Mortonhall Crematorium had seldom been busier. Nobody lined the streets nearby, but journalists and camera crews had parked their cars and vans curbside and were being corralled behind metal barriers on the other side of the road from the entrance to the crematorium grounds. The car park was full and mourners were awaiting the arrival of the hearse carrying Patrick McCuskey. Rebus doubted a tenth as many would turn out for Billy Saunders’s obsequies. They’d be lucky to fill the front two rows of the small chapel, whereas today, in warming sunshine, the large chapel had been reserved for family and close friends, with everyone else asked to pay their respects outside. A PA system had been erected so that the service could be relayed. Some of the mourners were asking each other if they qualified for a seat indoors. They broke off to watch as a fleet of official cars arrived, bearing senior politicians of all parties, plus police brass and the Lord Provost. A liveried chauffeur opened the back door of one Jaguar and Stefan Gilmour stepped out. He had traveled alone, and Rebus wondered if this was a message from the No campaign. Freshly interviewed as part of a murder inquiry, he might have become damaged goods. Most eyes were on the First Minister and his deputy, but Rebus watched Gilmour. Crisp dark blue suit, white shirt, black tie, sunglasses. Gilmour adjusted his cuffs and buttoned his jacket. Then he saw Rebus. As the politicians filed into the chapel, he headed in the opposite direction. Rebus was standing on the pavement next to a row of covered benches. He nodded a greeting at his old colleague.

“What are you doing here?” Gilmour asked in an undertone, removing the sunglasses and pocketing them.

“Paying my respects.”

“He was a good man, regardless of politics. Any closer to finding out who killed him?”

“Not as far as I know. Bit of progress on Billy Saunders, though.”

“Oh?”

Both men were pretending to be interested in the doors to the chapel and the people milling there.

“The gun’s turned up.”

“I heard.”

“Might turn out to be the Browning that Porkbelly kept in his desk drawer.”

“Won’t be easy to prove.”

“Nevertheless, you might find yourself being interviewed again.”

“Just what I need,” Gilmour muttered.

“Thing is, Stefan, it did disappear around the time you were getting your jotters.”

“I resigned,” Gilmour said by way of correction. “And lost out on a healthy chunk of pension as a result.”

“If you hadn’t, the Complaints would have crawled all over us.” “And found plenty—don’t forget that, John.”

“How can I?”

Gilmour turned his head to study Rebus. “Please tell me you don’t think one of us killed Saunders?”