That evening, in the back room of the Oxford Bar, Rebus was halfway down his first pint of IPA when Eamonn Paterson arrived and offered a top-up. Rebus shook his head, so Paterson returned from the bar with a pint of his own and a couple of packets of salted peanuts.

“Don’t say I never treated you right,” he said. They were seated in the same corner where Rebus had talked to Fox. “So you’ve managed to get your feet under the table, eh?”

Rebus had texted Paterson to say as much. He nodded slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose and swallowing back a yawn.

“Not quite got his trust yet, though,” he said. “Everything’s kept behind a locked door and Fox is the only one with a key.”

“He’s sent out invitations, you know. Wants me at three p.m. tomorrow.”

“Guess who else he’s asking.”

“Who?”

“Albert Stout and Norman Cuttle.”

“Bloody hell.” Paterson puffed out his cheeks and exhaled.

“It’s Stefan he’s after.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Saunders belonged to Stefan. Stands to reason Stefan would be the one pulling strings to get him off that murder charge.” Rebus paused, studying Paterson over the rim of his glass. “Unless you know different.”

“John…”

“Going through some of the old files reminded me that I was still earning your trust back then. Might be there’s stuff you think needs keeping from me, even now. Walking into Fox’s office was like wandering into a minefield—I’d hate to find out one of my old pals from the Saints had a map tucked away showing where all those explosives were buried.”

“I’m keeping nothing from you, John,” Paterson said quietly.

“And you can vouch for Stefan and Dod?”

Paterson considered this, then gave a shrug. “Everybody’s got a skeleton or two—you should know that better than most. Can you hear them clanking, John? Because I can—but I’m not about to tell that to anyone else.” Paterson’s eyes had hardened. “Just find out what you can, and report back. That way we’re all covered.” Leaving the rest of his drink, he got to his feet and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. “And don’t forget to finish those nuts I bought—they cost enough…”

Rebus watched him leave. Thirty-odd years since he had been introduced to the man, and he was left wondering if he really knew him at all.

Easy to blame Fox.

Maybe too easy.

Rebus walked through to the main bar and stood with three or four other regulars. They were intent on a local news bulletin. Rebus saw Page give his ad hoc press conference. It was followed by footage of a car arriving at the McCuskey home, Bethany McCuskey in the passenger seat, her son Forbes driving. Both wore tense, worried faces.