“Best not to get on the wrong side of her—not this early in the game.”

Clarke seemed to sense the truth of this.

“I’ll track her down,” Fox said. “You think it ties in, don’t you?”

“Rule nothing in and nothing out.”

“I didn’t really glean anything from the widow.”

“I hope you don’t think I was going easy on you?”

“I think we both know you really were.”

“You’d met her before, making you the obvious candidate.”

Fox nodded and decided to drop the subject. “It’s good the bullet was found,” he said.

“And the casing,” Olivia Webster interrupted, coming towards them and waving her phone. “It was in the water.”

“Anything else?”

“Not so far.”

“Evidence suggests he was sleeping rough,” Fox said. “Maybe not too far from where he ended up.”

“The industrial estate?” Clarke suggested. “Maybe we should go take a look—as soon as you’ve tried the Solicitor General’s office again.”

For want of anything better to do, Rebus returned to Gayfield Square, where DCI James Page had been left with only a skeleton crew. He was seething, prowling a line from his cupboard-sized office across the floor of the CID room and back again.

“It’s not that I don’t think Siobhan’s perfectly capable,” he commented.

“Agreed,” Rebus said. “Always annoying, though, when the action’s elsewhere.”

Page glowered at him, trying to work out whether sympathy or mockery was being offered. Rebus’s face gave nothing away.

“I suppose your own little adventure with Malcolm Fox is coming to an abrupt halt?” Page eventually countered.

“A few ends to trim off first,” Rebus lied, checking his watch. “In fact, I should get over there and give him a hand…”

“So we can expect you back at your desk here bright and early tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Rebus gave a little salute before turning to leave.

Outside, he stood in the car park, smoking a cigarette. There were no messages on his phone, and no point in heading to the office at the Sheriff Court—Fox had locked up on their departure, and Rebus hadn’t bothered asking for the key. Instead, he tapped in Stefan Gilmour’s number. It went to an answering machine, so Rebus hung up. But a moment later a text popped up on his screen. It was from Gilmour—In a meeting. I’ve heard about S. Don’t worry.

S for Saunders. What was it Rebus wasn’t supposed to worry about? The threat to all the Saints, or just to Gilmour? Was he saying that he didn’t blame Rebus for the increased attention?

“Bloody hell, John,” Rebus muttered to himself as he crushed the remains of the cigarette underfoot.