Rebus dried himself off with another wad of towels. He asked Claverhouse how he looked.

`There's still some on your brow.’

Claverhouse wiped the bits Rebus had missed.

`How is he?’ Rebus asked.

`They reckon he'll be okay, if he doesn't get an infection on the brain.’

`What do you think?’

`Message to Tommy from Big Ger. ’

`Is he one of Tommy's men?’

`He's not saying.’

`So what's his story?’

`Fell down a flight of steps, cracked his head at the bottom.’

`And the drop-off?’

`Says he can't remember.’

Claverhouse paused. `Eh, John…?’

`What?’

`One of the nurses wanted me to ask you something.’

His tone told Rebus all he needed to know. `AIDS test?’

`They just wondered.’

Rebus thought about it. Blood in his eyes, his ears, running down his neck. He looked himself over: no scratches or cuts. `Let's wait and see,' he said.

`Maybe we should pull the surveillance,' Claverhouse said, `leave them to get on with it.’

`And have a fleet of ambulances standing by to pick up the bodies?’

Claverhouse snorted. `Is this sort of thing Big Ger's style?’

`Very much so,' Rebus said, reaching for his jacket.

`But not that nightclub stabbing?’

`No.’

Claverhouse started laughing, but there was no humour to the sound. He rubbed his eyes. `Never got those chips, did we? Christ, I could use a drink.’

Rebus reached into his jacket for the quarter-bottle of Bell 's.

Claverhouse didn't seem surprised as he broke the seal. He took a gulp, chased it down with another, and handed the bottle back. `Just what the doctor ordered.’

Rebus started screwing the top back on.

`Not having one?’

`I'm on the wagon.’ Rebus rubbed a thumb over the label.