“Is that right?” Rebus leaned back, the pew creaking in complaint.

“You’re just barely back on the force. Something like this could jeopardize that…”

“What you’re saying is, if I help you, I can be written out of the story?”

“You know I can’t make those sorts of promises.” But Fox’s tone of voice hinted otherwise.

“And all I’d have to do is grass up some of my oldest friends?”

“I’m not asking for that.”

“You’re a piece of work, Fox. And let me tell you something I do know.” Rebus was edging out from the pew, getting to his feet. “You’re a baw-hair away from having served your time in the Complaints. Means you’ll be back in the fray soon, surrounded by people like me—fun and games ahead, Inspector. I hope you’re not averse to a bit of ruck and maul…”

“Is that a threat?”

Rebus didn’t bother answering. He was sliding his arms into his coat. The pint was where he’d left it, not even half finished.

“Formal interviews will commence in a day or two,” Fox stated. “And trust me, those will be rigorous and recorded.” He turned to watch as Rebus headed towards the doorway then through it, descending the few steps to the bar, the main door and the world outside.

There was silence at the table for a few moments, then Fox puffed out his cheeks and exhaled.

“Went well, I thought,” Siobhan Clarke offered.

“Insofar as we didn’t end up grappling on the floor, yes, I suppose it did.”

Clarke had risen to her feet. Fox asked if she wanted a lift, but she shook her head. “Almost quicker to walk,” she told him. “Plus it’ll help clear all the fumes from my nose.”

“The fire?” Fox inquired.

“The testosterone,” she corrected him.

“Thanks for your help, anyway.”

“I didn’t really do anything.”

“You got Rebus here.”

“He actually didn’t need any persuading.”

Fox considered this for a moment. “Maybe he was warned by Eamonn Paterson…”

Clarke held out her hand and Fox shook it.

“Good luck,” she told him.

“You really mean that?”

“Up to a point.”

Left alone in the back room of the bar, Fox noticed that his glass wasn’t quite centered on its mat. Slowly and carefully, he began the task of repositioning it.

Rebus had paused long enough at the North Castle Street junction to get a cigarette going and call Eamonn Paterson’s home number.

“It’s John,” he said, when Paterson picked up.

“Last night was good, wasn’t it? Thanks again for the lift.”

“I’ve just been speaking to Malcolm Fox.”

“Who’s he?”

“Works Complaints, which makes him Macari’s attack dog.”

“That was quick.”

“He’s got us all in his sights. Reckons we banjaxed the Saunders case to keep a good snitch on the street.”

“As if we’d do such a thing.”