday night,' said the Farmer, handing Lauderdale a grubby mug. As inconspicuously as he could, Lauderdale started rubbing marks off the rim with the ball of his thumb. 'Feeling better, by the way, John?’

'Scads better, sir, thank you,' said Rebus, not even close to blushing.

'A grim business under the City Chambers.’

'Yes, sir.’

`So what do we have?’

It was Lauderdale's turn to speak. `Victim was shot seven times with what looks like a nine-millimetre revolver. Ballistics will have a full report for us by day's end. Dr Curt tells us that the head wound actually killed the victim, and it was the last bullet delivered. They wanted him to suffer.’

Lauderdale sipped from the cleaned rim of his mug. A Murder Room had been set up along the hall, and he was in charge. Consequently, he was wearing his best suit. There would be press briefings, maybe a TV appearance or two. Lauderdale looked ready. Rebus would gladly have tipped the mug of coffee down the mauve shirt and paisley pattern tie.

'Your thoughts, John,' said Farmer Watson. `Someone mentioned the words "six-pack".’

`Yes, sir. It's a punishment routine in Northern Ireland, usually carried out by the IRA.’

`I've heard of kneecappings.’

Rebus nodded. 'For minor offences, there's a bullet in each elbow or ankle. For more serious crimes, there's a kneecapping on top. And finally there's the six-pack: both elbows, both knees, both ankles.’

'You know a lot about it.’

`I was in the army, sir. I still take an interest.’

`You were in Ulster?’