“I just wanted to know…” Gilmour broke off, fixing Fox with a look. “I’m not a cop anymore, haven’t been for thirty years. Nothing to stop me wanting to ask the man what he was going to say to an investigation.”

“Asking rather than threatening?”

“Threats aren’t my style.” Gilmour leaped to his feet. Pointing at Fox, he aimed his question at Rebus. “How can you hang around with this skid mark?”

“So you asked Billy Saunders what he was going to say?”

Gilmour stood not three feet from Rebus, and eventually nodded by way of answer.

“And?” Rebus nudged.

“And nothing—he didn’t want to talk to me. I doubt our little chat lasted twenty seconds.” Gilmour paused. “I’m willing to bet you’ve applied to see his phone records—they’ll show I’m not lying.”

“Did you call him back?” Rebus asked.

“Tried, but he wouldn’t pick up.”

“And at no point did you offer an inducement?” Fox added from his chair.

“A bribe, you mean?” Gilmour shook his head. “Tell you what I think, though—I think you lot scared him off. Thirty years after the fact and suddenly he’s going to be in the dock again. I’d probably have scarpered too.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Gilmour,” Fox commented, “it can’t be easy for you. You’ve got all of this now.” He waved a hand, taking in the room and everything around it. “Stuff you did in the past, you think of it as long forgotten. This is your life now—unless Billy Saunders stands up in court and tells the world about the person you used to be.”

“A good cop is who I used to be, the kind that put his neck on the line, the kind that made the public feel that little bit safer in their beds at night.” Gilmour walked over and planted himself in front of Fox’s chair. “Whereas what I hear about you is you could never cut it in CID, near as dammit got down on your knees and begged for a Complaints posting.”

Fox got slowly to his feet, blood rising to his cheeks. “You know this doesn’t end it? Case can go ahead with or without Billy Saunders. I’m still going to be picking apart your little gang.”

“He means us, John,” Gilmour called to Rebus.

“But you above all,” Fox felt the need to clarify. “Saunders was your snitch and I reckon you’re the one who got him off. Whether you had any help is neither here nor there.”

“Douglas Merchant was a scumbag who got what was coming to him. We should be looking at a commendation rather than a jail sentence.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Fox advised. “The more often you and your pal Paterson say it, the less convinced you sound.”