Overhead, his Velux window glistened with rain. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but his body seemed not to work. He twisted his head, squinted one eye at his radio alarm. Seven forty-two. He ran his hand around the back of his neck, felt the dampness of sweat and worried that he was running a fever. Feet on the floor, up and over to the bathroom, his body racking with coughs that brought up phlegm as black as coal. He popped a couple of Ibuprofen and downed them with a handful of cold water. Showered and shaved, he dialled Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary and managed to get through to Betson’s ward. Betson had survived the night but was still in critical condition. Gilchrist thanked the nurse and was about to call Stan when his mobile rang. He recognized the North Street number. ‘You’re wanted at the office.’ It took Gilchrist a full second to place the voice as Tosh’s, and one more for him to decide against hanging up. If Greaves was in any way involved, he had better be careful.
