“Glue used to be a currency in Craigmillar,” Rebus commented. “So shall I meet you at Macari’s.”

“Why not?” Malcolm Fox said.

Why not indeed? Rebus thought to himself, ending the call and turning left at the lights.

Albert Stout lived on his own in an Edwardian house with uninterrupted views across Muirfield golf course. The place would be worth a few bob, but would also need gutting and updating by any new owners. The central heating radiators were the same age as the building, and emitted as much heat as a Bluebell match. There was a pervasive smell of damp, the window frames were crumbling, and the carpets were moldering at their edges. There were books and newspapers everywhere, Stout having explained that he was writing his memoirs.

“The industry’s on its last legs, so this is by way of ave atque vale.”

“Do you know Laura Smith?” Rebus inquired.

“I hear she does a good enough job—under the circumstances.” Stout shuffled along in carpet slippers, leading them into the lounge. More clutter—unopened mail, boxes of photographs, cups and plates. “Someone comes and cleans once a week,” he apologized.

“Do you have any other help?” Fox asked.

“Council tried matching me with someone, but I’m too set in my ways. They did install a button I can press if there’s an emergency…” Stout looked around in vain for the device.

There were grease stains on his cardigan and brown cord trousers. He was jowly, and hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. What hair he had left was silver and unruly, but his eyes were alert. As the three men sat down, he wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction.

“I remember you now,” he said. “Gave me more than a few column inches down the years.”

“I hope that’s not a euphemism,” Rebus retorted. Then: “Do you still smoke a couple of packs a day?”

Stout made a face. “Doctor told me I should call a halt.”

“We want to talk to you about a particular case,” Fox broke in, perching on the edge of the sofa rather than move the heaps of magazines behind him. “Summerhall CID and the death of Douglas Merchant. You wrote about it several times…”

“Because it was a scandal—the police back then were like little tyrants.” He paused and glanced in Rebus’s direction. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Rebus assured him, coldly.

“They faked confessions, framed the innocent, planted evidence—we all knew it went on, but there was nothing we could do about it.”

“The press knew, you mean?”

“Very straightforward procedure—you bought a desk sergeant or someone from the custody suite a drink, and they poured out all the gossip. Almost none of it made the news pages.”

“Why not?”

“Editors would spike it. They’d be on the phone to someone high up at HQ, there’d be a few quiet words, and the piece would fail to appear.”