draped, a red scarf trailing from one pocket.
‘Stefan’s here?’ Paterson surmised.
‘You’re the detective,’ Maggie Blantyre drawled. ‘You tell me.’
‘I always said camel makes him look like a used-car salesman.’ He hung up his padded jacket. Rebus wrestled with his own coat until Maggie helped him. He noticed a stairlift fixed to the wall at the foot of the stairs.
‘I wasn’t sure if we were expected to bring a bottle,’ he apologised.
‘Nothing but yourselves,’ she assured him, touching his arm again. ‘Now follow me.’
They passed a small dining room and entered the lounge. Dod Blantyre was seated in an ordinary-looking armchair, dressed and with a tumbler of orange liquid on an occasional table next to him. Stefan Gilmour had risen from the sofa, swapping his whisky from right hand to left.
‘Hiya, Porkbelly,’ he said. The two men shook before Gilmour turned to Rebus. ‘John — it’s been a while.’
‘Stefan.’ Rebus examined his old boss. The man was in his early seventies, but looked at least a decade younger. He wore a black T-shirt under a tailored jacket, with rust-coloured cords and brown loafers. What hair he could boast had been engineered to cover as much of his scalp as possible. Piercing blue eyes and a healthy glow to his cheeks.
‘You staying in town?’ Paterson asked him. Gilmour shook his head.
‘My driver will take me back.’
‘Driver, eh?’ Paterson gestured towards Rebus. ‘I’ve got one of those tonight too.’ Then he headed to Dod Blantyre’s corner of the room, squeezing a shoulder in greeting.
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.’ One whole side of Blantyre’s face hung lower than the other, making his words slightly slurred.
‘You’re fine, Dod,’ Paterson told him. Blantyre nodded and turned his attention to Rebus.
‘And here’s the prodigal,’ he said. ‘I reckoned the drink had got you, or you’d moved to Spain.’
‘Just working hard,’ Rebus replied with a shrug of apology.
‘Well, you’re here now. Maggie, are we going to let the man die of thirst?’
There was a drinks cabinet open. Maggie already seemed to know that Paterson would want a Highland Park.
‘Same for you, John?’ she asked.
‘I better have one of those.’ Rebus nodded towards the glass of orange by Blantyre’s side.
‘With or without the three measures of vodka?’
‘Without.’
‘Dod knows he shouldn’t really be drinking.’ She began pouring juice from the litre-sized carton.
‘Doctors try to drain all the fun out of life,’ Blantyre complained. Again Rebus had to strain to pick out his old colleague’s words.
‘Sit yourselves down,’ Maggie demanded, handing over the glasses. There was just about enough room on the sofa for the three visitors, Maggie settling herself on the spare armchair. ‘Here’s to us,’ she said, toasting the room at large. Then, realising her error, she got up again and went over to her husband’s side, lifting his tumbler and helping him hold it while he drank through a straw. When a dribble settled on his chin, she brushed it off with the back of one ringed finger.
‘Nice of you all to come,’ she said, sitting down again. ‘Isn’t it, Dod?’
‘Aye,’ he acknowledged. ‘The Saints of the Shadow Bible. .’
‘Been a while since I heard those words,’ Stefan Gilmour said with a smile.
‘That’s because you move in different circles these days,’ Paterson reminded him. ‘Footballers and film stars. .’
‘Not as many as you might think.’
‘Still got that hotel going up in Dubai, though?’
‘Just about weathering the financial sandstorm,’ Gilmour conceded. Seated at the other end of the sofa, Rebus couldn’t really see his old boss without leaning forward. Back in Summerhall, Gilmour had been the DI, with Paterson and Blantyre as DSs and Rebus as a lowly detective constable, alongside a younger DC called Frazer Spence. But Spence had died a decade back in a motorbike smash in Greece. The eventual funeral had been the last time all four remaining members of the Saints had been gathered in the same place.
‘What are you thinking, John?’ Maggie Blantyre asked, swirling her glass of white wine.
‘I’m thinking I shouldn’t have brought my car.’ He made show of examining his orange juice.
‘Leave it where it is, then — drop by tomorrow and get it.’
But he shook his head.
‘I hear you’re still working,’ Dod Blantyre said.
‘I was retired for a while — did some civvy stuff for the Cold Case Unit.’
‘That the one set up by Gregor Magrath?’
‘It’s been wound up now. I reapplied for CID, and got lucky.’
‘Bit like the old codgers they take on at B and Q,’ Paterson joked.
‘John was always a hard worker,’ Blantyre said.
‘Did that stroke affect your memory, Dod?’ Paterson asked with a snort. ‘John was about the laziest bugger going.’ He turned towards Rebus. ‘Back me up here, John!’
‘You’re confusing John with poor Frazer,’ Gilmour interrupted. ‘Frazer was the boy who’d always be nipping to the shops.’
‘Is that right?’ Paterson was frowning as he tried to remember.
‘Don’t give Porkbelly any more whisky,’ Blantyre warned his wife. ‘He’s got too few synapses left as it is.’
There was a bit of laughter, after which they concentrated on their drinks. This is okay, Rebus thought to himself. But then he knew these men; the mood could change. .
‘Does anyone still have the Shadow Bible?’ Gilmour asked into the silence.
‘Don’t know what happened to it,’ Blantyre said. ‘Maggie thinks it might have gone into a skip when we cleared out the garage.’
‘That’s a shame.’
Blantyre looked at Gilmour. ‘I’m betting you’re glad you got out when you did — more money than us poor buggers will ever have.’
‘How many hotels have you got now, Stefan?’ The question came from Maggie.
‘They’re not exactly mine. I just seem to have landed the job of heading the company.’
‘How many, though?’
‘Seventeen at the last count.’
‘You must rack up the air miles.’
‘First-name terms with the staff at Emirates.’
She smiled, seeming pleased for him. ‘And are you still dating that model?’
‘She’s not a model — she used to be on TV.’
‘Same sort of thing, though — you need the looks.’
Gilmour nodded slowly. ‘We’re still together,’ he acknowledged. ‘Not married, though.’
‘We read about you in the papers — all that stuff to do with the referendum.’
‘“Stefan Gilmour Says No”,’ Paterson parroted. ‘This you pushing for your knighthood?’
‘And what happened,’ Dod Blantyre added, ‘to that plan you and your football pal had to buy Tynecastle?’
‘This is turning into an interrogation,’ Gilmour pretended to complain. ‘And we all know how those can turn nasty.’ He smiled and drank from his glass.
‘How about you, John?’ Maggie asked Rebus. ‘You split up with Rhona, didn’t you? Just the one kid. .?’
‘Leave the man in peace,’ Blantyre complained to his wife. Then, to Rebus: ‘Too many soap operas, John — that’s the trouble.’
‘Should I pop the pies in the oven, then?’ Maggie asked, starting to get to her feet. Her husband nodded.
