“Same goes for me,” Rebus said. “Couple of spare rooms I’ll never need.”

“You get to our age, who can be bothered? Look at poor Dod—you never know what’s waiting for you round the next corner. Best just to get on with things and not get too…” He couldn’t find the right words, so spun his hands around one another instead.

“Wrapped up in stuff?” Rebus suggested.

“Aye, maybe.” Paterson exhaled noisily. “Stefan’s done well for himself though, eh? Millions in the bank and jetting around the place.” Rebus nodded his agreement. “And Maggie’s still a lovely woman—Dod got lucky there.”

“That he did.”

“She’s still bonny and…” Paterson broke off, brow furrowing. “There’s a poem I’m trying to remember—bonny and something and maybe something else after that.”

“I’m on tenterhooks.”

Paterson looked at him, trying to focus. “You’re a cold man, John. You always were. I don’t mean…” He thought for a moment. “What do I mean?”

“Cold as in standoffish?” Rebus suggested.

“Not that, no. It’s more that you never liked to show emotion—afraid you might get the sympathy vote.”

“And I didn’t want that?”

“You did not,” Paterson agreed. “We were battlers, the lot of us. That’s who joined the police back then—not college graduates and the like. And if we had half a brain, we maybe made it to CID…” He paused, peering through the windscreen. “We’re here.”

“I know.”

Paterson stared at him. “How?”

“Because we’ve been sat outside your house the past five minutes.” Rebus held out a hand for Paterson to shake. “Good to see you again, Porkbelly.”

“Are you glad now you went?”

“I’m not sure.”

“And the thing Dod mentioned—do you think you can…?”

“Maybe. No promises, though.”

Paterson released Rebus’s hand. “Good man,” he said, as though only now coming to a decision on this. Then he pushed open his door and started to get out.

“Helps if you unbuckle your seat belt,” Rebus reminded him. A moment or two later and Paterson was free, weaving down the path towards his front door. A security light came on and he waved without looking back, letting Rebus know he could take it from here. With a tired smile, Rebus put the Saab into first and tried to calculate the simplest route home.

It took him twenty minutes, with a Mick Taylor CD playing on the stereo and traffic lights that seemed to turn green at his every approach. The phone in his pocket buzzed, but he waited until he was parked outside his tenement before taking it out and checking the text. It was from Siobhan Clarke.

Can we speak?

Rebus stayed in the car while he called her. She picked up straightaway.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I stopped by your flat a couple of times—wanted to do this face to face.”

“Do what?”

“Intercede.”