“Don’t tell me you walked?” he asked, climbing out.

“Caught the bus.” Paterson nodded towards the Saab. “Is this you offering to be the designated driver?”

“Just like in Summerhall days.”

“It was only once or twice you had to drop us all home.”

“And clean the sick off the backseat.”

“Not the same car, though?”

“Not quite.”

“I seem to remember your wife complaining the smell wouldn’t shift.”

“Ended up selling it at a discount,” Rebus said with a nod.

“The car or the wife?” Paterson gave a wink and patted Rebus’s shoulder. “Feel up to visiting the invalid? Only it looked to me like you were getting cold feet there.”

“Just worried I was going to be flying solo.”

“As if the Saints would let that happen.” Another pat of reassurance and Paterson led the way to the bungalow’s front door.

It was a few moments before Maggie Blantyre answered the ring. Bathed in warmth and welcoming light, she didn’t seem to have aged at all. Ash-blond hair falling to her bared neck, broad-shouldered but with a narrow waist. She wore plenty of expensive-looking jewelry and her makeup was immaculate.

“Boys,” she said, opening her arms for an embrace from either man. “Come in out of the cold.”

Paterson received a peck on both cheeks before stepping inside, then it was Rebus’s turn. Her eyes lingered on his afterwards, and she pressed her fingers to his face, rubbing at the lipstick she’d left there.

“John,” she said. “I was hoping you’d make it.” Then she led him indoors by the arm, closing the door on the outside world.

“Divest yourselves.” She nodded towards the banister, where a camel-colored woolen coat was already draped, a red scarf trailing from one pocket.

“Stefan’s here?” Paterson surmised.

“You’re the detective,” Maggie Blantyre drawled. “You tell me.”

“I always said camel makes him look like a used-car salesman.” He hung up his padded jacket. Rebus wrestled with his own coat until Maggie helped him. He noticed a stairlift fixed to the wall at the foot of the stairs.

“I wasn’t sure if we were expected to bring a bottle,” he apologized.

“Nothing but yourselves,” she assured him, touching his arm again. “Now follow me.”

They passed a small dining room and entered the lounge. Dod Blantyre was seated in an ordinary-looking armchair, dressed and with a tumbler of orange liquid on an occasional table next to him. Stefan Gilmour had risen from the sofa, swapping his whisky from right hand to left.

“Hiya, Porkbelly,” he said. The two men shook before Gilmour turned to Rebus. “John—it’s been a while.”