“Meantime, we’ve got news of our own,” Fox informed her. He had decided against any food and was nursing a weak tea, while Rebus demolished a helping of onion rings.

“I’m listening,” Clarke said.

Fox laid out for her the conversation with Professor Cuttle and the story of the autopsy. Halfway through, Rebus’s phone alerted him to an incoming call. He checked the screen and maneuvered his way out of the booth.

“Got to take this,” he said, pressing the phone to his ear and heading for the door.

“Stefan?” he said. The day had grown overcast, threatening sleet. There were picnic-style tables outside, but no diners. The drive-through window had a queue, and beyond it Rebus could see traffic growing heavier on the commuter route out of town. For some, the working day was over.

“I hear you’ve pulled in the bouncer from some drug den of a pub,” Gilmour stated.

“News travels fast,” Rebus said, his thumbnail working a sliver of onion free from his teeth.

“He’s got to be a better candidate, surely.”

“We don’t think so.”

“Bit of effort might make all the difference.”

“You want me to pin Billy Saunders’s murder on anyone I see fit?”

“Used to be the way of it, John—get the scumbags off the street by hook or by crook.”

“Things have changed, Stefan. But since you’re on the line, let me ask you a question.”

“Make it quick—I’ve a wake to get back to.”

“What’s this I hear about Slippery Phil Kennedy?”

“I doubt you’re hearing anything about that turd. He died decades back.”

“The week before Douglas Merchant, actually.”

“Is that right?”

“I seem to remember you rubbing your hands with glee at the time.”

“No surprises there.”

“What did come as a surprise was the news that the autopsy may have been got at.”

“Got at?”

“You used to carry a hip flask…”

“Nestling in my pocket right now. What are you saying, John?”

“I’m saying you went out of your way to make sure Philip Kennedy’s death was attributed to a drunken accident.”

“That’s quite an accusation. What does Professor Donner say? No, hang on a minute—he’s not with us, is he?”

“Dod Blantyre is, though—he was there with you when the hip flask came out.”

“You been on the sauce yourself, John? Next you’ll be telling me about the pink elephants.”

“That not-proven verdict really got to you, didn’t it? That’s why you went to Kennedy’s house…”

“Jog on, pal.”

“Were we ever pals, you and me?”

“We were more than that—we were Saints of the Shadow Bible.”