“The Solicitor General?” Clarke suggested. Fox tried not to look too surprised that she knew. “I saw her making a beeline for you at the Chief’s leaving do.”

“She’s entrusted me with a job.”

“A Complaints job?”

“My last,” he said quietly, staring at his saucer.

“And if you break a sweat, she rewards you how? A big promotion? Something to lift you off the pitch and into the directors’ box?”

“You’re good at this.” Fox’s admiring tone sounded genuine enough.

Clarke knew now what David Galvin had been hinting at during dinner at Bia Bistrot. How are things working out with your old sparring partner? Toeing the line? Obeying orders?

“You really think I’m going to hand you John on a plate?”

“It’s not Rebus I want—it’s people he knows, or used to know. I’m going back thirty years.”

“Summerhall?”

Fox paused and studied her. “He’s talked about it?” She shook her head. “So how do you know?” But he had worked it out within a few seconds. “That leaving do,” he said, almost to himself. “Eamonn Paterson was there. I saw him with Rebus…”

“Then you know as much about Summerhall as I do. And I’m still no further forward as to why I should help you.”

“Whatever happens, I’m going to end up asking Rebus some questions. I just think it would smooth things a little if there was a referee of some kind.”

“A referee?”

“To ensure fairness—on both sides.”

She took a sip of coffee, then another. Fox did likewise, almost exactly mirroring her.

“Is that supposed to be an empathy thing?” she queried.

“What?”

“Aping me to make me think I’m the one with the power?”

He seemed to consider this. “You picking up your cup reminded me mine was there, that’s all. But thanks for the tip—I’ll bear it in mind.”

She stared at him, trying to gauge the level of game being played.

“It’s good coffee, by the way,” he added, this time slurping from his cup. Clarke couldn’t help but smile. She went back to watching pedestrians while she considered her options.

“Thirty years is a long time,” she said eventually.

“It is.”

“Something’s supposed to have happened at Summerhall?”

“Possibly.”

“And it involved John?”

“Tangentially—I don’t think he’d been there that long. He was pretty junior…”

“You know he’s not going to give up any of the men he worked with?”

“Unless I can persuade him otherwise.”

“Good luck with that,” Clarke said.

“My problem, not yours. I’d just like it if you could get him to sit down with me.”

“So what are we talking about? A few statements altered? Lies told in court? Prisoners tripping and falling on their way to the cells?” She waited for him to answer.