“I’ve still got it,” Paterson said, raising his glass in a toast.

“How long have you been out of the game?” Clarke asked. Paterson was tall and slim, with a good head of hair; she wouldn’t have said he was a day older than Rebus.

“Nearly fifteen years. Nice of them still to send me the invites.” He waved his wineglass in the direction of the party.

“Maybe you’re the poster boy for retirement.”

“That could be part of it,” he agreed with a laugh. “So this is the last rites for Lothian and Borders, eh?”

“As far as anyone knows.” Rebus turned towards Clarke. “What’s the new name again?”

“There’ll be two divisions—Edinburgh, plus Lothians and Scottish Borders.”

“Piece of nonsense,” Paterson muttered. “Warrant cards will need changing, and so will the livery on the patrol cars—how the hell’s that supposed to save money?” Then, to Rebus: “You going to manage along to Dod’s?”

Rebus shrugged. “How about you?”

“Could be another case of last rites.” Paterson turned towards Clarke. “We all worked together at Summerhall.”

“Summerhall?”

“A cop shop next door to the vet school on Summerhall Place,” Rebus explained. “They knocked it down and replaced it with St. Leonard’s.”

“Before my time,” she admitted.

“Practically Stone Age,” Paterson agreed. “Not many of us cavemen left, eh, John?”

“I’ve learned how to make fire,” Rebus countered, taking the box of matches from his pocket and shaking it.

“You’re not still smoking?”

“Someone has to.”

“He likes the occasional drink, too,” Clarke confided.

“I’m shocked.” Paterson made show of studying Rebus’s physique.

“Didn’t realize I was auditioning for Mr. Universe.”

“No,” Clarke said, “but you’ve sucked your stomach in anyway.”

“Busted,” Paterson said with another laugh, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. “So will you make it to Dod’s or not? Stefan’ll likely be there.”

“Seems a bit ghoulish,” Rebus said. He explained to Clarke that Dod Blantyre had suffered a recent stroke.

“He wants one last gathering of the old guard,” Paterson added. He wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction. “You don’t want to disappoint him—or Maggie…”

“I’ll see how I’m fixed.”

Paterson tried staring Rebus out, then nodded slowly and patted his shoulder again. “Fine then,” he said, moving off to greet another old face.

Five minutes later, as Rebus was readying his excuse that he needed to step out for a cigarette, a fresh group entered the canteen. They looked like lawyers because that was what they were—invitees from the Procurator Fiscal’s office. Well dressed, with shiny, confident faces, and led by the Solicitor General for Scotland, Elinor Macari.

“Do we need to bow or anything?” Rebus murmured to Clarke, who was fixing her fringe. Macari was pecking the Chief Constable on both cheeks.

“Just don’t say something you might regret.”

“You’re the boss.”