`Went in about an hour ago,' Clarke said. `There's a room at the back, he uses that. He seems to like the arcade, too. Those games where you sit on a motorbike and do the circuit.’

`We need someone on the inside,' Claverhouse said. `Either that or wire the place.’

`We couldn't even get a plumber in there,' Rebus said. `You think someone with a fistful of radio mikes is going to fare any better?’

`Couldn't do any worse.’ Claverhouse switched on the radio, seeking music.

`Please,' Clarke pleaded, `no country and western.’

Rebus stared out at the cafe. It was well-lit with a net curtain covering the bottom half of its window. On the top half was written `Big Bites For Small Change'. There was a menu taped to the window, and a sandwich board on the pavement outside, which gave the cafe's hours as 6.30 a.m. – 8.30 p.m. The place should have been closed for an hour.

`How are his licences?’

`He has lawyers,' Clarke said.

`First thing we tried,' Claverhouse added. `He's applied for a latenight extension. I can't see the neighbours complaining.’

`Well,' Rebus said, `much as I'd love to sit around here chatting…’

`End of liaison?’ Clarke asked. She was keeping her humour, but Rebus could see she was tired. Disrupted sleep pattern, body chill, plus the boredom of a surveillance you know is going nowhere. It was never easy partnering Claverhouse: no great fund of stories, just constant reminding that they had to do everything `the right way', meaning by the book.

`Do us a favour,' Claverhouse said.

`What?’

`There's a chippy across from the Odeon.’

`What do you want?’

`Just a poke of chips.’

'Siobhan?’

`Irn-Bru.’

`Oh, and John?’

Claverhouse added as Rebus stepped out of the car. `Ask them for a hot-water bottle while you're at it.’