“We like to stay tied to the past, though, don’t we? Dod still talks about Summerhall. Sometimes I think it’s a priest he needs rather than a wife.” She saw his look and held up a hand. “He spares me whatever gory details there are. Different times, different rules, isn’t that right?”

“It might be what we tell ourselves.” Rebus examined the glowing tip of his cigarette.

“Something’s got him worried, though, hasn’t it—not just the cold hard fact that he’s dying? And it’s to do with the Saints?”

“You best ask him.”

She smiled. “I’m asking you, John. I’m asking my old pal.” And when he didn’t answer she leaned in and kissed him on the lips, kissed him slowly, brushing away the evidence with a finger afterwards. “He never did find out,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Not unless you told him.”

Rebus shook his head, saying nothing.

“You were just boys, the lot of you. Boys playing at being cowboys.” She ran a different finger down his cheek and neck.

“And what were you, Maggie?” he asked as she inspected the contours of his face.

“I was the same as I am now, John. No more, no less. You, on the other hand…”

“There’s certainly a bit more of me.”

“But you seem sadder, too. It makes me wonder why you think you need to keep doing the job you do.”

“So what was I like back then?”

“There was an electric wire running through you.”

“Lucky I got that seen to.”

“I’m not so sure.” She took one final draw on her cigarette and flicked it into a nearby pot. “Better get back indoors before tongues start wagging. Not that you Saints don’t trust each other…”

Rebus finished his own cigarette and dropped it next to hers. “It was just a name we gave ourselves,” he explained. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Try telling that to Dod.” She paused at the back door, her hand turning the handle. “Far as he’s concerned, you lot came straight from a comic book.”

“I don’t remember too many superheroes stoking up on pies,” Rebus argued.

“You probably don’t wear your underpants outside your trousers either,” she agreed. “Unless there’s something you want to tell me…”

Paterson’s home was a semidetached Victorian property on Ferry Road. Most of his neighbors ran bed-and-breakfast operations, meaning gardens turned into rudimentary car parks. Paterson’s frontage, however, was distinguished by mature trees and an established holly hedge. He had been a widower for seven years, but showed no sign of wishing to downsize.

“Kids are always nagging me,” he confided to Rebus in the Saab. He had sunk enough whisky to make him sleepy, his sentences drifting off. “Less maintenance with a nice modern flat somewhere, but I like it fine where I am.”