‘Don’t say I’m not good to you, Siobhan,’ he said to himself as he drove, turning up the volume on the CD player.
The patrol car must have been doing a lick, because he had failed to catch up with it by the time he reached Strathy. There was no sign in the village directing him towards the castle, but then again, there was just the one narrow road off to the left, heading away from the coast. He took it, the lane narrowing, fields to either side. Potholes filled with rainwater added to the fun, Rebus slowing to steer the Saab past as many of them as he could, while the engine whined and wheezed. An imposing gateway came into view, stone posts topped by statues, the ornate wrought-iron gates closed. A weathered wooden sign at ground level warned that what lay beyond was PRIVATE.
Rebus got out of the Saab and approached the gates. Looking up, he saw that the statues represented a lion and a unicorn, holding shields in front of them. Both had been eroded by the elements down the years.
‘You and me both, guys,’ he said, pushing at the gates, feeling them give. When they stood gaping, he got back into the Saab and continued up the drive.
The castle appeared around a long curve. There was a gravelled parking area between the front door and a lawn with an out-of-commission fountain as its centrepiece. Not another dwelling for miles, the views expansive, but precious little protection from the prevailing weather. No trees, no hedges.
As Rebus parked, the heavy wooden door opened. A woman stood there, hands pressed together, almost as if in prayer. He studied her as he approached. Mid fifties, hair tied back in a bun, plain grey skirt with matching cardigan and blouse. Though he’d not met many, he was reminded of a type of nun.
‘Can I help you?’ she was asking.
‘I hope so. I was looking to speak to Lord Strathy if he’s about.’
Any trace of affability her face had carried now evaporated. ‘He’s not.’
‘That’s a pity. I’ve come all the way from Edinburgh … ’
‘Without an appointment?’ She sounded incredulous at such a course of action.
‘We don’t often need them.’ Rebus slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘You’ve heard about the murder of the Saudi student?’
He got the impression that if she’d been wearing pearls, she might have clutched at them. As it was, she merely squeezed one hand beneath the other, as though wringing a dishcloth.
‘You’re with the police?’ Rebus said nothing, content to let her think what she would. ‘Has something happened to … ?’ She broke off. ‘You better come in, please.’
‘Thank you.’
The hallway was everything he’d assumed it would be: stags’ heads on the walls; Barbour jackets on a row of pegs, below which sat an array of green rubber boots; a preponderance of dark wood and a brown, fibrous floor covering.
‘Tea?’ she was asking.
‘Lovely,’ Rebus said.
‘Would you like to wait in the morning room?’
‘The kitchen will be fine. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name … ’
‘I’m Mrs Belkin. Jean Belkin.’
‘My name’s Fox,’ Rebus told her.
He’d been expecting the kitchen to be below stairs and he was not disappointed. They left the entrance hall behind and entered a narrow unadorned corridor, then down a flight of winding stone stairs to another corridor. The large kitchen had last been modernised in the 1960s, he guessed, and the Aga looked even older. He warmed his hands next to it while Belkin filled the electric kettle. She guessed what he was thinking.
‘Hob takes forever,’ she said, flipping the switch.
‘You’re here on your own, Mrs Belkin?’
‘If I had been, I’d not have let you over the threshold, not without seeing some ID.’
Rebus made show of patting his jacket pocket. ‘In the car,’ he apologised.
‘No matter, my husband Colin’s not far away. He’s gardener, handyman and whatever else the place needs.’ She was fetching mugs and teapot, milk and sugar. ‘A biscuit?’
‘Not for me.’
‘You’ve really come all the way from Edinburgh?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have you heard about our murder? It’s getting so nowhere is safe.’
‘Young man along by Naver?’ Rebus nodded. ‘A bad business.’
‘This world of ours is coming apart at the seams.’ She shook her head in bewilderment.
‘Hard to disagree.’
He watched her as she took her time deciding how to frame her next question.
‘Is it because of Lady Isabella, Inspector?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘She knew the Saudi gentleman – brought him here on a couple of occasions.’
‘Is that so?’
‘But she doesn’t come home very often, prefers the bright lights and what have you.’
‘This is more to do with Lady Isabella’s father. We’ve information that he might have been conducting some business with the deceased.’
‘What sort of business?’ She poured water from the kettle into the teapot. Her hand was steady as she concentrated on the task.
‘Does Lord Strathy have an office – a PA or secretary?’
‘In London, yes. Most of his business dealings are focused there.’
‘Is that where he is just now?’
A sudden flush came into Belkin’s cheeks. ‘We’re not quite sure where he is, that’s the truth of it.’
There was a sound behind them. The door to the outside world rattled open and a heavy-set, unshaven man stood there, eyes wary as they landed on Rebus.
‘Colin, this is Mr Fox, a detective from Edinburgh,’ Belkin began to explain.
‘Oh aye?’ He didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘Bit long in the tooth, aren’t you?’
‘I’m younger than I look.’
‘Bloody well have to be.’ The gardener
