“So what do we do?” he asked.

“I’m just giving fair warning,” Blantyre told him. “Few months from now, it won’t matter a damn to me. You lot, on the other hand…”

Gilmour turned towards Rebus. “You’re the only one of us with a finger in the CID pie, John—can you find out what’s happening?”

“I can try,” Rebus conceded.

“Without looking like there’s something you’re trying to keep covered up,” Paterson added.

“Covered up?” Rebus echoed, as Maggie came back into the room.

“Oh!” she said, face growing fearful at the sight of all three guests huddled around her husband. “Has something…?”

“I’m fine,” Blantyre assured her. “Just been taking a drink.”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared me there.” Then she gestured back towards the kitchen. “About fifteen minutes for those pies—and I think I need to step out and have a cigarette.”

“I might join you,” Rebus said. He fixed his eyes on those of Dod Blantyre. “If that’s okay…?”

“Fine,” Blantyre agreed, after only a moment’s hesitation.

Rebus followed Maggie through the small kitchen and into the back garden. There was a patio, its furniture covered, awaiting better weather, with a patch of lawn beyond. She lit her own cigarette before handing her gold lighter to Rebus. She had folded her arms in a show of keeping warm.

“Want me to fetch a coat?” he asked. But she shook her head.

“I get too hot in the house sometimes. Dod likes the thermostat turned up.”

“The two of you have been managing okay?”

“What else can you do?” She flicked a strand of hair from one eye.

“Must be hard, though.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“If you like.”

She thought for a moment. “Actually, no, let’s stick to that exact subject—why are you all here?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“When was the last time the four of you were in the same room?”

“Frazer’s funeral.”

“And that was ten years back—so why now?” She held up a hand. “Don’t bother trying any flannel. I’ve seen enough of it in my time to open a pajama factory.” She took a step closer. He could smell her perfume. “It’s because he’s dying, right? He’s dying and he thinks he can keep it from me?” She saw the answer in his eyes and turned away, sucking hard on her cigarette, exhaling through her nostrils so that her whole face was wreathed in smoke.

“Maggie,” he began, but she was shaking her head. Eventually she took a deep breath and began to compose herself.

“Is that still your address?” she asked. “The one I send the card to every year?”

“Yes.”

“You never bothered moving? Did you think Rhona was coming back?”

“Not especially.” He shifted his feet.