`Since when?’

`The summer.’

`So why carry a bottle around?’

Rebus looked at it. `Because that's not what it is.’

Claverhouse looked puzzled. `Then what is it?’

`A bomb.’

Rebus tucked the bottle back into his pocket. `A little suicide bomb.’

They walked back to A amp;E. Siobhan Clarke was waiting for them outside a closed door.

`They've had to sedate him,' she said. `He was up on his feet again, reeling all over the place.’

She pointed to marks on the floor airbrushed blood, smudged by footprints.

`Do we have a name?’

`He's not offered one. Nothing in his pockets to identify him. Over two hundred in cash, so we can rule out a mugging. What do you reckon for a weapon? Hammer?’

Rebus shrugged. `A hammer would dent the skull. That flap looked too neat. I think they went for him with a cleaver.’

`Or a machete,' Claverhouse added. `Something like that.’

Clarke stared at him. `I smell whisky.’

Claverhouse put a finger to his lips.

`Anything else?’ Rebus asked. It was Clarke's turn to shrug.

`Just one observation.’

`What's that?’

`I like the t-shirt.’

Claverhouse put money in the machine, got out three coffees. He'd called his office, told them the surveillance was suspended. Orders now were to stay at the hospital, see if the victim would say anything. The very least they wanted was an ID. Claverhouse handed a coffee to Rebus.

`White, no sugar.’

Rebus took the coffee with one hand. In the other he held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was his shirt. He'd have a go at cleaning it. It was a good shirt.

`You know, John,' Claverhouse said, `there's no point you hanging around.’

Rebus knew. His flat was a short walk away across The Meadows. His large, empty flat. There were students through the wall. They played music a lot, stuff he didn't recognise.

`You know Telford 's gang,' Rebus said. `Didn't you recognise the face?’