“I don’t suppose you recall the details…” Fox opened the briefcase he’d been holding and slid out a thin brown folder. Inside was the report from the autopsy. Cuttle peered at the sheets, seemingly engrossed.

“These were written by Donner,” he said. “Such tiny handwriting, yet perfectly legible. I’d no idea we kept paperwork for this number of years.”

“We’re lucky it survived,” Fox said.

“Indeed, yes.”

“You gave evidence at the trial?”

“I did. But then the case fell apart.”

“A question of contamination?”

Cuttle nodded. “The victim’s blood was found on clothing owned by Billy Saunders.” He paused. “Unfortunately, that clothing had apparently been stored in an evidence bag alongside items belonging to the victim.”

“Meaning the blood could have been transferred from one to the other?”

“That was the fear.”

“Pretty basic error.” Fox watched Cuttle as he sifted through more of the paperwork, including photos of the deceased from both the scene of the attack and the autopsy slab. “Merchant was killed in the alleyway behind the pub he’d been drinking in. He’d had an argument an hour or two before with Billy Saunders. Saunders had then left the pub. He was apprehended, drunk and blood-spattered, in a street half a mile away. His story was that he’d stumbled over the body, and been so horrified he’d staggered off down the road. He told police he’d no idea the body had belonged to Douglas Merchant.”

“Mmm,” Cuttle said, managing to inject huge skepticism into the single syllable. “The man had grazed knuckles and a burst lip, consistent with a fight. Plus a few nicks that could have been received from an opponent’s blows. DNA collection was not as advanced as it is these days—we never matched skin from under either man’s fingernails…”

“But you’re pretty sure Billy Saunders did it?”

“Mmm,” Cuttle said again.

“And was helped in beating the charge by officers at Summerhall CID?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

Rebus cleared his throat. “When Inspector Fox asked if Saunders had done it, you didn’t sound wholly convinced—or are my ears playing tricks on me?”

“His story had a certain plausibility. People jumped to the obvious conclusion—the two men had been arguing; Merchant had been sleeping with Saunders’s wife…” Cuttle gave a shrug and pulled the rug a little tighter around himself. “The iron bar found at the scene provided no usable fingerprints.”

“Story is, someone wiped it,” Fox interrupted.

“Never proven, though—so much of what we’re talking about here will remain always in the realm of conjecture.”

“If Billy Saunders didn’t do it, who did?” Fox asked.

“A question for the police, unless of course…”

Fox leaned in towards the old man. “Unless the police did it, you mean?”