She nodded and began backing towards the kitchen as Rebus headed for the sitting room. Dod Blantyre was in his usual chair, and seemed to be wearing the same clothes as on Rebus’s previous visit, but with a stained tea towel draped around his neck.

“Thought I recognized the voice,” he said.

“Evening, Dod.”

“Get this thing off me, will you?” Blantyre gestured with a trembling hand towards the tea towel. The room smelled of stewed beef. Rebus undid the towel and draped it over the arm of Blantyre’s chair. There was a trolley nearby with a beaker of liquid on it.

“Want a drink?” Rebus asked.

“Double whisky, if you’re buying.” Blantyre tried twisting his mouth into a smile.

“Thought it was your round,” Rebus replied, smiling back.

“What brings you here, John?”

“Just wondered how you were doing.”

“I’m doing my best not to die—not just yet. I see Stefan’s been getting a kicking from your lot.”

Rebus nodded. “Silly of him to phone Saunders in the first place.”

“Not a crime, though.”

“Maybe not.”

“They’ve not talked to me yet, but I know they want to.” Rebus nodded.

“And you too?”

“And Porkbelly.”

“Are you here to make sure we get our stories straight?”

“I’m here because…”

Rebus broke off as Maggie nudged open the door, carrying a tray. She’d made a whole pot of tea, and added a plate of chocolate digestives.

“Milk?” she inquired.

“And no sugar.” Rebus took the mug from her. It bore the Airfix logo and a painting of a Spitfire. “You used to make models,” he said to Blantyre, suddenly remembering.

“That’s right.”

“There were a couple of them on your desk at Summerhall.”

“He’d spend hours on them,” Maggie Blantyre added. “Tiny pots of paint lying everywhere. Each detail had to be perfect.”

“Just like police work, eh, John?” Blantyre said.

“Just like,” Rebus echoed.

“John and me need a minute to ourselves,” Blantyre informed his wife.

“To do with that man Saunders?”

“Less you know, the better.”

She hesitated. Then she spotted the tea towel and picked it up. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she snapped, striding from the room. Rebus sipped from his mug and sat on the corner of the sofa nearest to Blantyre’s chair.

“How much does she know?” he asked.

Blantyre managed to shake his head. “How much do you know?” he said.

“Tell me about Philip Kennedy.”

“Care to give me a clue?”

“Slippery Phil. We got him as far as court but the verdict was not proven. Next thing, he’s found dead at home with a broken neck.”

“Yes?”

“You attended the postmortem examination.”

“Did I?”

“According to Professor Norman Cuttle.”

“Bloody hell—is he still alive?”