Rebus opened another ledger and started reading.

He remembered most of the cases, but not all of them. An arson attack in Craigmillar…a series of corner shops held up by a drug addict armed with a syringe…several sexual assaults late at night in the Meadows (never officially linked, never solved). An off-duty constable had been attacked by a mob of football fans in a pub on Forrest Road. A tramp had been found dead in Grayfriars Kirkyard, bearing the signs of a beating. Cashpoint muggings, aggressive beggars, a pickpocket gang from Eastern Europe. The cells at Summerhall had been overflowing some nights. Then there was the cannabis haul from a lockup in Dumbiedykes, and the stolen car that was used to ram-raid an off-license.

All fun and games.

Rebus’s own name cropped up occasionally, as did his signature—at the bottom of reports he might or might not have typed. Cross-referencing the custody ledger against suspects arrested, he found that the bottom half of a page had been torn out.

“Just for the record,” he said, motioning for Fox to take a look, “it was like this when I opened it.”

Fox nodded. “I noticed that a while back.”

The last entry on the half-page still remaining gave details of a suspect detained a week before Merchant’s murder, while the first entry on the next page was from the same day.

“Four hours or so missing,” Fox commented. “Late afternoon to midevening.”

“What do you think happened?”

“If the custody sergeant were still around, I’d ask him.”

“Deceased?” Rebus guessed.

“Name of Magnus Henderson.”

“I remember him,” Rebus said. “Red-faced cheery-looking chap, but when he put someone in a headlock they soon realized he wasn’t Father Christmas.”

“Retired to the Costa del Sol. Died a couple of years back from a coronary.” Fox prodded at the ledger with a finger. “You think there’s something there that needed to be got rid of?”

“I’m pretty sure that would have been your first reaction.”

“You’re right, but unless you or one of the other Saints is about to confess…”

Rebus offered a shrug. “There are arrest records, other bits of paperwork that might provide an answer.”

“Or else the custody sergeant just got a name wrong and tore the page out to save embarrassment.”

“Maybe the prisoner got shirty, made a grab for the book,” Rebus suggested. “I could ask around.”

“Your old buddies? You really think Stefan Gilmour would own up? Or Eamonn Paterson?”

“Probably not.” Rebus’s phone was ringing.

“Morning, DI Clarke,” he said, answering. “Enjoying the weather?”

“Have you heard?” she asked.

Rebus’s jaw tightened. He fixed Fox with a stare. “Heard what?”

“Body fished from the canal this morning. Bank card in his pocket has the name William Saunders.”

“Billy Saunders is dead?”

Fox took out his own phone and tapped in a number.

“Looks like,” Clarke was saying. “Body’s not been formally identified yet.”