“I’d say that’s a definite maybe,” Fox commented to Rebus. “But you must know this could end up rebounding on you?”

“I can live with that.” Rebus leaned back in the chair. “How did we get away with it?” he asked, tapping the tip of one finger against the paperwork again.

“Most of the journalists that mattered could be bought or silenced,” Fox surmised. “No social media for the airing of grievances.” He offered a shrug. “How am I doing?”

“On the nail, I’d say. The more we got away with it, the more we kept doing it…”

“Conscience getting to you?”

“Fuck off, Malcolm.” But there was no venom behind the words. “You really think you can keep your nose out while we question your pals?”

“I’m busy on the Jessica Traynor crash.”

“Still?”

“New name I need to look at—Rory Bell. Villain who might be a player in West Lothian.”

“Same name as Jessica’s flatmate,” Fox commented.

“What?”

“Isn’t the flatmate’s name Bell?”

“It’s not that uncommon.”

“You’re probably right,” Fox said, walking over to the window and sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. “Ever since I started hanging out with you, I seem to be seeing conspiracies everywhere—conspiracies, connections and coincidences. Think we’re due a break in this bloody weather anytime soon?”

But Rebus had stopped listening.

“DI Clarke says hello,” Rebus told Laura Smith.

“She owes me a favor,” Smith retorted.

“She knows that, which is why these coffees are on her.”

They were in a spacious modern café near the foot of Holyrood Road, across the street from the offices of the Scotsman. Stripped wood, the day’s newspapers, and workers from the nearby BBC building. The café sold food, but all Smith had wanted was the biggest latte they would give her. Rebus had paid for a croissant to go with his cappuccino. He tore a piece off and dunked it before popping it into his mouth.

“Very French,” Laura Smith said.

“I’ve never been.”

“Never been to France?” She sounded disbelieving.

“Or anywhere else, for that matter.” He chewed and swallowed. “Scotland’s always been more than enough to be getting on with.” “And we do live in interesting times.”

“Reckon independence will do you out of a job?”

“I doubt we’ll go crime-free overnight.” She smiled, and stirred her drink.

“Too much to hope for,” Rebus agreed.

“You said you wanted to pick my brains?” she nudged eventually. Rebus nodded. “I’m assuming Albert Stout was before your time?”

“I wasn’t even born when he was in his heyday.”

“Back then, crime reporters drank in the same lunchtime pubs as us. Bought us a dram or two and we’d tell them stories—not necessarily true stories, mind.”

“Now it’s coffee and croissants.” She looked at him. “I’m not sure you think that’s a change for the better…”