“Billy Saunders had been a Summerhall snitch. You decided he was more use to you out on the street than behind bars. The guy he killed was a scumbag called Douglas Merchant—Merchant had been spending time with Saunders’s partner. As far as Summerhall was concerned, Merchant was good riddance. So you made sure the case against your pal wouldn’t stick.”

“No one ever proved that.”

“From what I can gather, no one really tried. Stefan Gilmour handed in his papers, then the station itself was condemned and the bulldozers got to work. No more Summerhall, no more Saints of the Shadow Bible.”

“What’s so funny?” Rebus asked, as Fox tried to stifle a smile.

“You don’t think it’s over the top? Who came up with the name anyway?”

Rebus shrugged. “It was around way before I got to Summerhall.”

“So the seventies, or maybe even the sixties?”

Another shrug. “What is it you think you’ll get from any of this—apart from a few of the Solicitor General’s brownie points?”

“The notes on the case are being dusted off. Such evidence as still exists will be reexamined. Interviews with the main players…”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’ve been given a job and I’m doing it,” Fox stated.

“George Blantyre’s had a stroke—good luck getting him to answer your questions. And Frazer Spence died ten years back.”

Fox nodded, letting Rebus know none of this was news. “But you’re still here,” he intoned. “As are Stefan Gilmour and Eamonn Paterson. Plus others connected to the case…”

“Billy Saunders?”

“Drives a private-hire taxi.” Fox paused. “Have you ever happened to bump into him?”

“Not in quarter of a century.”

“That sort of thing can be checked,” Fox cautioned.

“So go check.” Rebus rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “But don’t expect to find much, other than cobwebs and dust.”

“Can I assume you’ll now pass word along to your ex-colleagues, let them know I’ll be contacting them?”

“They’ll tell you you’re wasting your time, as well as a good chunk of taxpayers’ money.”

Fox ignored this. “I think I have the address for George Blantyre. Stefan Gilmour will be easy to track down—he’s never out of the papers.” He paused. “Does Eamonn Paterson still live on Ferry Road?”

“As far as I know.”

“I doubt he’s moved house since last night.” Fox’s eyes were fixed on Rebus’s. “I was reconnoitering,” he explained. “Saw you dropping him off. Good to see you’re still close.” Fox paused. “When the Saunders case flared up, you hadn’t been part of the team at Summerhall very long?”

“About six months, maybe seven.”

“Newest disciple to the ranks of the Saints?”

“Yes.”

“Makes me think maybe you weren’t involved—Gilmour and the others wouldn’t have known how far they could trust you.”