“You mean, whose snitch was he?” Paterson looked to Rebus. “He didn’t warm to any of us, did he, John?”

“Not that I remember,” Rebus felt obliged to answer.

“And here was I thinking he would have owed you,” Fox commented. “I mean, whatever titbits he’d gifted you down the years, you got him off a murder charge…”

“Not intentionally,” Paterson corrected him.

“Even so, he’d been useful to you and suddenly you just let him go?”

“Almost as if there was more to it than that,” Rebus interjected.

“You were there, John,” Paterson shot back. “What do you think?”

“It was another country.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong, both of you,” Fox said, turning from one man to the other. “It was the exact same country—you just treated it like you had the run of the place. A lot of bad habits were picked up, and the passing of time doesn’t necessarily wipe the slate clean.”

“It can play tricks on folks’ memories, though,” Paterson stressed. “Whatever story Saunders decides to tell, no way of knowing it’s the truth.”

“His short-term memory should be okay, though, eh?”

“What do you mean?” Paterson’s eyes had narrowed.

“The Procurator’s office set up a meeting with him this lunchtime. You sure it’s been quarter of a century since either of you set eyes on him?” He waited until both Paterson and Rebus had nodded. “Well, according to Mr. Saunders, another of your number phoned him this very morning.”

It took Rebus a moment to come up with the name. “Stefan Gilmour?”

“The same,” Fox confirmed.

“What did he want?”

“He was wondering which particular beans Mr. Saunders might be about to spill.”

“Stefan spoke to him?” Paterson sounded disbelieving, but Fox was nodding slowly.

“Seems some of those bad habits just never go away,” he commented, flicking through his notes again.

After ten further stilted minutes, the interview concluded. Fox thanked Paterson and told him that Rebus would see him out.

“I’m sure the two of you will want a quick confab once I’m out of earshot.”

Neither man bothered to deny it. Out on Chambers Street, Paterson pulled out his phone and called Stefan Gilmour’s number.

“It’s gone to voice mail,” he muttered after a few seconds. He left a message anyway, telling Gilmour to phone him, adding, “You’ll know what it’s about, you daft bastard.”

“Succinct,” Rebus said. Paterson stared at the skies above and let out a sound that was on its way to being a growl.

“What does he think he’s playing at, John?”

“You tell me.”

“Does he really want all of us in it up to our necks?”

“Fox is right, though, isn’t he? There’s more to it than just keeping a good snitch on the street?”

Paterson jabbed a finger into Rebus’s chest. “You’re the one who said that, not Fox!”