“Lucky I didn’t end up on a slab,” Rebus acknowledged. “That was 1987—I’d not long been promoted detective sergeant. Took a bullet to the shoulder.”

“Donner and I did the autopsy on the shooter.” Cuttle was nodding to himself.

“I’m impressed you remember so many of the bodies.”

“That’s because they were never just ‘bodies’—they were human beings, each one with a life story, an identity.”

“Well I’m hoping you’ll maybe be able to tell me about one more—Philip Kennedy. He died suddenly at home in Moredun at the age of forty-two. This was the week before you had Douglas Merchant in your mortuary.”

“Suddenly at home?” Cuttle echoed. “Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy…” He was searching for the memory.

“Also known as Slippery Phil.”

“Ah, yes. Known to the Lothian and Borders Police. I’m pretty sure CID attended that particular postmortem exam. They wanted to make sure the man really was dead and wouldn’t be slipping out of their clutches again.”

“CID meaning…?”

“DI Gilmour, I believe. And probably DS Blantyre. Victim had fallen down a flight of stairs at his home. Head injuries and, I think, a broken neck. Professor Donner did the cutting that day. I was on hand for corroboration.” Cuttle broke off, eyes narrowing.

“What is it?”

But Cuttle shook his head. “The man had been drinking heavily. Fumes from his stomach had us reeling.” He broke off again, lost in thought. “He’d been a housebreaker, hadn’t he? With violence—‘hamesucken,’ as the law has it. DI Gilmour was glad to see the back of him…”

Rebus’s phone was vibrating. He took it out and checked caller ID: DCI James Page. Doubtless wondering why Rebus had failed to turn up for work. Rebus put the phone away again.

“That man Fox,” Cuttle was saying, “the one who was with you the other day…”

“Yes?”

“He’s investigating Summerhall?”

“He is.”

“Specifically the death of Douglas Merchant at the hands of William Saunders?” Cuttle watched Rebus nod. “So why your interest in Philip Kennedy? You wouldn’t be trying to wrong-foot him?”

“Not at all.”

“Because Saunders has turned up dead, hasn’t he? Hard not to see a connection.”

Rebus glared at the old man. “Would your report of the Kennedy autopsy be held somewhere?”

“Professor Donner wrote it up, not me. And to answer your question, it’s very doubtful. Accidental death—not likely to be of interest to posterity.”

“Then I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?” Rebus rose to his feet.

“Glad I could be of help in that, Detective Inspector Rebus.”

“Detective Sergeant, actually.”

“Same rank as 1987?” Cuttle asked with a cold smile. The question sliced into Rebus like a scalpel.

Stefan Gilmour had been brought from Glasgow to Wester Hailes police station in a patrol car. He’d looked furious as he was led into the building, past the stunned journalists and trigger-happy photographers.