“Maybe.” Fox concentrated on the text he was composing. “Probably,” he eventually conceded. “But twenty or thirty years ago…” He offered a shrug. “Different game, as all you old people keep saying.”

“Bloody hell, Malcolm, you’re not exactly a spring chicken.”

Fox gave a twitch of his mouth and finished the text. “So what about you and Mrs. Blantyre?”

“What about us?”

“You needed to talk in private—makes me think there’s history there.”

“Is that right?”

“I’m good at reading people, John. I have to be.”

“Well you’re wrong this time.”

“Am I?” Fox’s phone let him know his text had received a reply. He looked at the screen. “Siobhan will be waiting for us at Wester Hailes.” He paused. “But she says…”

“I can’t play any part in the interview?” Rebus guessed.

“You’re too close to the case, John.”

Rebus nodded his agreement. He peered in the direction of the bungalow.

“How long do we wait?” Fox asked.

What will he do without me?

Don’t leave me, Maggie…

“Shit,” Rebus said, pushing open the passenger-side door and breaking into a jog. The bungalow’s front door was closed, held fast by a Yale lock. Rebus banged on it, then realized Fox was standing next to him. He gave the door a kick with his heel, then tried shouldering it.

“The two of us together,” Fox said.

Eventually the wood split, the door bursting open. Rebus flew into the living room and saw Maggie looming over her husband, shoving tablets into his mouth and her own. Painkillers of some kind, empty blister packs lying on Dod Blantyre’s lap, tears streaming down both faces. Rebus pulled her away and hooked a finger into her mouth. Without the aid of liquid, the tablets were proving hard to swallow. Fox got busy with Dod, flicking tablets onto the floor.

“Can’t let you do it,” Rebus told Maggie as she crumpled, wailing. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

Fox was already on his phone, requesting an ambulance. Rebus was on his knees in front of Maggie, stroking her hair as she wept, her face buried in the carpet. He turned and saw that Dod Blantyre was watching him through his own tears. Fox was asking for the address, so he could give it to the switchboard. Rebus told him, and began to clamber back to his feet.

Rebus was slumped in the public waiting area of the Royal Infirmary’s Accident and Emergency department. The row of hard plastic seats was fixed to the floor and not intended for long-term comfort. Fox was feeding coins into the drinks machine. Somewhere behind the reception desk, in adjacent curtained cubicles, husband and wife were being examined. As Fox returned with two small plastic cups of coffee, Siobhan Clarke arrived. She sat down next to Rebus.

“Hell of a thing,” she said.

“Isn’t it, though?”

“Lucky you were there.”