Fox offered a shrug. “Your chum Paterson wasn’t very helpful, by the way.”

“And I hear you’ve already been to see Dod Blantyre.”

“Again, with very little to show for it. But then we expected that—it’s up to Stefan Gilmour now, if you’ve read him right.”

“What was Ralph doing here, by the way?”

Fox leaned back in his chair. “Think about it for a moment.”

“I’m struggling,” Rebus said after a pause.

“He was asking Siobhan about the night Jessica Traynor crashed her car. Close by the McCuskey house. Not long after, the house is attacked and McCuskey is dead. Turns out he was having an affair with Jessica’s flatmate…Seems like quite a tight little circle, don’t you think? Especially if you remove Forbes McCuskey from the scenario and replace him with Alice Bell.”

Rebus shook his head. “I don’t see that.”

Fox shrugged again. “Well, DCI Ralph thought the question worth asking.”

“And how did Siobhan answer?”

“I told him I didn’t see it either.” Clarke was standing in the doorway, arms folded. She looked tired and dispirited. “Good of you to drop in, John. Means we can get you out of the way.”

“Meaning?”

“Your formal questioning, of course. Otherwise it looks like you’re getting special treatment.”

“Well we can’t have that,” Rebus said.

“Indeed we can’t,” Clarke agreed.

21

21

Do I need a lawyer here?” Rebus asked.

The three of them were seated around a table in the interview room. Fox had produced another of his lined notepads—pristine as yet—while Clarke seemed content to stare at Rebus, her arms folded.

“Think you need one?” she asked.

“I’m sure Stefan Gilmour would lend you his,” Fox added.

“Just to clarify,” Clarke asked, “could you state your relationship to Philip Kennedy?”

“The guy looked like a cartoon character, but he was no joke—liked to put the frighteners on little old ladies and steal whatever they had.”

“That doesn’t quite answer my question.”

“He was a bad guy and my job was to put him away—that was our relationship.”

“And as the nickname ‘Slippery Phil’ suggests, you never did put him away.”

“Not for want of trying.”

“Frustrating for you,” Fox added.

“Very,” Rebus admitted.

“Ever think of framing him?”

“Personally? No.”

“But other colleagues…?”

“You’d have to ask them.”

“They’d have told you, wouldn’t they? You were a ‘Saint,’ after all.”

“A new recruit.”

“All the same…” Clarke paused. “How about William Saunders and Douglas Merchant—any history with them?”

“Give me a break, Siobhan.”

“What makes you think you’ve earned one?”

“You stole that line from me,” Rebus said with a tired smile. “Maybe I should sue.”

“Soon as we finish with our questions,” she retorted. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you can about the gun…”