“Only because he’d said it to me earlier.”

“You’re supposed to be on our side, John.”

“Oh aye? And what about Stefan—how’s he playing for the team when he’s calling Billy Saunders behind our backs?”

“Christ alone knows,” Paterson muttered, shoulders slumping.

“The Shadow Bible was a long time ago, Porkbelly,” Rebus said quietly. “It made sense that we stuck up for one another back then—might not be so true now.”

“You’re asking me to side with you against Stefan?” Paterson was shaking his head slowly but determinedly.

“I’m saying we need to do what’s right.”

“And tell me, John—was it ‘right’ when you started seeing Dod Blantyre’s wife? Was it ‘right’ that those of us who knew kept shtum?”

“That’s not what we’re talking about here.” Blood had risen unbidden to Rebus’s neck and cheeks.

“It is, though—secrets and lies and all the other crap we’ve dealt out and been dealt. I didn’t see you owning up in there to signing your name to statements that weren’t yours. But we both know it happened. A lot happened back then, and one crack in the dam might be all that’s needed…” Paterson paused, looking Rebus up and down. “So make sure you know whose side you’re on, John. And leave Stefan to me—I’ll see to it he doesn’t go near Saunders again.”

Rebus noticed that Paterson’s hand was outstretched. He took it and returned the firm shake, Paterson apparently reluctant to let go.

“All right then,” Rebus said, finally extricating himself. He watched Paterson walk away, then returned indoors and headed to the toilets. Examining his face in the soap-spattered mirror, he saw that there was still a faint smudge of lipstick on his right cheek. Cursing, he rubbed it away. Maybe Fox had noticed it and decided not to say anything. But Paterson had certainly spotted it, and had surmised the identity of its bestower—hadn’t she asked him for Rebus’s phone number, after all?

Fox was in the office, tidying up now that the show was over.

“Much further forward?” Rebus asked him.

In place of an answer, Fox had a question of his own. “Did you reach Stefan Gilmour?”

“No,” Rebus admitted. “Paterson left a message.”

“Unbelievably stupid of him to contact Saunders.”

“I’m not going to disagree,” Rebus offered, slumping onto a chair.

“And have you come to any conclusions yourself, Detective Sergeant Rebus?”

“About what?”

“You’re either my man or you’re theirs. Up until now, maybe you’ve been thinking you can swap shirts as and when.”

“Only conclusion I’ve been able to draw so far is that you’re as sleekit as they come.”

“I might have to pretend you mean that as a compliment.”

“In some ways, it probably is.” Rebus managed a tired smile.