“My father’s in a place not unlike it,” Fox admitted.

Rebus glanced towards him. “I don’t think I knew that.”

“No reason why you should.”

“Is he still compos mentis?”

“Enough that he can have regular digs at me for wasting my life. Are either of your parents still with us?”

Rebus shook his head. “Long gone,” he stated. “And my brother with them.”

“I’ve got a sister, Jude. We don’t really get on…”

“I was like that with my brother. Believe it or not, he was the black sheep of the family—got in a bit of trouble, served some time.”

“I know—it’s in your files.”

“I keep forgetting you worked for the dark side.” Rebus shifted into fourth, the high-rises of Dumbryden shrinking in his rear-view mirror.

“Did Siobhan really say she trusted me?” Fox asked.

“She said you might be all right.”

“Well I suppose I’ll settle for that. She’s good at her job, isn’t she?”

“Despite my best efforts, you mean?”

“Maybe,” Fox replied with a smile. “But it means she’ll probably get to the truth of the shooting. And that might prove distinctly uncomfortable…”

“I saw Stefan Gilmour at the Justice Minister’s funeral this morning—he’s adamant he didn’t do it.”

“Someone did, though. And Saunders had been running scared.”

“How likely is it he could have been traced? Sleeping rough the way he was?”

“Meaning what?”

“It had to be Saunders who arranged the meeting with his killer. Or else the shooter found out about it and invited himself along.”

“Who might Saunders have needed to see?”

Rebus shook his head. “How much of a background check is Siobhan doing?”

“Friends and family interviewed, mail, computer and phone records gone through. We’re tracing as many of his fares as we can, even speaking to convicts he might have got to know during his time inside.”

“Not too many holes there.”

“DI Clarke is nothing if not thorough. At one point I thought she would make a great Complaints officer, but that would be CID’s loss.”

“Implying that you weren’t,” Rebus couldn’t help saying.

“Now you sound like my dad…” Fox turned to look out of the window at the passing parade of shops and offices.

For the rest of the drive Rebus considered apologizing for the barb.

But he kept his mouth shut.

Professor Cuttle was feeling a little better. He was out of bed and watching TV in the lounge with three other residents, not one of whom was actually awake.

“You again,” he complained, recognizing Rebus.

“Remember me?” Fox asked. “Inspector Fox?”

Cuttle nodded while still scowling. “Is this going to be a regular thing? Visits to the aging and infirm?”