Rebus stared back at her above the rim of the mug. “There was a gun like it,” he admitted. “Doesn’t make it the same gun, mind.”

“Taken from an ex-army veteran? And then what? Kept lying around Summerhall for anyone to borrow?”

“As far as the Saints were concerned, they were repaying a debt. That soldier had served his country, so they decided to keep him out of jail.”

“It wasn’t their decision to make, John.”

“I know.”

“Who did you speak to? Paterson?” She watched him nod. “What did he say?”

“Gun was kept in his desk drawer. Then one day, just before we all got moved out, it wasn’t there anymore.”

“Only a handful of people had access to it,” Clarke stated.

“Can we be sure it was the same gun?” He saw the look she was giving him. “Okay, it’s a good bet, but it’s no more than that.”

“Whoever shot Saunders, they’ll have gunpowder residue on their skin and clothes.”

“And if they’re ex-police, they’ll know that and have dealt with it.” He held up his right hand, waggling his fingers. “Want a quick sniff, Inspector?”

“Don’t be revolting.” She lifted her mug and drank from it.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to do a bit of checking first.”

“So you phoned Paterson and warned him?”

“I wasn’t warning him…”

“Could be construed as such by someone who doesn’t know you like I do. But I’m running a murder case here, John, and the last thing I need is you placing hurdles in the way.”

“Understood.”

“You were in the army, weren’t you? Ever carry a Browning?”

“Thirteen rounds, and you never knew when one might go off and you’d end up shooting yourself in the thigh or ankle.”

“How so?”

“Safety catch was far from foolproof. You never kept a round in the chamber.”

“Easy to use, though? Could someone who’d never fired a shot in their life find their way around one?”

Rebus nodded, then asked how the questioning of Stefan Gilmour had gone.

“He brought along a shiny lawyer.”

“Only to be expected.”

“Doesn’t make him look any less guilty.”

“I’m guessing that’s what the media pack are thinking now too.”

Clarke’s phone had sounded, letting her know she had a text. She looked at the screen.

“Uncanny,” she commented. “That’s one of them now. Laura Smith.”

“The Scotsman’s crime reporter?”

Clarke nodded. “She thinks I owe her for the gen on Forbes McCuskey and his dealing.”

“She’d be happy enough if you told her you’ve connected Summerhall to the murder weapon.”

“I’m not at that stage just yet.” She looked at him again. “What’s happening about McCuskey?”

“Father or son?”

“Both, I suppose.”