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.’
‘Well, I’ve been brought here so you can work on me.’
‘What?’
‘You’re going to warn me off again, and I’ll be so impressed by the surroundings and the company, I’ll fall to my knees and plead forgiveness.’
Gunner gave him a blazing look. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘In that case, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m in the dark. First time I’ve been invited. Maybe Sir Iain wants to get to know me. He’s a canny diplomat, as well as being a manipulator.’ Gunner paused. ‘The chief constable will be retiring soon.’
‘Bit young for that, isn’t he?’
‘His wife’s ill, she needs looking after.’
‘So you’ll be promoted?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Always supposing you’re given a clean bill of health.’
‘What?’
‘By HMIC, for example. That kind of threat works both ways, Allan.’
Gunner narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Shug McAnally kills himself. I try to find out why. Turns out he’s recently been sharing a cell with a man called Charters. This despite the fact McAnally’s in for a sex attack. Only, none of the other inmates knows that.’
‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at.’
‘Yes you do. McAnally was Alister Flower’s grass. Flower worked under you on the case against Charters. McAnally was put in Charters’ cell to see what he could glean. Now, Flower hasn’t got the weight to set up something like that; it’d need someone more senior to have a word with Big Jim Flett — someone like yourself, sir.’ Gunner kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing. ‘And now,’ Rebus went on, ‘I’ve got the likes of Hunter warning me off, too.’
Gunner looked up at the knot of men ahead. They were picking their way over fallen branches and through stunted undergrowth between mature trees.
‘I want us to talk,’ he said.
‘Fine.’
‘But not here.’
Sir Iain had stopped and was gesturing. ‘Come on, slowcoaches! I’ve got one good leg and I’m still beating you.’ He waited for them to join him.
‘How much land have you got here, Sir lain?’ Gunner asked, suddenly the well-mannered guest.
‘A hundred and seventy acres, but don’t worry, we’re not walking all of it.’
Soon they broke out of the woods into a rutted field of stubble. By the side of the field was a track just wide enough for the vehicle that sat there, a venerable Land Rover the same olive green as their jackets. The servant was at the back of the vehicle, unpacking a large wicker hamper. There was another man halfway across the field, standing beside some apparatus Rebus took to be the clay-pigeon release.
Rebus ended up standing next to the Secretary of State. The man didn’t seem inclined to speak. Rebus wondered what he’d been discussing with Robbie Mathieson in the morning room. Rebus turned to Mathieson.
‘A friend of mine works for one of your suppliers.’
‘Oh?’ Mathieson didn’t sound particularly interested.