Let It Bleed

the fairways at St Andrews.

‘It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?’ The voice was Sir Iain’s. He was walking towards Rebus, leaning lightly on a carved walking-stick. At home, it would appear the brolly wasn’t necessary.

‘Just thinking I should have brought my three iron.’

‘Ah, you play golf?’

‘Only with a three iron.’

Hunter laughed and placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘Find the place all right?’

‘No trouble.’

‘Good.’ Hunter was steering Rebus towards the house. ‘I thought we’d have a drink first, then do a spot of shooting and just have a light lunch.’

‘Shooting?’

‘I take it you’ve handled a gun, Inspector?’

‘I’ve handled a lot of things.’

‘I did wonder if we might try for pheasant or winter hare, but decided on clay pigeon.’

‘Well, it tastes nicer, doesn’t it?’

Sir Iain Hunter shook his head, amused. ‘There’s no telling what you’ll say next, Inspector.’

They entered a capacious hall with white marble floor and paintings on the walls: modern art, which surprised Rebus. A lot of the stuff looked ill at ease in a setting of wood panelling and fluted columns. A staircase with a wrought-iron balustrade climbed up the middle of the hall and peeled off to left and right.

‘In here,’ Hunter said. ‘Let me take your coat.’

Rebus slipped off his new raincoat and shrugged himself back into his sports jacket. He patted his tie flat and walked into the morning room.

A servant was dispensing drinks from a series of decanters on a trolley. So, Rebus thought, I was important enough to be met by the boss rather than the flunky. He stood there, not really looking at anyone, biding his time until Sir lain came back into the room.

‘Hello, John,’ someone said, walking towards him, hand held out. The man held a heavy crystal tumbler in his other hand, and looked slightly embarrassed. It wasn’t until Rebus had taken the man’s hand that he recognised him.

It was Allan Gunner, the deputy chief constable.

‘Do you know everyone?’ Gunner said, leading Rebus to the drinks trolley. Rebus’s first thought, after he’d recovered from the surprise, was: at least Gunner had the grace to look embarrassed. His second thought was: I’ve walked into this, fair and square.

The servant was waiting for Rebus’s order. He was a little stooped from a lifetime’s obsequiousness, and had a trying-to-please smile on his thin lips. He wore a tight little jacket of blue nylon, all its buttons done up. It probably helped with the stoop.

‘I’ll take a malt,’ Rebus said.

‘West Highland or Strathspey, sir?’

‘Strathspey, and no water.’

Another guest laughed. ‘Sir lain won’t allow water of any form near his whiskies.’ He held his cigar and glass in one hand so he could extend the other towards Rebus.

‘Colin Macrae,’ he said.

‘Sir Colin,’ Gunner added, ‘is Scottish Office Minister for Agriculture and the Environment.’

‘John Rebus,’ Rebus told the man.

Which left only two guests, both male, both involved in a muted discussion by the french windows. But Gunner was applying discreet pressure to Rebus’s arm, manoeuvring him away from the drinks trolley, where Sir Colin was ordering a top-up. They ended up beside a massive stone fireplace.

Gunner spoke in a fierce whisper. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here — ’

‘Me neither.’

‘But while we’re in company, we’d better show a united front, especially in front of these characters.’

‘Agreed.’

‘So first-name terms, no formalities.’

‘Fair enough, sir.’

‘The name’s Allan.’

‘Allan.’

‘Ah,’ Hunter said, entering the room and pointing at them with his stick, ‘the same old story, everyone’s got a drink but the host.’

The servant poured without being asked. A telephone sounded in the hall, and he went to answer it, head bowed as he left the room.

‘Cheers,’ said Sir Iain. He motioned for Rebus to join him. ‘Met everyone?’

The couple from the window were coming back to replenish their glasses. Rebus nodded towards them.

‘Robbie,’ Sir Iain said, ‘come and meet Detective Inspector John Rebus. John, this is Robbie Mathieson.’

Mathieson shook Rebus’s hand. He was tall, well built, and had thick black hair and a black beard. The glasses he wore sported blue tints.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ His accent was slightly American.

‘PanoTech?’ Rebus guessed.

Mathieson nodded, a bit put out by the recognition, and Sir Iain looked interested that Rebus should know Mathieson. Sir Iain turned to Allan Gunner.

‘Chief Constable, is it a wonder the crime rate is falling and the detection rate rising when you can boast men of this calibre?’ He looked back to Rebus. ‘It’s almost uncanny.’

A game was being played, and Rebus didn’t know what it was. But he knew that his knowing who Mathieson was was part of it.

Gunner was correcting Sir Iain. ‘It’s Deputy Chief Constable.’

‘A slip of the tongue,’ Hunter said, with a wink to the general assembly. ‘Perhaps I was merely looking into the future. That’s what we civil servants are good at, you know. Dugald, your glass needs a top-up.’

Dugald held out his hand for a refill. Nobody had introduced him because nobody needed to. He was quiet, thoughtful, or maybe he just didn’t waste words. Hardly surprising, when everything he said might be taken down and passed to the media, who might use it in evidence against him. He couldn’t afford to trust those he did not know.

Certainly, he didn’t know Rebus, but Rebus knew him. He was Dugald Niven, the Right Honourable Dugald Niven.

He was Secretary of State for Scotland.

‘Let’s take our drinks through to the gun room,’ Sir Iain said, ‘and get everyone kitted out.’

Rebus poured and drank another half glass before following everyone out of the room.

It was barely above zero outside — ‘bracing’ and ‘fresh’ according to Sir Iain — and they were going to have a picnic. The provisions would be waiting for them at the clay-pigeon site. To get to the site itself necessitated a walk through the woods. In the gun room, they’d been fitted with green sportsmen’s jackets, sleeveless and thickly padded with cartridge-belt attached. They were handed a shotgun each, broken open for safety’s sake.

Rebus stayed to the rear of the party, and Gunner slowed down to join him.

‘So what are you doing here?’ Gunner asked.

‘I thought you’d know.’

‘Me?’

‘You’ve had me taken off an investigation.’

‘I’ve done no such thing.’

‘OK then, you requested I be taken off.’

Gunner tucked his shotgun more firmly under his arm. ‘What’s that got to do with you being here?’

‘I wish I knew. If you’re asking me to make an inspired guess …?’

‘Go on.’