“‘Stefan Gilmour Says No,’” Paterson parroted. “This you pushing for your knighthood?”

“And what happened,” Dod Blantyre added, “to that plan you and your football pal had to buy Tynecastle?”

“This is turning into an interrogation,” Gilmour pretended to complain. “And we all know how those can turn nasty.” He smiled and drank from his glass.

“How about you, John?” Maggie asked Rebus. “You split up with Rhona, didn’t you? Just the one kid…?”

“Leave the man in peace,” Blantyre complained to his wife. Then, to Rebus: “Too many soap operas, John—that’s the trouble.”

“Should I pop the pies in the oven, then?” Maggie asked, starting to get to her feet. Her husband nodded.

“Pies?” Paterson queried.

“Dod thought it would be a nice touch. He says you lot ate nothing else for about two years.”

“Certainly seemed that way.” Paterson patted not his own stomach but Rebus’s. “With John here and Frazer doing the fetching.”

“I’ll just be a minute then.” She went over to her husband’s armchair and kissed him on the forehead before making for the kitchen. As soon as she was gone, Blantyre asked that the door be closed. Stefan Gilmour obliged.

“All three of you, over here,” Blantyre demanded. The three visitors approached his chair. “Means I don’t have to talk too loud.”

“What’s going on, Dod?” Gilmour asked, keeping his own voice low.

“Last few times I’ve been to see the white coats, I’ve not let Maggie come with me. So she doesn’t know things are as bad as they are. It’s not just the stroke. There’s plenty else wrong with the engine.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Paterson said.

“I’ve got a few months yet—at least I hope I have. But word’s come to me that they may not be as pleasant as I’d like them to be.” He looked at each man in turn. “Elinor Macari’s on the warpath.”

“Macari?” Gilmour queried.

“The Solicitor General,” Rebus informed him.

“She wants the Saunders case looked at.”

“What the hell for?”

“Because she can. Double jeopardy’s been axed, if you hadn’t heard.”

“I hadn’t,” Gilmour admitted.

“Not axed exactly,” Rebus felt it necessary to add. “But in certain cases a retrial can be requested.”

“It was thirty years ago,” Gilmour argued. “We can’t be expected to remember…”

“Won’t stop them asking.” Paterson turned towards his friend. “Fancy seeing your photo in the papers, Stefan? And not in a clinch with a TV star but next to a mug shot of Billy Saunders?”

“Is Saunders even in the land of the living?” Gilmour inquired.

“Macari wouldn’t go after him if he wasn’t,” Blantyre said. Then: “My throat’s dry—can one of you…?”

Paterson lifted the tumbler and angled the straw towards Blantyre’s lips. Gilmour produced a clean cotton handkerchief with which to dab the man’s chin.