“The one used on Billy Saunders? Yes, congratulations and all that…”

“It’s a Browning pistol, probably brought home from the Falklands War. Ring any bells?”

“Should it?”

“Serial number has been removed at some point too, if that helps jog the memory.”

“I’m not sure I…”

“Laurie Martin, John. Ex-army and failing to fit back into Civvy Street. He was brought to Summerhall by two patrol officers after a disturbance.”

“Hang on, when was this?”

“October ’82.”

“I didn’t start at Summerhall until November.”

“Laurie Martin’s name means nothing to you?”

“No.”

“He was being disruptive, so officers went to his door. He let them in and they found the pistol sitting in his living room.”

“So?”

“At some point in the story, the gun stops being a character. Doesn’t even look as though it was marked as evidence.”

“Bit of a stretch to say the same gun was used on Saunders.”

“And this is all coming as news to you?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Is it worth me bringing it up with any of the others?”

“The Saints, you mean?”

“We had Gilmour in here earlier.”

“Oh aye?”

“He’s sticking to his version of events.”

“That’s his privilege, I suppose.”

“John…”

“I’m not the enemy here, Siobhan. Whatever happens, bear that in mind.”

“What are you saying?”

“Fox is all over this, isn’t he? He’s been through every bit of paperwork from Summerhall and memorized the lot. Be careful he doesn’t lead you a dance…”

Rebus ended the call and got a cigarette lit, flicking ash from the window. Then he called Eamonn Paterson.

“It’s John,” he said. “Can you talk?”

“At a loose end, as per,” Paterson replied. “What’s troubling you?”

“They took Stefan in for questioning.”

“About Billy Saunders? Stands to reason.”

“Thing is, they’ve got the gun.”

“Yes, I heard on the radio.”

“What you didn’t hear is that they think it originally belonged to an old soldier called Laurie Martin.” Rebus listened for a response, but there was silence on the line. “Now, Laurie Martin was before my time, but I do remember the Browning. It sat in your drawer and after a few drinks it might come out for a bit of a joke. Laurie Martin’s handgun, yes?”

“The man was a war hero, John. Yomped halfway across those bloody islands and got almost no thanks for it. He told us the stories that night—the custody sergeant came and fetched us so we could listen. Man needed psychiatric help more than anything, and he wasn’t going to get much of that in the clink.”

“So you spirited away the gun? Shame you forgot to scratch it from the arrest report.”

“What do you want me to say, John?”

“I want you to tell me what happened to it.”