Fox nodded again, and watched as Clarke let out a hissed exhalation between gritted teeth. “The question is,” he asked, “how much of all that Saints mumbo-jumbo does he still believe? Is he going to cover up for them?”

“Misguided loyalty, you mean?” It was Clarke’s turn to nod. Her phone buzzed and she checked the screen. It was a text from Laura Smith: We’ll call it quits if you brief me on William Saunders.

“Something important?” Fox inquired.

“Absolutely not.”

“David Galvin?”

Clarke glared at him. “He’s history, Malcolm.”

She turned her head sharply, alerted by a cry from the canal. One of the frogmen was standing in the water, which reached only to his chest. He was waving something, a small, dark shape draped with strands of slimy green weed.

“That looks to me very like a gun,” Fox commented. Then watched as a relieved smile broke across Siobhan Clarke’s face.

Day Nine

Day Nine

16

16

Next morning, Rebus went back to the nursing home in Colinton. Professor Cuttle, he was told, was under the weather, staff fearing he had caught a chill from too much time spent in the garden.

“He had visitors the other day,” the staff member informed Rebus. “They kept him outside longer than they should.”

“Some people, eh?” Rebus sympathized, making a tutting sound and shaking his head.

“He’s in his room, tucked up in bed. Can I fetch you a cup of tea…?”

Rebus said he would be fine, and followed her along a corridor which held the faint aroma of talcum powder. She knocked on a door and opened it.

“Visitor for you,” she trilled, stepping back to allow Rebus past her. He nodded his thanks and, once inside, closed the door gently on her.

Cuttle looked paler and thinner than ever. It took him a moment to place Rebus.

“Seems Inspector Fox and me kept you too long in the cold,” Rebus apologized, lowering himself onto a folding chair next to the bed.

“Fresh air is supposed to be good for a body,” Cuttle said with a shrug. He had been reading a tabloid newspaper with the help of a magnifying glass.

“Anything interesting?” Rebus asked, gesturing towards the paper.

“That shooting in the city—they’ve found the gun.”

Rebus nodded. “They’ve certainly fished out a gun—I dare say a few items of interest have been tossed into the canal down the years.” He crossed one leg over the other, trying to get comfortable on a chair ill suited to the task. “Did you ever have to deal with shootings?” he inquired.

Cuttle grew thoughtful. “Once or twice—the first when I was still a young pup. Professor Donner was very much my teacher in those days.” He paused. “Is my memory playing tricks, or did you once end up with a bullet in you?”