'Somebody had a word?'

'The proprietor at that time liked nothing better than rubbing shoulders with the great and the good. They'd invite him to dinners, pour him the best brandy and light a cigar for him. And then they'd whisper that certain things were never to be followed up.'

'Including Acorn House?'

'Especially Acorn House. Story after story found itself spiked.'

'How about other papers?'

'Same thing. You heard no end of rumours, but you couldn't print them.'

'Did none of the staff or kids ever come forward?'

'One or two,' Stout admitted. 'They talked to me and to others, but we needed something concrete.'

'What are my chances after all these years?'

'Pretty much non-existent.'

'But there'll be people out there who were resident at Acorn House?'

'Undoubtedly. They probably won't talk, though, even though the climate these days is more sympathetic to victims. Either they'll be too scared, or they won't want to deal with the memories. Even if they do talk, they'd be incriminating the dead and the nearly dead, and it would be one person's word against another's.'

Rebus's eyes swept the roomso many books, magazines and newspapers, so much investigation... 'Did you print anything?'

'A satirical magazine ran a couple of pieces, no names mentioned. It would be different these days. Someone on the internet would publish, and damn the lawsuits. Besides, every kid has a phonethere'd be texts and photos. Back then, secrets could always be kept.'

'David Minton,' Rebus said suddenly, awaiting Stout's reaction.

'Lord Minton, recently deceased? What of him?'

'One of his closest friends was Howard Champ.'

Stout gave the thinnest of smiles. 'You're handing me names,' he said.

'And wanting to know what you make of them.'

'Add in the lottery millionaire and I'm seeing two men who died after being attacked in their homes, and one who succumbed to natural causes. Are you saying our lottery winner and his lordship were killed by the same person? And the link is Acorn House? So maybe one of the victims, now grown-up and seething...' Stout rasped his hands down his face. 'Well, well, well.'

'None of this is for general consumption,' Rebus warned.

'You'll have to forgive an old hack's instinctsI can't help myself.'

'Is there anything at all you can give me? I'm struggling here.'

Stout studied his visitor closely, and Rebus remembered what it was like to be questioned by the manthe forensic level of inquisition, each error or inconsistency dissected. 'I know you don't like me, Rebus,' he was saying now. 'The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you. But it always did rankle that certain men could get away with... well, with anything. All down to status. All down to pecking order and privilege.'

'I'm not looking to cover anything up, Albert. Quite the opposite.'

'I can see that.' Stout sighed. 'The person you want is Patrick Spiers.'

'Why's that?'

'He was freelancebloody-minded, but bloody good. Couldn't bring himself to work for any one organisation, liked his freedom too much. What he relished was a nice knotty investigation that would lend itself to a long-form essayfive or ten thousand words. But then the Fourth Estate started giving less space to those and more to bingo cards and celebrity gossip. Poor Patrick faded.'

'He did a story on Acorn House?'

'Yesnot that I ever saw it. He wouldn't have shown it to a rival newshound before it was published.'

'And it was never published?'

Stout shook his head.

'Where can I find him?'

Stout smiled ruefully. 'Do you have a ouija board? I was at his funeral not three weeks back...'

'The good news is, we're getting our desks back,' Doug Maxtone was telling Fox. Fox was climbing the stairs at Fettes, phone at his ear while he wrestled with a cardboard cup of scalding tea and a cling-film-wrapped tuna sandwich.

'They're shipping out?'

'Seems Joe Stark and his men are heading back to Glasgowall apart from a couple.'

'Do you think we've seen the last of them?'

'Maybe they're satisfied Hamish Wright isn't in the city.'

Fox cursed silently as a splash of liquid landed on his lapel. 'Do we know who's staying put?'

'Compston gave me the namesCallum Andrews and Jackie Dyson. Said we should keep half an eye on them, just in case.'

'But not a full-blown surveillance?'

'On what grounds? Thing is, it makes war on the streets less likely.'

'Unless Joe Stark's just gone home to regroup.'

'Well anyway, when James Page gets fed up of you, your chair's waiting here.'

'Thanks for letting me know.'

Fox had reached the incident room. Esson and Ogilvie were at their desks. He nodded a greeting as he put his phone away, then started dabbing at his lapel with a handkerchief.

'Accident?' Esson asked.

'I was never much good at juggling. You keeping busy?'

'Couple of names Rebus wanted me to check. Can't say I'm making much headway.'

'Seen Siobhan?'

'In a meeting with the boss.'

'Any idea what it's about?'

Esson shook her head. Fox's phone was ringing again. He saw that it was his father's care home, so headed into the corridor for some privacy.

'Malcolm Fox,' he said, answering.

'It's about your father, Mr Fox.' The tone told him almost everything he needed to know.

