Rebus is good, but not as sharp as he once was

Cig 1

Auld Reekie . . . Edinburgh . . . brewers’ town, stinking of beer, whisky, tweeness, gentility, hypocrisy, corruption . . .

DS Rebus awoke with a start, his hand still clutching a can of lager. He’d been asleep in his chair, as usual. He rarely went to bed. Bed was for sober people. The phone was still ringing, so stumbling over LP sleeves, full ashtrays and empty bottles, he picked up the receiver, greasy from last night’s fry-up.

‘It’s Siobhan,’ his colleague DI Clarke announced herself. ‘A new case has popped up.’ Rebus massaged his brow with an Irn-Bru can and grunted.

‘An old case, I mean,’ Siobhan corrected herself. ‘Thirty years old. But linked, possibly, to a new one, with some nasty masonic business thrown in.’

‘So when do the fun and games begin?’ asked Rebus.