‘You think Mathieson told Charters?’
‘Possibly. It could have been any of you.’
‘Us?’
‘You’re in it up to your cashmere scarf.’
‘Careful what you say, Inspector. Be very careful.’
‘Why? So I don’t get a knife in the guts?’
Hunter’s cheeks coloured. ‘That was …’ He swallowed back the rest.
‘Charters’ doing?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Well, someone had to tell Charters in the first place, and they did so knowing he’d do something about it, something they were scared to do themselves.’
Sir Iain’s eyes were watering, but it was from the breeze, not contrition.
‘What are you going to do, Inspector?’
‘I’m going to nail as many of you as I can.’
Finally Hunter turned to him. ‘Do you recall what I said to you that day on my estate? Jobs are at risk, lives are at risk.’ He sounded grotesquely sincere.
‘It’s all just policy to you, isn’t it?’ Rebus said. ‘No right and wrong, legal and illegal, no fair and corrupt, just politics.’
‘Listen to yourself, man,’ Sir lain Hunter spat. ‘Who are you, some Old Testament prophet? What gives you the right to hold the scales?’ He dug the tip of his umbrella into the ground, and waited for his breathing to ease. ‘If you’d look into your heart, you’d see we’re not on opposite sides.’
‘But we are,’ Rebus said determinedly.
‘If this ever became public, there’d be more than a scandal — there’d be a crisis. Trust would be lost, overseas investors and corporations would turn away from Scotland. Don’t tell me you want that.’
Rebus thought of Aidan Dalgety, busying himself with an endless wall — his only answer to frustration and anger. ‘None of it’s worth a single human life,’ he said quietly.
‘I think it is,’ Hunter said. ‘I really do think it is.’
Rebus turned to walk away.
‘Inspector? I’d like you to talk with some people.’
It was the invitation Rebus had been waiting for. ‘When?’
‘Tonight if at all possible. I’ll phone you with the details.’
‘I’ll be at St Leonard’s till six,’ Rebus said, leaving the old man to his view.
But Rebus couldn’t face the police station, so went home instead.
And found, slowly but with growing confidence, that his flat had been broken into in his absence. It was a clean, meticulous job. There were no signs of forced entry, nothing had been taken, almost nothing looked out of place. But his books had been moved. He had them in what looked like unplanned towers, but were actually the order in which he’d bought them and intended to read them. One of the towers had been knocked over and put back up again out of order. His drawers had been closed, too, though he always left them open. And his record collection had been rifled — as if he could hide sacks of shredded paper inside album sleeves …
He sat down with a glass of whisky and tried not to think any thoughts. If he thought, he might not act. He might drop out, like Dalgety, and let them get on with it. He loathed Sir lain Hunter for the way he used people. But then Paul Duggan used people too, if it came down to it. Kirstie, too, had used and abused her friends. Everybody used someone. The difference was, Sir Iain and his kind had everything — heart, soul, silver and gold — only nobody knew it, never even gave it a thought.
What was more, probably nobody cared.
His phone rang at seven.
‘I did try St Leonard’s,’ Sir Iain said. ‘They told me you’d not been back this afternoon.’
‘Don’t worry, your friends had left before I got back.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing, forget it. But hear this: Gillespie’s files are in a safe place, and I mean safe.’
‘You’re not making much sense, Inspector.’
‘Is that for the benefit of anyone listening in?’
‘I only called to remind you of our meeting. Nine tonight, would that suit?’
‘Let me just check my social calendar.’
‘You know Gyle Park West?’
‘I know it.’
‘The PanoTech factory. You’ll be expected at nine.’
37
PanoTech had won awards for the design of its Gyle Park West factory, with its automated shopfloor delivery system (a series of robot fork-lifts on a network of rails), and its bulbous shape with optimised interior light. The reception area was chrome and grey metal with a black rubberised floor.
There was a security guard on the desk, but Rebus was expected. As he walked through the automatic doors, an automatic voice telling him he was entering a ‘Positively No Smoking Zone’, he saw Sir Iain Hunter standing by a display case. There was a sheet over the case, but Sir Iain had lifted it, the better to inspect the model beneath.
‘The new LABarum building,’ he explained. ‘They’ll start construction in the spring.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘New jobs, Inspector.’
‘And another feather in your cap. What’ll it be this time — Lord Hunter of Ruthie?’
Sir Iain’s smile evaporated. ‘They’re waiting for us in the boardroom.’
They took a bright elevator to the third and top floor, and emerged into a compact hallway with three doors off. Sir lain pressed four numbers on a wall console, and pushed open one of the doors. Inside, three men were waiting, standing by the window. A light airplane was taking off from Turnhouse, so close you could almost see the exhausted executives inside.
Rebus looked at Haldayne first, then at J Joseph Simpson, and finally at Robbie Mathieson. ‘The gang’s all here,’ he commented.
‘That’s a cheap shot.’ Mathieson came forward to take Rebus’s hand. He was wearing an expensive suit, but showed he’d put aside the day’s cares by having shed his tie and undone the top button of his shirt.
‘Good of you to come,’ he told Rebus, with what some people would have taken for sincerity.
‘Good of you to ask me,’ Rebus said, playing the game.
Mathieson waved a hand around the room. It had cream walls, some blown-up photos of computer chips, and a dozen framed awards for export, industry and achievement. There was a large oval table placed centrally, black like the floor. ‘I have this place swept for bugs once a week, Inspector. Industrial espionage is a constant threat. Unfortunately, this meeting was arranged at short notice …’
‘So?’
‘So I don’t have any of the relevant devices to hand. How can I be sure you’re not bugged?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
Mathieson tried to look embarrassed. It was just an act. ‘I’d like you to remove your clothes.’
‘Nobody said it was going to be that sort of party.’
Mathieson smiled, but angled his head, expecting compliance.
‘Anyone want to join me?’ Rebus said, removing his jacket.
Sir Iain Hunter laughed.
Rebus studied the four men as he stripped. Simpson looked the most ill at ease; probably because he was the least of the group. Haldayne had seated himself at the table and was toying with a fat chrome pen, as if already bored with proceedings. Mathieson stood by the window, averting his eyes from the disrobing. But Sir Iain stood fast and watched.
Rebus got down to underpants and socks.
‘Thank you,’ Mathieson said. ‘Please get dressed again, and I apologise for putting you through that.’ He was using his business voice, deep and confident, the American burr touched with Scots inflexions. ‘Let’s all sit down.’
Simpson hadn’t even reached his chair before he started blurting out that he didn’t know what he was doing here, it was all such a long time ago …
‘You’re here, Joe,’ Mathieson reminded him firmly, ‘because you broke the law of the land. We all did.’