‘Pies?’ Paterson queried.
‘Dod thought it would be a nice touch. He says you lot ate nothing else for about two years.’
‘Certainly seemed that way.’ Paterson patted not his own stomach but Rebus’s. ‘With John here and Frazer doing the fetching.’
‘I’ll just be a minute then.’ She went over to her husband’s armchair and kissed him on the forehead before making for the kitchen. As soon as she was gone, Blantyre asked that the door be closed. Stefan Gilmour obliged.
‘All three of you, over here,’ Blantyre demanded. The three visitors approached his chair. ‘Means I don’t have to talk too loud.’
‘What’s going on, Dod?’ Gilmour asked, keeping his own voice low.
‘Last few times I’ve been to see the white coats, I’ve not let Maggie come with me. So she doesn’t know things are as bad as they are. It’s not just the stroke. There’s plenty else wrong with the engine.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Paterson said.
‘I’ve got a few months yet — at least I hope I have. But word’s come to me that they may not be as pleasant as I’d like them to be.’ He looked at each man in turn. ‘Elinor Macari’s on the warpath.’
‘Macari?’ Gilmour queried.
‘The Solicitor General,’ Rebus informed him.
‘She wants the Saunders case looked at.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘Because she can. Double jeopardy’s been axed, if you hadn’t heard.’
‘I hadn’t,’ Gilmour admitted.
‘Not axed exactly,’ Rebus felt it necessary to add. ‘But in certain cases a retrial can be requested.’
‘It was thirty years ago,’ Gilmour argued. ‘We can’t be expected to remember. .’
‘Won’t stop them asking.’ Paterson turned towards his friend. ‘Fancy seeing your photo in the papers, Stefan? And not in a clinch with a TV star but next to a mug shot of Billy Saunders?’
‘Is Saunders even in the land of the living?’ Gilmour enquired.
‘Macari wouldn’t go after him if he wasn’t,’ Blantyre said. Then: ‘My throat’s dry — can one of you. .?’
Paterson lifted the tumbler and angled the straw towards Blantyre’s lips. Gilmour produced a clean cotton handkerchief with which to dab the man’s chin.
‘So what do we do?’ he asked.
‘I’m just giving fair warning,’ Blantyre told him. ‘Few months from now, it won’t matter a damn to me. You lot, on the other hand. .’
Gilmour turned towards Rebus. ‘You’re the only one of us with a finger in the CID pie, John — can you find out what’s happening?’
‘I can try,’ Rebus conceded.
‘Without looking like there’s something you’re trying to keep covered up,’ Paterson added.
‘Covered up?’ Rebus echoed, as Maggie came back into the room.
‘Oh!’ she said, face growing fearful at the sight of all three guests huddled around her husband. ‘Has something. .?’
‘I’m fine,’ Blantyre assured her. ‘Just been taking a drink.’
She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘You scared me there.’ Then she gestured back towards the kitchen. ‘About fifteen minutes for those pies — and I think I need to step out and have a cigarette.’
‘I might join you,’ Rebus said. He fixed his eyes on those of Dod Blantyre. ‘If that’s okay. .?’
‘Fine,’ Blantyre agreed, after only a moment’s hesitation.
Rebus followed Maggie through the small kitchen and into the back garden. There was a patio, its furniture covered, awaiting better weather, with a patch of lawn beyond. She lit her own cigarette before handing her gold lighter to Rebus. She had folded her arms in a show of keeping warm.
‘Want me to fetch a coat?’ he asked. But she shook her head.
‘I get too hot in the house sometimes. Dod likes the thermostat turned up.’
‘The two of you have been managing okay?’
‘What else can you do?’ She flicked a strand of hair from one eye. ‘Must be hard, though.’
‘Can we change the subject?’
‘If you like.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Actually, no, let’s stick to that exact subject — why are you all here?’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘When was the last time the four of you were in the same room?’
‘Frazer’s funeral.’
‘And that was ten years back — so why now?’ She held up a hand. ‘Don’t bother trying any flannel. I’ve seen enough of it in my time to open a pyjama factory.’ She took a step closer. He could smell her perfume. ‘It’s because he’s dying, right? He’s dying and he thinks he can keep it from me?’ She saw the answer in his eyes and turned away, sucking hard on her cigarette, exhaling through her nostrils so that her whole face was wreathed in smoke.
‘Maggie,’ he began, but she was shaking her head. Eventually she took a deep breath and began to compose herself.
‘Is that still your address?’ she asked. ‘The one I send the card to every year?’
‘Yes.’
‘You never bothered moving? Did you think Rhona was coming back?’
‘Not especially.’ He shifted his feet.
‘We like to stay tied to the past, though, don’t we? Dod still talks about Summerhall. Sometimes I think it’s a priest he needs rather than a wife.’ She saw his look and held up a hand. ‘He spares me whatever gory details there are. Different times, different rules, isn’t that right?’
‘It might be what we tell ourselves.’ Rebus examined the glowing tip of his cigarette.
‘Something’s got him worried, though, hasn’t it — not just the cold hard fact that he’s dying? And it’s to do with the Saints?’
‘You best ask him.’
She smiled. ‘I’m asking you, John. I’m asking my old pal.’ And when he didn’t answer she leaned in and kissed him on the lips, kissed him slowly, brushing away the evidence with a finger afterwards. ‘He never did find out,’ she said, her voice just above a whisper. ‘Not unless you told him.’
Rebus shook his head, saying nothing.
‘You were just boys, the lot of you. Boys playing at being cowboys.’ She ran a different finger down his cheek and neck.
‘And what were you, Maggie?’ he asked as she inspected the contours of his face.
‘I was the same as I am now, John. No more, no less. You, on the other hand. .’
‘There’s certainly a bit more of me.’
‘But you seem sadder, too. It makes me wonder why you think you need to keep doing the job you do.’
‘So what was I like back then?’
‘There was an electric wire running through you.’
‘Lucky I got that seen to.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ She took one final draw on her cigarette and flicked it into a nearby pot. ‘Better get back indoors before tongues start wagging. Not that you Saints don’t trust each other. .’
Rebus finished his own cigarette and dropped it next to hers. ‘It was just a name we gave ourselves,’ he explained. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Try telling that to Dod.’ She paused at the back door, her hand turning the handle. ‘Far as he’s concerned, you lot came straight from a comic book.’
‘I don’t remember too many superheroes stoking up on pies,’ Rebus argued.
‘You probably don’t wear your underpants outside your trousers either,’ she agreed. ‘Unless there’s something you want to tell me. .’
Paterson’s home was a semi-detached Victorian property on Ferry Road. Most of his neighbours ran bed- and-breakfast operations, meaning gardens turned into rudimentary car parks. Paterson’s frontage, however, was
