‘What about it?’

‘For a start, who was present?’

Having to use his memory seemed to sober Jack up. Not that he could add much to what Barney Byars had already told Rebus. It was a boozy, sit-around-and-chat evening, followed by a morning hike up some nearby mountain, lunch – at the Heather Hoose – and then home. Jack’s only regret was inviting Helen Greig to go.

‘I’m not sure she saw any of us in a decent light. Barney Byars was doing elephant impressions, you know, where you pull out your trouser pockets and –’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Well, Helen took it in good enough part, but all the same . . .’

‘Nice girl, isn’t she?’

‘The sort my mum would have wanted me to marry.’

Mine too, thought Rebus. The whisky wasn’t just loosening Jack’s tongue, it was also loosening his accent. The polish was fading fast, leaving the raw wood of towns like Kirkcaldy, Leven, Methil.

‘This party was a couple of weeks ago, wasn’t it?’

‘Three weeks ago. We were back here five days when Liz decided she needed a holiday. Packed a case and off she went. Never saw her again . . .’ He raised a fist and punched the soft leather of the sofa, making hardly a sound and no discernible mark. ‘Why are they doing this to me? I’m the best MP this constituency’s ever had. Don’t take my word for it. Go out and talk to them. Go to a mining village or a farm or a factory or a fucking afternoon tea party. They tell me the same thing: well done, Gregor, keep up the good work.’ He was on his feet again now, feet holding their ground but the rest of the body in motion. ‘Keep up the good work, the hard work. Hard work! It bloody is hard work, I can tell you.’ His voice was rising steadily. ‘Worked my balls off for them! Now somebody’s trying to piss on my whole life from a very high place. Why me? Why me? Liz and me . . . Liz . . .’

Urquhart tapped twice before putting his head round the door. ‘Everything all right?’

Jack put on a grotesque mask of a smile. ‘Everything’s fine, Ian. Listening behind the door, are you? Good, wouldn’t want you to miss a word, would we?’

Urquhart glanced at Rebus. Rebus nodded: everything’s okay in here, really it is. Urquhart retreated and closed the door. Gregor Jack collapsed into the sofa. ‘I’m making such a mess of everything,’ he said, rubbing his face with his hand. ‘Ian’s such a good friend . . .’

Ah yes, friends.

‘I believe,’ said Rebus, ‘that you haven’t just been receiving anonymous calls.’

‘What?’

‘Someone said something about letters, too.’

‘Oh . . . oh yes, letters. Crank letters.’

‘Do you still have them?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Not worth keeping.’

‘Did you let anyone see them?’

‘Not worth reading.’

‘What exactly was in them, Mr Jack?’