'Yes?'

'He's been taken to the Infirmary.'

'What happened?'

'He just... he's fading, Mr Fox.'

'Fading?' But Fox knew what she meantthe body shutting down bit by bit, preparing for finality. He ended the call and walked back into the office. Esson saw the look on his face. He lifted the tea from his desk and placed it on hers.

'I have to go out. Be a shame to waste it,' he explained.

'You okay, Malcolm?'

He nodded uncertainly and turned to leave. Then he noticed he had picked up the tuna sandwich. He sat it next to the tea and got going.

He had to drive all the way through town, which gave him plenty of time to think. Problem was, he felt numb, his thought processes fuzzy and incoherent, like the hum of conversation in a busy cafe, none of it quite intelligible. He switched the radio to Classic FM and let the music wash over him, oblivious to anything other than the need to maintain a safe distance from the vehicle in front. A different personRebus, or maybe even Siobhanwould have put the foot down, overtaking recklessly, impelled to make haste, but that wasn't him. He considered calling Jude but thought it could wait. He had scant news, after all, and she would only panic.

The Infirmary was a grey new-build on the south-eastern outskirts of the city. He found a parking space and walked in through the main doors. The woman at the help desk directed him to another woman at a different desk, who sent him to A&E. He remembered waking up there after Jackie Dyson had knocked him unconscious. Dyson was one of the two soldiers staying put. That was curious. If Dyson's job was to stay close to the action, surely that action had now moved to Glasgow. Away from the gang, how could he gather intelligence? Then again, maybe he was under orders from Joe Stark, and to argue would be to invite suspicion.

As Fox waited at the reception desk, a passing nurse smiled a greeting, then stopped and retraced her steps.

'You were here the other day,' she stated.

'And you were the first thing I saw when I woke up,' he acknowledged.

'Feeling the after-effects?' she enquired. 'Of the injuries, I mean.'

'That's not why I'm here. I got a call from my dad's nursing home. He's been brought in.'

'What's the name?'

'Mitchell FoxMitchell or Mitch.'

She went around the desk and checked the computer screen, then announced the number of the ward.

Fox nodded his thanks. 'Does it say what's wrong with him?'

'Looks like he had a seizure of some kind.'

'That doesn't sound good.'

'They'll know more upstairs,' she said. This time her smile was that of the health professionaltextbook evasive.

He returned to the main concourse and took the lift, following the signs along the corridor and pushing open the doors to the high-dependency unit. He explained who he was and why he was there, and was taken to a bed where his father lay, his face the same cement-grey colour as the building's exterior, monitors connected to him and an oxygen mask strapped across his mouth and nose. His clothes had been removed and replaced with a pale green gown. Fox looked to left and right, but there didn't seem to be any doctors around.

'Someone will be along to talk to you soon,' the nurse said, checking the monitors before moving to the next patient.

A name tag had been attached to Mitch Fox's left wrist, and there was a sensor clamped to the tip of a finger. A chart at the foot of the bed told Fox nothing. He sought in vain for a vacant chair. Eventually a visitor at one of the other beds got up to leave and Fox took his chance. Seated next to the machines, registering their rhythmic beeps and subtly changing displays, he rested a hand on his father's uncovered forearm.

And waited.

28.

Rebus ran into Siobhan Clarke as she emerged from the loo nearest the incident room. She was puffing out her cheeks and expelling air.

'As bad as that?' Rebus said.

'Investigation's stalled,' she explained. 'We're waiting for something to happen. And meantime the Fiscal's office wants a separate team attached to the Stark shooting.'

Rebus nodded slowly, wondering how much, if anything, he could tell her. Then he thought of something. 'Did you ever take a closer look at Michael Tolland?'

'It's ongoing.' She stared at him. 'Why?'

'I just get the feeling there's something there. Definitely no note hidden away somewhere in his house?'

'Linlithgow picked the place apart.' Her eyes were still locked on his. 'Is there something you should be telling me?'

He shook his head and followed her into the office. Ronnie Ogilvie and Christine Esson looked to be sharing a sandwich. Clarke headed to her own desk to check her messages, while Rebus stood in front of Esson's.

'I've got nothing on those two names,' she warned him.

'I've found Paul Jeffries,' he told her quietly, checking that Clarke was out of earshot. Esson glowered at him.

'When were you going to tell me?'

'I'm telling you now, so you can focus on Dave Ritter. He might be living in Ullapool. Do a check, maybe get in touch with the force up therecould be a bothy with only PC Murdoch minding the desk, but make sure they know it's urgent.' He saw the look she was still giving him. 'Okay, Christine, I'm sorry you're only hearing this now. My mind's been elsewhere.' He saw the tea on the corner of her desk. 'This going spare?'

'It's cold.'