“Then maybe I should do the talking.”

“That I’d like to see.”

“My pleasure,” Malcolm Fox said, doing everything but puffing out his chest.

But first they visited Billy Saunders’s home, an unassuming mid-terrace pebble-dash in Blackhall. Saunders was still married to Bettina, the woman Douglas Merchant had been killed over.

“Best if you don’t introduce me,” Rebus told Fox.

“In case he’s mentioned you to her?”

Rebus nodded.

The woman was at home, but showed no great enthusiasm to see them. They stood in the living room, since every chair was covered in cats or laundry, including some with cats on top. She was sure Billy would turn up. Reckoned he was just sickened with working nights. He’d be sleeping it off somewhere.

Did he have friends in Niddrie?

He did not.

And things were okay at home?

If they were asking about other women, who would be daft enough?

She knew that a case against Billy was being prepared? Had he seemed worried about that?

Wouldn’t they be?

Any addresses where they might try looking for him? And a copy of his latest mobile bill…

They didn’t ask for much, did they?

Then Rebus cleared his throat and asked her about Douglas Merchant.

“What about him?”

“Billy’s supposed to have done him in for sleeping with you.”

Bettina Saunders gave a piglike snort. “That was a lot of pish—some rumor got started and Billy saw red.”

“He did kill Merchant, then?” Fox interrupted.

“I’m not saying that.” She glowered at him. “Billy might get angry, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone—that’s why the trial collapsed in the first place. Wrong man was in the dock.”

“Yet he admitted his guilt to a cellmate.”

“Men in jail say all sorts, don’t they? You let the story get round that you’ve done someone in, you get less grief from the other cons.”

“You seem to know all about it.”

“Years of my life spent visiting him inside.”

“If and when he gets in touch, you’ll let us know?”

“You’re right at the top of my list.”

“I’m not entirely sure I believe that.” But Fox thanked her anyway.

Similar line of questioning at the minicab office. The Ford was parked down the lane, so they were even able to give it the once-over. No signs of damage; nothing to indicate any sort of struggle.

“My way of thinking,” Saunders’s boss said, folding his bare meaty arms across his chest, “is that the punter hasn’t any cash, so takes off. Billy goes after him—and that’s when something happens. Not the fittest of guys, so he could have keeled over somewhere. Alternatively, he ends up being led into an ambush.” He shrugged his shoulders as if such eventualities were written into the job description.

Back in the Saab, Fox asked Rebus if it was time for them to try the Gimlet.