As Malcolm Fox sat by his father’s bedside, he thought of Professor Norman Cuttle. It had been on the tip of his tongue to reveal to Rebus that his own father was in a home not unlike the one in Colinton. Mitch Fox was dozing. Malcolm looked around the room, seeing the few select pieces of furniture from the old house, the ones Mitch had decided to keep. Everything else had either been split between Malcolm and his sister, or else sold. A line of saliva had dried to a salty crust on Mitch’s unshaven chin. The skin looked red and sore. Malcolm would mention it to the staff. They would have an excuse ready—they always did—but he would ask anyway, just so they’d know he was paying attention.

Fox was tired, but he wanted to stay until his father roused himself. That way he could say a proper goodbye. They’d been discussing the latest travails of Hearts FC, along with small talk about the weather and the trams. With a single snore, Mitch Fox blinked back to wakefulness.

“I nodded off there,” he confessed.

“Testament to my conversational skills.”

“Pass me the glass, will you?”

It wasn’t actually glass, but a toughened translucent plastic which would bounce if dropped. There was an inch of tepid water left in it, and Mitch drained it, shaking his head when his son offered a refill. He lay back against his bunched pillows and studied Malcolm.

“Is that you finished in the Complaints?”

“More or less.”

“And they’ll have you back in CID?”

“You don’t think I’m up to it?”

“It’ll be hard going.”

“I’m armor-plated.”

“That’s the problem, though—you’re anything but. It’s why Complaints suited you. Paper-pushing rather than blood and guts.”

“Is it that time again?”

“What time?”

“Whenever I visit these days, you always feel the need to stick the knife in.”

“Do I?”

“You know you do.” Fox had risen to his feet so he could pace what floor space there was. He’d had a letter a few weeks back informing him that money could be saved were his father to share with another of the home’s clients. He’d been tempted, not because he couldn’t afford the fees but just to see the look on Mitch’s face—a small, cruel victory of sorts.

“What are you smiling at?” his father asked now.

“Nothing wrong with your eyesight.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I was just wondering whether I’d stop off for a Chinese on the way home.”

“You don’t feed yourself properly.”

“Better than some. Speaking of which, have you seen Jude?”

“Your sister’s another one who’s worried about you.”

“Tell her not to bother.”

“She says you’ve had a falling-out.”