‘You didn’t get Billy Saunders off the streets. Evidence against him went missing. Statements were riddled with inaccuracies. Witnesses changed their stories after talking to you. .’
‘We can all agree that mistakes were made — and Stefan Gilmour walked the plank because of them.’
Fox leaned back an inch or two. ‘What do you think Billy Saunders is going to say?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Procurator Fiscal will be talking to him. Might be Saunders will want to cut a deal, looking for leniency.’
‘So what?’
‘So he’s kept his mouth shut for thirty years, but he might think it’s time to spill what really happened.’
‘Confess, you mean?’
‘Maybe not to the murder — but the cover-up after.’
‘Balls-up rather than cover-up.’
‘You reckon that’s how he’ll frame it?’
‘I don’t care what he does.’
‘When was the last time you set eyes on him?’
‘Billy Saunders? Twenty, twenty-five years.’
‘Despite living in the same city?’ Fox paused, making show of studying his notes. ‘When DI Gilmour resigned, who took control of Mr Saunders?’
‘You mean, whose snitch was he?’ Paterson looked to Rebus. ‘He didn’t warm to any of us, did he, John?’
‘Not that I remember,’ Rebus felt obliged to answer.
‘And here was I thinking he would have owed you,’ Fox commented. ‘I mean, whatever titbits he’d gifted you down the years, you got him off a murder charge. .’
‘Not intentionally,’ Paterson corrected him.
‘Even so, he’d been useful to you and suddenly you just let him go?’
‘Almost as if there was more to it than that,’ Rebus interjected.
‘You were there, John,’ Paterson shot back. ‘What do you think?’
‘It was another country.’
‘But that’s where you’re wrong, both of you,’ Fox said, turning from one man to the other. ‘It was the exact
‘It can play tricks on folk’s memories, though,’ Paterson stressed. ‘Whatever story Saunders decides to tell, no way of knowing it’s the truth.’
‘His short-term memory should be okay, though, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ Paterson’s eyes had narrowed.
‘The Procurator’s office set up a meeting with him this lunchtime. You sure it’s been quarter of a century since either of you set eyes on him?’ He waited until both Paterson and Rebus had nodded. ‘Well, according to Mr Saunders, another of your number phoned him this very morning.’
It took Rebus a moment to come up with the name. ‘Stefan Gilmour?’
‘The same,’ Fox confirmed.
‘What did he want?’
‘He was wondering which particular beans Mr Saunders might be about to spill.’
‘Stefan
‘Seems some of those bad habits just never go away,’ he commented, flicking through his notes again.
After ten further stilted minutes, the interview concluded. Fox thanked Paterson and told him that Rebus would see him out.
‘I’m sure the two of you will want a quick confab once I’m out of earshot.’
Neither man bothered to deny it. Out on Chambers Street, Paterson pulled out his phone and called Stefan Gilmour’s number.
‘It’s gone to voicemail,’ he muttered after a few seconds. He left a message anyway, telling Gilmour to phone him, adding, ‘You’ll know what it’s about, you daft bastard.’
‘Succinct,’ Rebus said. Paterson stared at the skies above and let out a sound that was on its way to being a growl.
‘What does he think he’s playing at, John?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Does he really want all of us in it up to our necks?’
‘Fox is right, though, isn’t he? There’s more to it than just keeping a good snitch on the street?’
Paterson jabbed a finger into Rebus’s chest. ‘
‘Only because he’d said it to me earlier.’
‘You’re supposed to be on our side, John.’
‘Oh aye? And what about Stefan — how’s he playing for the team when he’s calling Billy Saunders behind our backs?’
‘Christ alone knows,’ Paterson muttered, shoulders slumping.
‘The Shadow Bible was a long time ago, Porkbelly,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘It made sense that we stuck up for one another back then — might not be so true now.’
‘You’re asking me to side with you against Stefan?’ Paterson was shaking his head slowly but determinedly.
‘I’m saying we need to do what’s right.’
‘And tell me, John — was it “right” when you started seeing Dod Blantyre’s wife? Was it “right” that those of us who knew kept shtum?’
‘That’s not what we’re talking about here.’ Blood had risen unbidden to Rebus’s neck and cheeks.
‘It is, though — secrets and lies and all the other crap we’ve dealt out and been dealt. I didn’t see you owning up in there to signing your name to statements that weren’t yours. But we both know it happened. A
Rebus noticed that Paterson’s hand was outstretched. He took it and returned the firm shake, Paterson apparently reluctant to let go.
‘All right then,’ Rebus said, finally extricating himself. He watched Paterson walk away, then returned indoors and headed to the toilets. Examining his face in the soap-spattered mirror, he saw that there was still a faint smudge of lipstick on his right cheek. Cursing, he rubbed it away. Maybe Fox had noticed it and decided not to say anything. But Paterson had certainly spotted it, and had surmised the identity of its bestower — hadn’t she asked him for Rebus’s phone number, after all?
Fox was in the office, tidying up now that the show was over.
‘Much further forward?’ Rebus asked him.
In place of an answer, Fox had a question of his own. ‘Did you reach Stefan Gilmour?’
‘No,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Paterson left a message.’
‘Unbelievably stupid of him to contact Saunders.’
‘I’m not going to disagree,’ Rebus offered, slumping on to a chair.
‘And have you come to any conclusions yourself, Detective Sergeant Rebus?’
‘About what?’
‘You’re either my man or you’re theirs. Up until now, maybe you’ve been thinking you can swap shirts as and when.’
‘Only conclusion I’ve been able to draw so far is that you’re as sleekit as they come.’
‘I might have to pretend you mean that as a compliment.’
‘In some ways, it probably is.’ Rebus managed a tired smile.
‘I’m sorry for threatening to turn you into the tea boy.’
‘You were just letting Paterson know who was boss.’
