into the directors’ box?’
‘You’re good at this.’ Fox’s admiring tone sounded genuine enough.
Clarke knew now what David Galvin had been hinting at during dinner at Bia Bistrot.
‘You really think I’m going to hand you John on a plate?’
‘It’s not Rebus I want — it’s people he knows, or used to know. I’m going back thirty years.’
‘Summerhall?’
Fox paused and studied her. ‘He’s talked about it?’ She shook her head. ‘So how do you know?’ But he had worked it out within a few seconds. ‘That leaving do,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Eamonn Paterson was there. I saw him with Rebus. .’
‘Then you know as much about Summerhall as I do. And I’m still no further forward as to why I should help you.’
‘Whatever happens, I’m going to end up asking Rebus some questions. I just think it would smooth things a little if there was a referee of some kind.’
‘A referee?’
‘To ensure fairness — on both sides.’
She took a sip of coffee, then another. Fox did likewise, almost exactly mirroring her.
‘Is that supposed to be an empathy thing?’ she queried.
‘What?’
‘Aping me to make me think I’m the one with the power?’
He seemed to consider this. ‘You picking up your cup reminded me mine was there, that’s all. But thanks for the tip — I’ll bear it in mind.’
She stared at him, trying to gauge the level of game being played.
‘It’s good coffee, by the way,’ he added, this time slurping from his cup. Clarke couldn’t help but smile. She went back to watching pedestrians while she considered her options.
‘Thirty years is a long time,’ she said eventually.
‘It is.’
‘Something’s supposed to have happened at Summerhall?’
‘Possibly.’
‘And it involved John?’
‘Tangentially — I don’t think he’d been there that long. He was pretty junior. .’
‘You know he’s not going to give up any of the men he worked with?’
‘Unless I can persuade him otherwise.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Clarke said.
‘My problem, not yours. I’d just like it if you could get him to sit down with me.’
‘So what are we talking about? A few statements altered? Lies told in court? Prisoners tripping and falling on their way to the cells?’ She waited for him to answer.
‘A bit more serious than that,’ he obliged, placing his cup back on its saucer with the utmost care. ‘So Rebus has never talked to you about it?’
‘Summerhall, you mean?’ She watched him nod. ‘Never a word.’
‘In which case,’ Fox said, lowering his voice despite the fact they were the café’s only customers, ‘you maybe won’t have heard of the Saints?’
‘Only the band.’
‘This was a band of sorts too, I suppose. Saints of the Shadow Bible, they called themselves.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘I’m not exactly sure — the files from the Solicitor General’s office don’t seem to be complete.’
‘Sounds vaguely Masonic.’
‘That might not be too wide of the mark.’
‘And officers at Summerhall were members?’
‘They were the only members, Siobhan. If you worked there as a detective at that period, you were a Saint of the Shadow Bible. .’
4
Rebus sat in his car, staring at the bungalow. Bringing the Saab meant he couldn’t drink, but it would help if he felt the need to get away in a hurry. The sky was clear, the moon visible. Only a degree or so above zero, frost glinting on the surface of the road. Rebus’s hands gripped the steering wheel. He hadn’t seen anyone go in yet. There were lights on in both downstairs windows. Dormers built into the slate-tiled roof above, curtained and dark. Rebus eased his own window down and got a cigarette going. Maybe nobody was going to turn up. Seven, he’d been told, and it was now ten after. What if he went to the door and found it was just going to be him, Dod Blantyre and Maggie? Wouldn’t that be cosy? He sucked on the cigarette, narrowing his eyes as the smoke stung them. Would Dod be bed-bound? Maybe in the living room, with a commode pushed against one wall? Maggie exhausted from coping with him, the life draining from her? Would she ask why Rebus never called round, never sent a Christmas card in exchange for the one she still always dispatched?
Her husband’s name first, but her handwriting. Did he really want to spend the evening confined with them? Did they have anything to talk about, other than the old days? Would she have made sandwiches or some kind of supper, so that he had to balance plate and fork and glass while he sat or stood?
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, flicking ash out of the window.
‘That’s littering,’ a voice boomed, while a fist smashed down on the Saab’s roof. Rebus nearly dropped his cigarette. Cursing, he stared out at the stooped, grinning figure of Eamonn Paterson.
‘You trying to give me a heart attack?’ Rebus pretended to complain.
‘Old copper’s trick — the ability to creep up on a suspect.’
Rebus wound up the window, yanked the key from the ignition and opened his door.
‘Don’t tell me you walked?’ he asked, climbing out.
‘Caught the bus.’ Paterson nodded towards the Saab. ‘Is this you offering to be the designated driver?’
‘Just like in Summerhall days.’
‘It was only once or twice you had to drop us all home.’
‘And clean the sick off the back seat.’
‘Not the same car, though?’
‘Not quite.’
‘I seem to remember your wife complaining the smell wouldn’t shift.’
‘Ended up selling it at a discount,’ Rebus said with a nod.
‘The car or the wife?’ Paterson gave a wink and patted Rebus’s shoulder. ‘Feel up to visiting the invalid? Only it looked to me like you were getting cold feet there.’
‘Just worried I was going to be flying solo.’
‘As if the Saints would let that happen.’ Another pat of reassurance and Paterson led the way to the bungalow’s front door.
It was a few moments before Maggie Blantyre answered the ring. Bathed in warmth and welcoming light, she didn’t seem to have aged at all. Ash-blonde hair falling to her bared neck, broad-shouldered but with a narrow waist. She wore plenty of expensive-looking jewellery and her make-up was immaculate.
‘Boys,’ she said, opening her arms for an embrace from either man. ‘Come in out of the cold.’
Paterson received a peck on both cheeks before stepping inside, then it was Rebus’s turn. Her eyes lingered on his afterwards, and she pressed her fingers to his face, rubbing at the lipstick she’d left there.
‘John,’ she said. ‘I was hoping you’d make it.’ Then she led him indoors by the arm, closing the door on the outside world.
‘Divest yourselves.’ She nodded towards the banister, where a camel-coloured woollen coat was already
