“Just clear out, the pair of you!”

Her hand touching Rebus’s arm. “It’s finished. Let’s go.”

“You think it’s finished?” Flecks of white saliva spitting from the corners of Fairstone’s mouth.

Rebus’s final words: “It better be, pal, unless you really want to start seeing some fireworks.”

She’d wanted to ask him what he’d meant, but instead had bought a final round of drinks. In bed that night, she’d stared at the dark ceiling before falling into a doze, waking with a sudden feeling of terror, leaping to her feet, adrenaline surging through her. She’d crawled on hands and knees from her bedroom, believing that if she got to her feet, she would die. Eventually it passed, and she used her hands on the hallway wall as she rose up from the floor. She walked slowly back to bed and lay down on her side, curled into a ball.

More common than you might think, her doctor would eventually tell her, after the second attack.

Between times, Martin Fairstone made a complaint of harassment, dropping it eventually. And he’d also kept on calling. She’d tried to keep it from Rebus, didn’t want to know what he meant by “fireworks”…

The CID office was dead. People were out on calls, or busy in court. It seemed you could spend half your life waiting to give evidence, only for the case to collapse or the accused to make a change of plea. Sometimes a juror went AWOL, or someone crucial was sick. Time seeped away, and at the end of it all the verdict was “not guilty.” Even when found guilty, it might be a question of a fine or suspended sentence. The prisons were full and seen more than ever as a last resort. Siobhan didn’t think she was growing cynical, just realistic. There’d been criticism recently that Edinburgh had more traffic wardens than cops. When something like South Queensferry came up, it stretched things tighter. Holidays, sick leave, paperwork, and court… and not nearly enough hours in any given day.