“But she wants to make me one. Know why? Because of the No campaign. She’s an SNP appointment and a lifelong supporter. And suddenly she has the chance to chuck a couple of darts at the No campaign’s public face.”

“You, in other words?”

“Of course!”

“Have you been asked to comment on Pat McCuskey?”

Gilmour seemed disconcerted by the change of tack. “Yes,” he eventually conceded.

“You must have sparred with him a bit?”

“All the time. Lovely guy, though. Once we’d finished the public debate, he was always game for a private drink and a bit of a laugh.”

“Sounds like you knew him pretty well. The family too?”

“Family were kept out of it.” Gilmour paused. “I did meet Bethany a couple of times.”

“Have you sent your condolences?”

“Of course. My point is—that’s what the police should be focusing resources on, not the likes of Billy Saunders.”

“Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to attack Pat McCuskey?” Rebus asked.

“It was a housebreaking, wasn’t it?”

“We’re not a hundred percent sure.”

Gilmour seemed to think for a moment. “You don’t seriously believe Owen Traynor might be in the frame for it, though?”

“We’re ruling nothing out.”

“Breaking into a man’s house? Smacking him just for being someone’s dad?”

“Stranger things have happened. So tell me what you know of Pat McCuskey.”

“Like I say, he was a nice guy.”

“No skeletons in his closet?”

“Not that I can think of.” Gilmour paused. “You planning to mark a cross in that independence box, John? If the Yes campaign gets hold of Susanna…”

“Your penthouse guest?”

“I’ll know it had to come from you or Fox.”

“How about the receptionist who sent her up without checking? Is he or she still in a job? Because if you’ve fired them, you’ll have to add them to your little list too. That’s how it is, Stefan, when we start lying and cheating and concealing—it creates a lot of work, and nothing but.”

“No skeletons in your cupboard, John?” Gilmour managed a sour chuckle. “You’d need a space the size of IKEA to store them all.”

The line went dead, Gilmour determined to have the last word. Rebus sucked on his beer and went to turn the vinyl over. Rory Gallagher: “Sinner Boy.” He toasted the guitarist and slumped back on his chair to do some thinking. Then he picked up his phone and called Clarke.

“What?” she snapped.

“Bad timing?”

“I’ll call you back in half an hour.”

The phone went dead again. “Doing well tonight, John,” he said to himself, lifting the bottle to his lips.