“The gun? I haven’t the faintest notion. When we were leaving Summerhall, it just wasn’t in my drawer anymore.”

“Someone took it?”

“I don’t know.” Paterson paused. “There’s no way they can tie it to Saunders’s murder, is there?”

“You tell me. Even if it’s circumstantial, it’s another piece of the jigsaw as far as Fox is concerned. And it’s a murder inquiry now, Eamonn—so don’t think it isn’t serious.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Neither am I. You’d be wise to remember that. Okay, change of subject—fill me in on Slippery Phil Kennedy.”

“Now there’s a name from the vaults. What’s Kennedy got to do with anything?”

“You tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell—died in his house after a day’s boozing. Sleekit wee shite, too. We should have put him away, but we didn’t. ‘Not proven’ was the verdict, that one time we got him to trial.”

Not proven: the “bastard verdict” available to a Scottish jury when they thought the Crown had not done quite enough to convince of the accused’s guilt. You walked out of court a free man, no official stain on your character. The words stuck in every detective’s craw: you nearly got me, but not quite. Rebus had seen absolute villains swaggering from court after a not proven, with a grin and a wink for the law officers who had racked up hundreds of hours building the case—the case that didn’t quite stack up in the jury’s collective mind.

Better luck next time, those grins and winks said.

“Were you at the autopsy?” Rebus asked.

“No.”

“How about Gilmour or Blantyre?”

“It was a long time ago, John.” Paterson fell silent, as though thinking. “I’m fairly sure it was Frazer Spence. Aye, Frazer drew the short straw that day.”

Liar, thought Rebus. Why do that? Professor Cuttle had already supplied the names—Gilmour and Blantyre—names Paterson was choosing to ignore.

“I still don’t see where Kennedy fits into anything, though,” Paterson was now saying.

“I don’t think he does.” Here, have one of mine—fair exchange is no robbery.

Rebus ended the call and finished his cigarette, flicking it from the car window. He stared up towards the top floor of the building across from him, then got out, marched to its front door, and pressed the bell marked TRAYNOR/BELL.

“Hello?”

He recognized the voice, and leaned in towards the intercom. “It’s Detective Sergeant Rebus,” he announced.

“Jessica doesn’t want to see you.”

“It’s not her I’m here to talk to, Alice—it’s you.”

“What do you mean?”

“If Jessica’s up there, probably best if you come down here.”

“Why? What have I done?”

“Does she know about you and our dear-departed Justice Minister? Come to that, does Forbes know you were seeing his old man?”