Outside, he paced the short gravel driveway, sucking on a cigarette. It was a good five or six minutes before Fox emerged. Stout hadn’t bothered coming to the door to wave him off.

“You okay?” Fox asked.

“Sanctimonious prick of a man,” Rebus began. “You can be sure there’ll be no shortage of lies and half-truths in his book. Albert Stout wasn’t above groping a typist or offering someone a deal if they’d rat on their lover.”

Fox unlocked his Volvo and got in. Rebus wished he’d brought his Saab, but it was parked on Chambers Street. He paused for a few more seconds, draining the life from his cigarette before flicking it towards Stout’s front door. Then he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Got it off your chest?” Fox said. He didn’t look displeased to see Rebus fired up.

“Let’s just get going, eh?”

Fox started the car. Rebus had already noticed that the man never quite broke the speed limit. In a 40 zone, he’d keep to 39; in a 30, he’d do 29. The one time Rebus had suggested putting the foot down, Fox had actually eased off the accelerator instead. So he kept quiet as they drove back into the city, headed for Colinton and the home of Professor Norman Cuttle. Fox stuck the Scottish news on, but switched the radio off again almost immediately.

“All you seem to hear about is the referendum,” he complained. Then: “Mr. Stout was interesting about that actually—after you left. He’s got a whole chapter in his book about the ’79 vote and the years that followed. SNP were at a low ebb then. Some of them decided to take matters a little further. I had a case a couple of years back…”

“A Complaints case?”

“Started off that way. You ever heard of the Dark Harvest Commando? The SNLA? They got hold of weapons, sent firebombs to politicians and Princess Di—even posted anthrax to the government in London.”

“I vaguely remember.”

“Stout covered a few of the trials. He’s an interesting man.”

“He’s an arsehole, and the fact that you can’t tell the difference says a lot about you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Do you think it was true, though, what he said about editors spiking stories?”

“Is that going to be your next archaeological dig—brass who were too close to the men who ran the papers?”

“I’d assume they’re all dead by now.”

“I’m not sure that would stop you.”

“This is my last work for Professional Standards.”

“Unless you can persuade the Solicitor General that you need to be kept on in some capacity.”

“That could work for you too, you know.”

Rebus turned towards Fox. “How do you mean?”