‘The young Saudi,’ his wife informed him, as she filled another mug, ‘the one who came here … ’
‘What of him?’
Rebus took a step forward. ‘We’re looking into any business dealings he might have had, and your employer’s name came up.’
Colin Belkin took a slurp of tea. ‘And how the hell would we know anything about that?’
‘It was Lord Strathy I came to see – your wife’s just been telling me he seems to have disappeared.’
‘Christ’s sake, just because a man takes a bit of time to himself,’ the gardener growled.
‘Is that what he’s done?’
‘Stands to reason.’ Belkin thumped the mug down onto the large wooden table. Then, to his wife: ‘Remember that business two years back? The reporter who said he wasn’t a reporter?’
‘What business?’ Rebus asked.
But the gardener had stretched a hand out towards him, palm up. ‘Let me see some ID.’
‘He told me he left it in the car,’ Jean Belkin said.
‘Then we’ll go to the car and check it out. Against the law to tell people you’re the police when you’re not.’
‘I can give you a number to call,’ Rebus countered. ‘You can ask for DI Malcolm Fox.’
Belkin dug a phone from his back pocket. ‘Let’s do that then.’
Rebus turned his attention to Jean Belkin. ‘What business?’ he asked her again, but she wasn’t about to answer.
‘Door’s there,’ her husband said with a gesture, ‘unless you want to give me that number … ’
Rebus debated for a moment. ‘You’ll be hearing from us again,’ he said.
Colin Belkin was turning the door handle, still with his phone in his other hand. With a final glare at husband and wife, Rebus made his exit, rounding the property and climbing a sloping path back to where his Saab stood waiting.
At the end of the driveway, he left the gates gaping – it wasn’t much by way of payback, but what else did he have? – and pulled into a passing place. He switched on his phone, but found he had no signal. Had the gardener been bluffing then? It was entirely possible. He heard running footsteps, but too late to do anything about them. The driver’s-side door was hauled open and Colin Belkin grabbed a fistful of his lapel, teeth bared.
‘You’re no bloody copper, so who the hell are you?’
Rebus was trying to undo his seat belt with one hand while he wrestled Belkin’s vice-like grip with the other. The man was shaking him like a rag doll.
‘You keep your nose out of honest people’s business!’ Belkin barked. ‘Or you get this.’ He brandished a clenched fist an inch from Rebus’s face.
‘Which jail were you in?’ Rebus asked. The man’s eyes widened, his grip faltering slightly. ‘I can smell an ex-con at fifty yards. Does your employer know?’
Belkin drew his fist back as if readying to throw a punch, but then froze at the sound of his wife’s voice. She was standing in the gateway, pleading for him to stop. Belkin brought his face so close to Rebus’s that Rebus could feel his oniony breath.
‘Come bothering us again, you’ll be getting a doing.’ He released his grip on the lapel and reared back, turning and walking in the direction of his waiting wife.
Rebus’s heart was pounding and he felt light-headed. He pressed a hand against the outline of the inhaler in his pocket but didn’t think it would help. Instead he sat for a moment, watching in the rear-view mirror as Belkin closed the gates with an almighty clang, his wife steering him back towards the castle. When they disappeared from view, he pushed down on the accelerator, feeling a slight tremble in the arch of his right foot. The perfect time for the CD to decide he merited John Martyn’s ‘I’d Rather Be the Devil’.
Back on the A836, he checked his phone again and found he had one bar of signal, so he pulled over and called Siobhan Clarke.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Lord Strathy’s not been seen by his staff for a while.’
‘Must be in London then.’
‘That’s not the impression I get. I’d say they’ve been trying to rouse him without success.’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘That’s your job rather than mine.’
‘I’ll check with his London office. Maybe ask his daughter, too.’
‘One other thing – the staff mentioned some press interest a couple of years back. Any idea what that’s about?’
‘Hang on.’ He could hear her sifting paperwork, and a muttering from Malcolm Fox as she asked him about it.
‘Strathy’s fourth wife,’ Clarke eventually said. ‘Seems he collects them like hunting trophies. She walked out on him.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Renounced the high life for the pleasures of hippiedom.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’
‘According to reports, she joined some New Age cult.’
‘Based between Naver and Tongue, by any chance?’
‘Why ask if you already know?’
‘It was more of an educated guess. Do you have a name for her?’
‘Angharad Oates. Cue tabloid headlines about wild oats being sown.’
‘Can you send me what you’ve got on her?’
‘Or you could google it, same as Malcolm did.’
‘He’s keeping you busy then?’
‘Just a bit.’
‘Funny that, when he’s just been up here asking questions at Strathy Castle … ’
‘Keeping your usual low profile?’
‘Just remember who’s doing all your dirty work.’
‘How’s everything else? With Samantha, I mean?’
‘She’s hanging in.’
‘And you?’
‘Do me one last favour, will you? Run a check on a Colin Belkin. He’s the groundsman and general factotum at Strathy Castle.’
‘And?’
‘I’m betting a pound to a penny he’s got previous.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
16
‘Tell me what you see,’ Malcolm Fox said, turning his head towards Siobhan Clarke. He had driven them to Craigentinny golf course, passing the scene of Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder on the way.
Clarke saw some parked cars, most of them the makes and models preferred by middle-management types – indeed, the sort of car Malcolm Fox himself drove these days. A couple of silver-haired gents were exiting the clubhouse at the end of their
