“Unless you start screwing up and I find myself lumped in with everyone else who ever worked at Summerhall.”

Fox picked up the pen again. It was a cheap yellow ballpoint, but he handled it as if it were Montblanc’s finest.

“So your idea of helping me is to doubt my abilities from the off?”

“Saves us the trouble of discussing it later,” Rebus offered.

“And meantime I’m supposed to trust you? These are some of the first officers you bonded with, men you’ve known most of your professional life—why would you turn against them?”

“That’s not why I’m here. I’m just making sure you don’t start a firefight.”

“Firefights aren’t my style.”

“That’s good, because the Saints—retired as they might be—aren’t lacking ammo.”

“You’re not retired, though.”

Rebus nodded. “And they’ll see me as part of their armory.”

“But you won’t be?”

“That’s for you to decide—once we start work on those files.” Rebus gestured towards the boxes. Fox stared at him, then looked at the display on his phone.

“Only an hour or so left before going home.”

“Depends what time you knock off,” Rebus countered.

Another lengthy examination, and then a slow nod of the head.

“Okay, cowboy,” Fox said, almost in a drawl. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” They lifted the boxes onto the desk and started to get to work.

Sandy Bell’s wasn’t the closest bar to the Sheriff Court, but it was Rebus’s choice, and as Fox himself conceded: “You probably know better than I do.” There was a small table near the back, so they grabbed it, Rebus fetching a cola for his newfound colleague and an IPA for himself. Fox was rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn. He insisted on chinking glasses. Rebus sank an inch of the pint and smacked his lips.

“You never touch the booze?” he asked. Fox shook his head. “Because you can’t?”

Fox nodded, then looked at him. “I can’t and you shouldn’t.”

Rebus toasted the sentiment and took another mouthful.

“Was it the drinking that made your wife leave you?” he inquired.

“I could ask the selfsame question,” Fox shot back.

“And I’d have to tell you it was.” Rebus thought for a moment. “Or maybe that was just part of it. Doing what we do…I couldn’t let off steam at home—quite the opposite. So it got bottled up. And the only people I could talk to were other cops. That was the start of the distancing…” He exhaled, then shrugged.

“You could have knocked the booze on the head,” Fox told him.

“Like you did, you mean? And that’s why you’re still happily married with a vibrant social life?”

Fox looked as if he might take offense, but then his shoulders loosened. “Touché,” he said.