direction. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Rebus assured him, coldly.
‘They faked confessions, framed the innocent, planted evidence — we all knew it went on, but there was nothing we could do about it.’
‘The press knew, you mean?’
‘Very straightforward procedure — you bought a desk sergeant or someone from the custody suite a drink, and they poured out all the gossip. Almost none of it made the news pages.’
‘Why not?’
‘Editors would spike it. They’d be on the phone to someone high up at HQ, there’d be a few quiet words, and the piece would fail to appear.’
‘Editors in cahoots with the upper echelons?’
Stout nodded, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his cardigan.
‘But the pieces you wrote about the Merchant killing made it into the
‘By no means all of them, but some, yes. It was safe by then, you see? A senior officer had already resigned.’
‘Stefan Gilmour?’ Fox watched the old man nod.
‘Did him no harm in the long run, did it?’ Stout grumbled. ‘On his way to a knighthood, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘The officers at Summerhall contend that it was a simple matter of errors being made.’
‘Nonsense,’ Stout snapped back at Fox. ‘Billy Saunders had to be protected.’
‘Because he was Stefan Gilmour’s snitch? Or do you think there was more to it than that?’
‘It did cross my mind. Plenty of men around like Saunders at that time — losing one snitch to jail would hardly have shaken Gilmour’s world.’
‘So what do you make of it?’
‘Have you tried asking him?’ Stout gestured towards Rebus. ‘I seem to recall you were at Summerhall same time as Gilmour.’
‘I’m in the dark as much as anyone,’ Rebus commented. ‘But we’re talking to Eamonn Paterson and George Blantyre.’
‘And Gilmour himself, of course,’ Fox added.
‘Not Frazer Spence, though,’ Stout said quietly. ‘Poor little bugger. He was one of mine, you know.’
‘One of the officers who’d take a drink from you?’ Fox checked.
Stout was nodding again. ‘Not until a few years after the Merchant case, but yes. .’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘Reluctant to talk about Summerhall though. And clammed up completely whenever Merchant was mentioned.’
‘He knew something?’
‘He was scared, or maybe haunted is a better word — like there was something he’d stuffed into a locker and he didn’t ever want it opening.’
‘Will Summerhall feature in your memoirs, Mr Stout?’ Rebus asked. Fox looked annoyed at the interruption.
‘Maybe as a postscript to be published after my death — that way nobody can sue.’ There was a glint in the old journalist’s eye.
‘You worked with Frazer Spence, John,’ Fox was saying. ‘Do you know why he’d feel “haunted”?’
‘No idea.’
‘Nobody in that police station was totally clean,’ Stout said sourly, his eyes on Rebus.
‘And we know that journalists have always been paragons of virtue,’ Rebus responded.
‘One or two of us were scumbags,’ Stout allowed. ‘But with your lot it was institutionalised lying, institutionalised violence and threats.’
‘You’re one to talk, you old-’
‘DS Rebus,’ Fox broke in, his voice rising. ‘Maybe you need a breath of air.’
After a staring match of a few seconds, Rebus got to his feet. ‘Maybe I do at that. The atmosphere in here’s getting a bit too fucking pious for me. I’ll leave you and this old hypocrite to it. .’
Outside, he paced the short gravel driveway, sucking on a cigarette. It was a good five or six minutes before Fox emerged. Stout hadn’t bothered coming to the door to wave him off.
‘You okay?’ Fox asked.
‘Sanctimonious prick of a man,’ Rebus began. ‘You can be sure there’ll be no shortage of lies and half-truths in his book. Albert Stout wasn’t above groping a typist or offering someone a deal if they’d rat on their lover.’
Fox unlocked his Volvo and got in. Rebus wished he’d brought his Saab, but it was parked on Chambers Street. He paused for a few more seconds, draining the life from his cigarette before flicking it towards Stout’s front door. Then he climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Got it off your chest?’ Fox said. He didn’t look displeased to see Rebus fired up.
‘Let’s just get going, eh?’
Fox started the car. Rebus had already noticed that the man never quite broke the speed limit. In a 40 zone, he’d keep to 39; in a 30, he’d do 29. The one time Rebus had suggested putting the foot down, Fox had actually eased off the accelerator instead. So he kept quiet as they drove back into the city, headed for Colinton and the home of Professor Norman Cuttle. Fox stuck the Scottish news on, but switched the radio off again almost immediately.
‘All you seem to hear about is the referendum,’ he complained. Then: ‘Mr Stout was interesting about that actually — after you left. He’s got a whole chapter in his book about the ’79 vote and the years that followed. SNP were at a low ebb then. Some of them decided to take matters a little further. I had a case a couple of years back. .’
‘A Complaints case?’
‘Started off that way. You ever heard of the Dark Harvest Commando? The SNLA? They got hold of weapons, sent firebombs to politicians and Princess Di — even posted anthrax to the government in London.’
‘I vaguely remember.’
‘Stout covered a few of the trials. He’s an interesting man.’
‘He’s an arsehole, and the fact that you can’t tell the difference says a lot about you, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Do you think it was true, though, what he said about editors spiking stories?’
‘Is that going to be your next archaeological dig — brass who were too close to the men who ran the papers?’
‘I’d assume they’re all dead by now.’
‘I’m not sure that would stop you.’
‘This is my last work for Professional Standards.’
‘Unless you can persuade the Solicitor General that you need to be kept on in some capacity.’
‘That could work for you too, you know.’
Rebus turned towards Fox. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Until recently you were working cold cases. If the double jeopardy verdict goes, there’ll be a lot of “archaeological digs” to be organised. Who better than someone with cold-case experience?’
‘I prefer my bodies with a bit of warmth in them.’
Fox gave a shrug. ‘Your funeral,’ he said.
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning you’re back in CID but the clock is against you — two or three more years and you’ll hit the retirement wall again. That wouldn’t matter if you were working for the Solicitor General.’
‘I know plenty of ex-cops who work for lawyers — they never seem particularly happy about it.’
‘Doing precognitions, you mean? That’s not what this would be like.’
‘It would be like death,’ Rebus stated, switching the radio back on.
‘Something you should refrain from saying at our next destination,’ Fox advised, as a Waterboys song started playing.
