`He asked me to go,' Rebus lied.

Claverhouse held up his hands. `Fact is, as you've just said, he asked you and you went.’

Claverhouse shrugged.

`Are you saying I'm in his pocket?’

Rebus's voice had risen.

`Boys, boys,' Clarke said.

The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched his pockets for change. He smiled when he looked at them.

`Good evening.’

Early-thirties, black hair slicked back from his forehead. One kisscurl looped down between his eyebrows.

`Anyone got change of a pound?’

They looked in their pockets, couldn't find enough coins.

`Never mind.’

Though the machine was flashing EXACT MONEY ONLY he stuck in the pound coin and selected tea, black, no sugar. He stooped down to retrieve the cup, but didn't seem in a hurry to leave.

`You're police officers,' he said. His voice was a drawl, slightly nasal: Scottish upper-class. He smiled. `I don't think I know any of you professionally, but one can always tell.’

`And you're a lawyer,' Rebus guessed. The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. `Here to represent the interests of a certain Mr Thomas Telford.’

`I'm Daniel Simpson's legal advisor.’

`Which adds up to the same thing.’

`I believe Daniel's just been admitted.’

The man blew on his tea, sipped it.

`Who told you he was here?’

`Again, I don't believe that's any of your business, Detective…?’

`DI Rebus.’

The man transferred his cup to his left hand so he could hold out his right. `Charles Groal.’

He glanced at Rebus's tshirt. `Is that what you call "plain clothes", Inspector?’