McCuskey had risen to his feet and started pacing the room, Jessica keeping her eyes on him lest he make a lunge at Alice.

“She’s already a pariah,” Jessica told him. “I doubt you can bully her half as well as the trolls on here.” Waving her phone towards him.

“It’s a mess,” he said, almost to himself. “Or should I say, one more mess.”

“We seem to be becoming experts.”

“Because of her.” He jabbed a finger towards Alice, who was still intoning the same words of apology.

“Sit down, then,” Jessica said calmly, “and let’s think about what we need to do.”

He did eventually sit, and listened, and after a little while Alice started listening too.

That night, Rebus was in his armchair at home, dozing, when the bell rang. He got up, rubbing life back into his facial muscles, and lifted the stylus from Hard Nose the Highway before heading into the hall. He pressed the intercom and asked who it was.

“Stefan,” came the reply. “We need to talk.”

“Better come up, then,” Rebus said, pushing the button to unlock the main door. He left the door to his own flat ajar and went back into the living room, wondering what the millionaire would make of it.

Entering, Gilmour surveyed his surroundings. “Thought you might have got round to a fresh coat of paint,” he commented.

“I did that ten years back.”

“Seemed a lot more homely when Rhona was in charge. How is she, by the way?”

“Fine.”

“One daughter, right?”

“Right,” Rebus said. “Do you want a drink?”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“Take a seat, then.” Rebus settled back into his chair. There was an unfinished cigarette in the ashtray, so he relit it, squinting into the smoke.

“I’m not staying,” Gilmour told him. “Had a couple of meetings and now I’m headed back west.”

“I take it you’ve heard from Porkbelly and Dod?”

Gilmour nodded. His hands were in his coat pockets. He was dressed for business—suit and tie, gloss-black shoes not yet broken in. “Is it supposed to impress me, John, all this hounding of the Saints? You reckon you’re outside the tent now, pissing in?”

“I’m nowhere, Stefan. DI Clarke is the one with the map.”

“From what I hear, you used to own her—what happened?”

“You’ve had your spies check up on me? Better tell them they’re misinformed.”

Gilmour was studying the room again. “I could find you something better than this, you know. A penthouse in the Grange, maybe…”

“If I play along, you mean? Lead Clarke and her team a merry dance?”

“You’re living in the past, John—the fact you’re still in this flat tells me that. But Rhona’s not coming back, is she? Time you started considering your future—what there is of it.”

“Constitution of an ox,” Rebus said.