Hugh Malahide, bald and thin, mid-forties, already had a slight stammer, which intensified when Rebus asked his first question. By throwing it back at the questioner, he seemed to be playing for time.
`Have we had any Japanese visitors recently? Well, we do get a few golfers.’
`These men came to lunch. Maybe a fortnight, three weeks back. There were three of them, plus three or four Scottish men. Probably driving Range Rovers. The table may have been reserved in the name of Telford.’
` Telford?’
`Thomas Telford.’
`Ah, yes…’
Malahide wasn't enjoying this at all.
`You know Mr Telford?’
`In a manner of speaking.’
Rebus leaned forward in his chair. `Go on.’
`Well, he's… look, the reason I seem so reticent is because we don't want this made common knowledge.’
`I understand, sir.’
`Mr Telford is acting as go-between.’
`Go-between?’
`In the negotiations.’
Rebus saw what Malahide was getting at. `The Japanese want to buy Poyntinghame?’
`You understand, Inspector, I'm just the manager here. I mean, I run the day-to-day business.’
`But you're the Chief Executive.’
`With no personal share in the club. The actual owners were set against selling at first. But an offer has been made, and I believe it's a very good one. And the potential buyers… well, they're persistent.’
`Have there been any threats, Mr Malahide?’
He looked horrified. `What sort of threats?’
`Forget it.’
`The negotiations haven't been hostile, if that's what you mean.’
`So these Japanese, the ones who had lunch here…?’
`They were representing the consortium.’
`The consortium being…?’
`I don't know. The Japanese are always very secretive. Some big company or corporation, I'd guess.’
`Any idea why they want Poyntinghame?’
`I've wondered that myself.’
`And?’
`Everyone knows the Japanese love golf. It might be a prestige thing. Or it could be that they're opening a plant of some kind in Livingston.’
`And Poyntinghame would become the factory social club?’
Malahide shivered at the thought. Rebus got to his feet.
`You've been very helpful, sir. Anything else you can tell me?’
`Look, this has been off the record, Inspector.’
`I've no problem with that. I don't suppose you've got any names?’
`Names?’
`Of the diners that day.’
Malahide shook his head. `I'm sorry, not even credit card details. Mr Telford paid cash as usual.’
`Did he leave a big tip?’
`Inspector,' smiling, `some secrets are sacrosanct.’
`Let's keep this conversation that way, too, sir, all right?’
Malahide looked at Candice. `She's a prostitute, isn't she? I thought as much the day they were here.’
There was revulsion in his voice. `Tarty little thing, aren't you?’
Candice stared at him, looked to Rebus for help, said a few words neither man understood.
`What's she saying?’ Malahide asked.
`She says she once had a punter who looked just like you. He dressed in plus-fours and made her whack him with a mashie-niblick.’
Malahide showed them out.
6
Rebus telephoned Claverhouse from Candice's room.
`Could be something or nothing,' Claverhouse said, but Rebus could tell he was interested, which was good: the longer he stayed interested, the longer he'd want to hang on to Candice. Ormiston was on his way to the hotel to resume babysitting duties.
`What I want to know is, how the hell did Telford land something like this?’
`Good question,' Claverhouse said.
`It's way out of his previous sphere, isn't it?’
`As far as we know.’
`A chauffeur service for Jap companies…’
`Maybe he's after the contract to supply their gaming machines.’
Rebus shook his head. `I still don't get it.’
`Not your problem, John, remember that.’
`I suppose so.’
There was a knock at the door. `Sounds like Ormiston.’
`I doubt it. He's just left.’
Rebus stared at the door. 'Claverhouse, wait on the line.’
He left the receiver on the bedside table. The knock was repeated. Rebus motioned for Candice, who'd been flicking through a magazine on the sofa, to move into the bathroom. Then he crept up to the door and put his eye to the spyhole. A woman: the day-shift receptionist. He unlocked the door.
`Yes?’
`Letter for your wife.’
He stared at the small white envelope which she was trying to hand him.
`Letter,' she repeated.
There was no name or address on the envelope, no stamp. Rebus took it and held it to the light. A single sheet of paper inside, and something flat and square, like a photograph.
`A man handed it in at reception.’
`How long ago?’
`Two, three minutes.’
`What did he look like?’
She shrugged. `Tallish, short brown hair. He was wearing a suit, took the letter out of a briefcase.’
`How do you know who it's for?’
`He said it was for the foreign woman. He described her to a T.’
Rebus was staring at the envelope. `Okay, thanks,' he mumbled. He closed the door, went back to the telephone.
`What is it?’ Claverhouse asked.
`Someone's just dropped off a letter for Candice.’
Rebus tore open the envelope, holding the receiver between shoulder and chin. There was a Polaroid photo and a single sheet, handwritten in small capitals. Foreign words.
`What does it say?’ Claverhouse asked.
`I don't know.’
