“Just about weathering the financial sandstorm,” Gilmour conceded. Seated at the other end of the sofa, Rebus couldn’t really see his old boss without leaning forward. Back in Summerhall, Gilmour had been the DI, with Paterson and Blantyre as DSs and Rebus as a lowly detective constable, alongside a younger DC called Frazer Spence. But Spence had died a decade back in a motorbike smash in Greece. The eventual funeral had been the last time all four remaining members of the Saints had been gathered in the same place.

“What are you thinking, John?” Maggie Blantyre asked, swirling her glass of white wine.

“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have brought my car.” He made show of examining his orange juice.

“Leave it where it is, then—drop by tomorrow and get it.”

But he shook his head.

“I hear you’re still working,” Dod Blantyre said.

“I was retired for a while—did some civvy stuff for the Cold Case Unit.”

“That the one set up by Gregor Magrath?”

“It’s been wound up now. I reapplied for CID, and got lucky.”

“Bit like the old codgers they take on at B and Q,” Paterson joked.

“John was always a hard worker,” Blantyre said.

“Did that stroke affect your memory, Dod?” Paterson asked with a snort. “John was about the laziest bugger going.” He turned towards Rebus. “Back me up here, John!”

“You’re confusing John with poor Frazer,” Gilmour interrupted. “Frazer was the boy who’d always be nipping to the shops.”

“Is that right?” Paterson was frowning as he tried to remember.

“Don’t give Porkbelly any more whisky,” Blantyre warned his wife. “He’s got too few synapses left as it is.”

There was a bit of laughter, after which they concentrated on their drinks. This is okay, Rebus thought to himself. But then he knew these men; the mood could change…

“Does anyone still have the Shadow Bible?” Gilmour asked into the silence.

“Don’t know what happened to it,” Blantyre said. “Maggie thinks it might have gone into a skip when we cleared out the garage.”

“That’s a shame.”

Blantyre looked at Gilmour. “I’m betting you’re glad you got out when you did—more money than us poor buggers will ever have.”

“How many hotels have you got now, Stefan?” The question came from Maggie.

“They’re not exactly mine. I just seem to have landed the job of heading the company.”

“How many, though?”

“Seventeen at the last count.”

“You must rack up the air miles.”

“First-name terms with the staff at Emirates.”

She smiled, seeming pleased for him. “And are you still dating that model?”

“She’s not a model—she used to be on TV.”

“Same sort of thing, though—you need the looks.”

Gilmour nodded slowly. “We’re still together,” he acknowledged. “Not married, though.”

“We read about you in the papers—all that stuff to do with the referendum.”