“A bit more serious than that,” he obliged, placing his cup back on its saucer with the utmost care. “So Rebus has never talked to you about it?”

“Summerhall, you mean?” She watched him nod. “Never a word.”

“In which case,” Fox said, lowering his voice despite the fact they were the café’s only customers, “you maybe won’t have heard of the Saints?”

“Only the band.”

“This was a band of sorts too, I suppose. Saints of the Shadow Bible, they called themselves.”

“Meaning what?”

“I’m not exactly sure—the files from the Solicitor General’s office don’t seem to be complete.”

“Sounds vaguely Masonic.”

“That might not be too wide of the mark.”

“And officers at Summerhall were members?”

“They were the only members, Siobhan. If you worked there as a detective at that period, you were a Saint of the Shadow Bible…”

4

4

Rebus sat in his car, staring at the bungalow. Bringing the Saab meant he couldn’t drink, but it would help if he felt the need to get away in a hurry. The sky was clear, the moon visible. Only a degree or so above zero, frost glinting on the surface of the road. Rebus’s hands gripped the steering wheel. He hadn’t seen anyone go in yet. There were lights on in both downstairs windows. Dormers built into the slate-tiled roof above, curtained and dark. Rebus eased his own window down and got a cigarette going. Maybe nobody was going to turn up. Seven, he’d been told, and it was now ten after. What if he went to the door and found it was just going to be him, Dod Blantyre and Maggie? Wouldn’t that be cozy? He sucked on the cigarette, narrowing his eyes as the smoke stung them. Would Dod be bed-bound? Maybe in the living room, with a commode pushed against one wall? Maggie exhausted from coping with him, the life draining from her? Would she ask why Rebus never called round, never sent a Christmas card in exchange for the one she still always dispatched?

Hope to catch up soon. Love from Dod and Maggie.

Her husband’s name first, but her handwriting. Did he really want to spend the evening confined with them? Did they have anything to talk about, other than the old days? Would she have made sandwiches or some kind of supper, so that he had to balance plate and fork and glass while he sat or stood?

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, flicking ash out of the window.

“That’s littering,” a voice boomed, while a fist smashed down on the Saab’s roof. Rebus nearly dropped his cigarette. Cursing, he stared out at the stooped, grinning figure of Eamonn Paterson.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” Rebus pretended to complain.

“Old copper’s trick—the ability to creep up on a suspect.”

Rebus wound up the window, yanked the key from the ignition and opened his door.