“I was having a drink with someone.”

“Your lawyer?”

“In Morningside.”

“The Canny Man?”

She shook her head. “Montpelier’s.” Rebus made a face: not his kind of place. “Where did you disappear to?” she was asking. “Came back from that meeting and Christine said you’d scarpered.”

“I was in a meeting of my own.”

She thought for a moment. “With Fox?” Rebus nodded. “And he doesn’t suspect?”

“What’s to suspect?” Rebus had dug out his key and was opening the door. “You coming in?”

“Is that all right?”

“Long as you’re not after a white wine spritzer…” He led the way up two flights of stairs to the door to his flat. Unlocked it and scooped up the mail before switching on the hallway light. She followed him into the living room. The ashtray next to his armchair needed emptying. A couple of beer bottles sat alongside, plus an empty whisky glass.

“Cup of tea?” he asked her.

“Thanks.”

While he was in the kitchen, she slid some of his LPs back into their sleeves. She was about to pick up the beer bottles when he reappeared.

“I’ll do that,” he said.

“I’ll bring the ashtray.”

She dumped its contents into the bin in the kitchen while he placed the bottles on the work surface next to the sink. He handed her a mug.

“You got lucky,” he said. “Milk’s only a day past its sell-by.”

“I’ll settle for that.”

They went back through to the living room. “Is this okay for you now?” he asked. “Or does your OCD require any further action?”

She said nothing, settling herself on the sofa and resisting the urge to arrange the newspapers next to her into a neater pile. Rebus was putting an LP on, turning down the volume. Miles Davis, she thought—from the period before he got weird.

Rebus was about to lift a cigarette from its packet, but remembered she didn’t like it.

“So you’ve got yourself seconded to Fox?” she asked eventually.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Access to the Saunders file?” She watched him nod. “And other cases relating to Summerhall?” A shrug this time. “Has it occurred to you that Fox could be playing a game of his own?”

“What sort of game?”

“Wondering if there’s anything you’ll try to cover up, any reports that could suddenly go AWOL…”

“It’s a possibility.”

“You’ve really persuaded him you’re on his side?”

“Not completely—stands to reason he’s got his suspicions.”

She leaned forward on the sofa. “And is there anything for him to find? Anything that’s going to end up incriminating you?”