“Thanks,” Rebus said. “By the way…who’s winning?”
“It’s a tie-Tim Clark and Maarten Lafeber, fifteen under. Tim shot six under today. Monty’s nicely placed though-ten under. Be a great game tomorrow.”
Rebus thanked the guard again and put the Saab into gear. “Did you catch any of that?” he asked Siobhan.
“I know Monty means Colin Montgomerie.”
“Then you’re every bit as well informed about the royal and ancient game as I am.”
“You’ve never tried?”
He shook his head. “It’s those pastel sweaters…I could never see myself wearing one.”
As they parked and climbed out, half a dozen spectators walked past, discussing the day’s events. One wore a pink V-neck, the others yellow or pale orange or sky blue.
“See what I mean?” Rebus said. Siobhan nodded her agreement. The clubhouse was Scots baronial and called Rossdhu. There was a silver Mercedes parked up alongside, the chauffeur snoozing in the front seat. Rebus remembered him from Gleneagles-Steelforth’s designated driver.
“Cheers, Big Man,” he said, raising his eyes to the heavens.
A short, bespectacled gent with a highly developed mustache and sense of his own importance was striding out of the building toward them. All manner of laminated passes and ID cards were strung around his neck, clacking together as he moved. He barked out a word that sounded like Sekty but Rebus chose to translate as Secretary. The bony hand that shook Rebus’s was trying too hard. But at least he got a handshake; Siobhan might as well have been a shrub.
“We need to speak to Commander David Steelforth,” Rebus explained. “I doubt he’s the type to rub shoulders with the unwashed masses.”
“Steelforth?” The secretary took off his glasses and rubbed them against the sleeve of his crimson sweater. “Could he be corporate?”
“That’s his driver,” Rebus said, nodding toward the Merc.
Siobhan chipped in: “Pennen Industries?”
The secretary slipped his glasses back on, and directed his reply at Rebus. “Oh, yes, Mr. Pennen has a hospitality tent.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Probably winding down by now.”
“Mind if we check?”
The secretary’s face twitched and he told them to wait, before disappearing back into the building. Rebus looked at Siobhan, awaiting some comment.
“Officious twerp,” she obliged.
“You won’t be wanting an application form?”
“Have you seen any women since we got here?”
Rebus looked around before admitting she had a point. He turned at the sound of an electric motor. It was a golf cart, emerging from behind Rossdhu House and driven by the secretary.
“Hop on,” he told them.
“Can’t we walk?” Rebus asked.
The secretary shook his head and repeated the instruction. There were two rear-facing cushioned seats at the back of the cart.
“Lucky you’re small-boned,” Rebus told Siobhan. The secretary was ordering them to hold on tight. The machine clunked into action at a rate just above walking speed.
“Whee,” Siobhan said, managing to look underwhelmed.
“Reckon the chief constable’s a golf fan?” Rebus asked.
“Probably.”
“The luck we’ve had this week, we’ll be passing him any moment…”
But they didn’t. The course itself was home to only a few last stragglers. The stands were vacant, and the sun was setting.
“Amazing,” Siobhan was forced to admit as she stared across Loch Lomond to the mountains beyond.
“Takes me back to my youth,” Rebus told her.
“Did you come here on vacation?”
He shook his head. “But the neighbors did, and they always sent a postcard.” Swiveling round as best he could, he saw they were approaching a village of tents with its own cordon and security. White tents, piped music, and the sounds of loud conversation. The secretary slowed the cart to a stop and nodded toward one of the larger tents. It had clear plastic windows and liveried serving staff. Cham-pagne was being poured, oysters offered from silver salvers.
“Thanks for the lift,” Rebus said.
“Shall I wait…?”
Rebus shook his head. “We’ll find our own way, sir. Thanks again.”
“Lothian and Borders,” Rebus stated to the guards, opening his ID.
“Your chief constable’s in the champagne tent,” one of the guards replied helpfully. Rebus gave Siobhan a look. That kind of week…He picked up a glass of fizz and worked his way through the throng. Thought he recognized some of the faces from Prestonfield-G8 delegates; people Richard Pennen wanted to do business with. The Kenyan diplomat, Joseph Kamweze, met Rebus’s gaze but turned away quickly, pushing deeper into the crowd.
“Quite the United Nations,” Siobhan commented. Eyes were appraising her: not too many women on display. But the ones who were-well, on display summed it up: cascading hair, short, tight dresses, and fixed smiles. They would describe themselves as models rather than escorts, hired by the day to add glamour and sun-bed tan to proceedings.
“Should have smartened yourself up,” Rebus scolded Siobhan. “Bit of makeup never goes amiss.”
“Listen to Karl Lagerfeld,” she retorted. Rebus tapped her shoulder. “Our host.” He gave a nod in the direction of Richard Pennen. Same immaculate hair, glinting cuff links, heavy gold wristwatch. But something had changed. The face seemed less bronzed, the posture less confident. When Pennen laughed at something his companion was saying, he threw his head back a little too far, mouth open too wide. Faking it, obviously. His companion seemed to think so, too, and studied Pennen, wondering what to make of him. Pennen’s flunkies-one per shoulder as at Prestonfield-also looked nervous at their boss’s inability to play the game as before. Rebus thought for a moment of walking right up to Pennen and asking how things were, just for the pleasure of getting a reaction. But Siobhan had placed a hand on his arm, directing his attention elsewhere:
David Steelforth, emerging from the champagne tent, deep in conversation with Chief Constable James Corbyn.
“Bugger,” Rebus said. Then, after a deep breath: “In for a pound…”
He could feel Siobhan hesitate, and turned toward her. “Maybe you should go walk around for a few minutes.”
But she’d come to her decision, and actually led the way toward the two men.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she was saying as Rebus caught up.
“What the hell are you two doing here?” Corbyn spluttered.
“Never one to miss free bubbly,” Rebus explained, raising his glass. “Expect that’s your reasoning, too, sir.”
Corbyn’s face had reddened mightily. “I was invited.”
“Us, too, sir,” Siobhan said, “in a manner of speaking.”
“How’s that?” Steelforth asked, looking amused.
“Murder inquiry, sir,” Rebus said. “Tends to act as a VIP pass.”
“VVIP,” Siobhan corrected him.
“You’re saying Ben Webster was murdered?” Steelforth asked, eyes on Rebus.
“Not quite,” Rebus answered. “But we’ve an inkling why he died. And it seems to connect to the Clootie Well.” He shifted his gaze to Corbyn. “We can fill you in later, sir, but right now it’s Commander Steelforth we need to talk to.”
“I’m sure it can wait,” Corbyn snapped.
Rebus turned back to Steelforth, who offered another smile, this time for Corbyn’s benefit.
“I think I’d better listen to what the inspector and his colleague have to say.”
“Very well,” the chief constable relented. “Fire away.”
Rebus paused, exchanging a glance with Siobhan. Steelforth was quick to catch on. He made a show of handing his untouched glass to Corbyn.
“I’ll be right back, Chief Constable. I’m sure your officers will explain everything to you in due course…”
“They’d better,” Corbyn stressed, eyes boring into Siobhan. Steelforth patted his arm reassuringly and walked away, Rebus and Siobhan close behind. When all three reached the low white picket fence, they stopped. Steelforth faced away from the crowd, toward the course, where groundsmen were hard at work replacing divots and raking sand traps. He slid his hands into his pockets.