“Even so, another ten or twenty years and you’ll be history. You need to think what you’ll be leaving behind for your daughter.” “If you’ve come here to bribe me, just mention a sum.”

Gilmour seemed to consider this, then he shook his head. “You can’t be bought, John. But turning me down would give you a rush, so I’m not going to give you the opportunity.” He paused. “But I do have something.”

“Oh aye?”

Gilmour shrugged. “It’s not much. You can take it or leave it.”

“I’m all ears.”

Gilmour removed his hands from his pockets and folded them in front of him. “That old pistol—the one everybody’s so excited about…”

“Yes?”

“Dod was the one who lifted it from Porkbelly’s desk.” Gilmour paused. “Think about that, will you? Because the last time I saw that gun was thirty years ago, and it was tucked into Dod Blantyre’s waistband.”

“You spinning me another line, Stefan?”

Gilmour shrugged again. “I wanted it for myself, and Dod knew that. My last day at Summerhall, I opened the drawer to take it, but Dod laughed and wagged a finger, then patted his jacket, letting me know he’d beaten me to it.”

“He could have put it back after you’d gone.”

“You’d have to ask him. But tell this to your boss—back then I took one for the team because I deserved it. Not this time, though, not this time.”

“But you did throw Slippery Phil Kennedy down the stairs?”

“No stairs, John, and not me.”

“Then tell me what happened. And never mind all the Shadow Bible stuff. Someone killed Billy Saunders and they’re doing bugger all to stop you being put squarely in the frame. If you don’t want that to happen, I need to know.”

Gilmour considered this. Eventually he lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, leaning forward, elbows on knees. Rebus stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward too, as if to stress that anything said would be kept in confidence.

“What will you do with it?” Gilmour finally asked.

“I’m not sure,” Rebus admitted.

“I’d never testify in court—or a formal interview, come to that.” Rebus nodded slowly.

“Well then,” Gilmour went on, tapping the tips of his fingers together as he made his decision. “It was Porkbelly. He’d had a skinful and was itching for some action. We’d pulled Kennedy in—found him drinking in a pub near Haymarket. We did it for the hell of it.”

“You were angry about the not-proven verdict?”

“I wanted him out of my city. Best bet was to scare him into leaving. Porkbelly agreed with that. Stuck him in a cell, shouted the odds at him, then left him to stew.”

“His name was in the custody ledger?”

“Had to get rid of that afterwards,” Gilmour said, nodding.

“He died in Summerhall?”