“Dive team’s just arrived,” a uniform announced from beyond the cordon. Clarke headed off in that direction, Olivia Webster at her heels. Rebus yanked his raincoat over his head, creating a little tent within which he could get a cigarette going.

“You know why you’re not wanted?” Fox was asking.

“I think so,” Rebus replied. “The Summerhall connection.”

Fox nodded slowly. “We need to talk to Macari. With Saunders out of the picture, her case is…” He swallowed back the conclusion of the sentence.

“Dead in the water?” Rebus obliged.

“Which probably means I’ll be on CID duties sooner than expected.”

“The whole force rejoices,” Rebus said, before sucking on his cigarette. Clarke was coming back, brolly still held aloft, shoes muddied.

“A change of heart?” Rebus guessed.

“We’ll need your notes,” she said, her eyes on Fox. “Everything you’ve got on Saunders.”

“Just as soon as you clear it with the Solicitor General’s office,” Fox agreed.

“I’ll add it to the list,” she grumbled.

“Malcolm would be an asset to you, you know,” Rebus told her. “And he just happens to be between jobs…”

Clarke studied Rebus, as though seeking the catch or waiting for a punch line. Then she nodded stiffly.

“Fine,” she said, turning to leave again.

“Don’t say I never give you anything,” Rebus said to Fox, patting him on the arm.

At the mortuary, Clarke and Fox changed into protective clothing, but at the door to the autopsy suite Clarke paused, eyes on Fox.

“You sure you’re up to this?” she asked.

“It’ll be my first in a while.”

There was a sudden wailing from somewhere in the building.

“The widow,” Fox surmised.

Clarke nodded. “Change of plan,” she decided. “You’ve met her before—go see if you can get anything out of her.”

“Afraid I’m going to embarrass you in there?” Fox gestured towards the door.

“I’m sure you’d do fine, Malcolm. It’s a question of what’s most useful.”

“You’re the boss, Siobhan.”

“Thanks.” Having said which, she pushed open the door and disappeared inside, leaving Fox with a glimpse of steel trolleys and gleaming instruments. Back in the changing room, he dispensed with the protective clothing and headed for the waiting area, where Saunders’s widow Bettina was keening and being comforted by a female friend.

“They won’t even give her his things,” the friend complained to Fox.