It was dark by the time Clarke and Fox arrived at the canal bank, ducking below the crime-scene tape. The rain had finally stopped and the sky was clear, the temperature dropping rapidly. Arc lights had been set up to illuminate the area where the dive team were still searching. The bullet casing had been recovered from the water, but no weapon as yet. From their time in front of various streams of CCTV footage from the businesses based on the industrial estate, they now had a good notion that Saunders had been sleeping in an alley, covered by a roll of felt underlay and some flattened cardboard boxes. In the alley itself they had found scraps and wrappers indicating that he had indeed been eating from a local supermarket—whose CCTV was also now being checked for sightings. His phone had been dried out and was working. Once charged, it showed that he had made no calls, and had received only a few—predominantly from his wife and the Solicitor General’s office, both leaving messages asking him to get in touch.

“Why didn’t he use it?” Clarke had asked.

“Because he was worried it could help trace him?” Fox had suggested. “We have the technology to do that.”

“You’re saying it was us he was afraid of?”

To which Fox had offered only a noncommittal shrug. “Before he vanished, he had a call one morning—number withheld, and lasting all of half a minute. I’m guessing that was Stefan Gilmour. Certainly chimes with what Gilmour told Rebus and me.”

“I need a full report from you, Malcolm—everything you can tell me about Summerhall and Saunders.”

“Including John Rebus?”

“Yes. No room for favors here, understood?”

“Understood. Do you mind me asking something?”

“What?”

“Is this your first time in charge of a Major Incident Team?”

“What if it is?”

“Nothing—I just want to thank you for making me feel useful.”

“You’ll be useful once I get that report.” They were clambering up the bank towards the canal path, but Clarke stopped suddenly, turning to face him. “Summerhall was dirty, wasn’t it?” She watched him nod, his eyes on hers. “And John?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He might not be implicated at all.”

“You’re not just saying that because he’s my friend?”

“We both know Rebus has sailed close to the wind—more times than either of us can count. I’m sure you’ve helped him out of a few jams, as have a lot of his other colleagues down the years, and some of them came to grief. I don’t know what kind of body armor Rebus wears, but it’s done its job up to now. Could be that when he arrived at Summerhall he took with him the idealism of youth. But by the time he left, he’d learned bad lessons.”

“From Gilmour, Blantyre and Paterson?”