“We need to talk to you, Maggie. This is Inspector Fox.” Rebus broke off. “Detective Inspector Fox,” he corrected himself, earning a faint smile of thanks from his colleague.

“What’s it about?”

“I think you know.” Rebus was already brushing past her into the hallway.

“Don’t you need a warrant or something?” She was sounding flustered.

“Want me to fetch one?”

“I still don’t really see why you’re here.”

But she had relented, ushering Fox inside and closing the door. “Dod’s having a bit of a nap in his chair.”

“It’s you we need to talk to, Maggie.” Rebus fixed her with a look, and she seemed to sense that he knew. “Maybe if we go into the garden.” Then, to Fox: “Can you go sit with Dod?” He indicated the living room. Fox looked ready to protest, but eventually relented. Rebus led Maggie Blantyre through the pristine kitchen and out onto the patio. He lit a cigarette for himself and offered her one, which she refused.

“You spoke to Billy Saunders,” he stated. “He called the house. I’m guessing it’s always you that answers. No need to deny it—we have the phone records. He was scared of what Stefan might do to him, wasn’t he? But that wasn’t going to stop him giving evidence against the Saints—anything to save his own skin from another stretch in jail.” Rebus sucked on the cigarette. His hand was trembling and he wasn’t sure why.

“So I spoke to the man—what of it?”

“But you did more than that, Maggie.” Rebus let the words lie between them. After a moment, Maggie exploded.

“You and your bloody Saints! They’re all Dod can ever talk about. He lives more in the past now than ever before—maybe because he’s got no future. And here’s this man ready to tell everyone Dod was a killer, and that he’d covered the whole thing up and got away with it.”

“It wasn’t Dod who killed Phil Kennedy.”

“But he was there! And he helped carry the body from the cell and everything.” She stared across the garden and seemed to see something. “Wait here,” she told Rebus. But he followed her to the shed, watched her open its door and start rummaging in the darkness, between and behind paint pots and unused tools.

“This where you kept the gun?” he asked.

“Dod thought I’d destroyed it. I told him I had. Same as I was supposed to have thrown this out.” She was handing him something. It was a well-worn copy of Scots Criminal Law, with the distinctive leather cover, faded gold writing and brass screws. Its pages were damp, curled at the corners.

“The Shadow Bible,” Rebus said, turning it over in his hand and rubbing at the spot where they had all added a gobbet of saliva, cementing their loyalty to the cause.