‘Water, Inspector?’ The secretary pushed a jug towards him.

‘Thank you.’ Rebus adulterated the whisky. The secretary was looking around him, as though surrounded by bodies.

‘Hector’s not here. I thought he was.’

Bill the Barman chipped in: ‘He’ll be back in a sec.’

‘Gone for the proverbial jimmy,’ added the drinker of milk, while Rebus pondered which proverb he meant.

‘Ah, here he comes.’

Rebus had imagined a large Hector, curly hair, distended gut, tangerine V-neck. But this man was small and had thinning, Brylcreemed black hair. He, too, was in his forties, and peered at the world through thick-lensed, thick-rimmed glasses. His mouth was set in a defiance at odds with his appearance, and he examined Rebus thoroughly while the introductions were made.

‘How do you do?’ he said, slipping a small, damp hand into Rebus’s paw. It was like shaking hands with a well-brought-up child. His V-neck was camel-coloured but expensive-looking. Cashmere . . .?

‘Inspector Rebus,’ the secretary said, ‘is wondering about a particular round which was either played or was not played a couple of Wednesdays ago.’

‘Yes.’

‘I told him you’re the brains of the set-up, Hector.’

‘Yes.’

The secretary seemed to be struggling. ‘We thought maybe you’d –’

But Hector now had enough information, and had digested it. ‘First thing to do,’ he said, ‘is look at the bookings. They may not tell us the whole story, but they’re the place to start. Who was playing?’

The question was directed at Rebus. ‘Two players, sir,’ he replied. ‘A Mr Ronald Steele and a Mr Gregor Jack.’

Hector glanced behind Rebus to where the two drinkers sat at the bar. The room hadn’t exactly grown quieter, but there was a palpable change of atmosphere. The drinker of milk spoke first.

‘Those two!’

Rebus turned to him. ‘Yes, sir, those two. How do you mean?’

But it was Hector’s place to answer. ‘Messrs Jack and Steele have a regular booking. Mr Jack was an MP, you know.’

‘He still is, sir, so far as I know.’

‘Not for much longer,’ muttered the milk-drinker’s companion.

‘I’m not aware that Mr Jack has committed any crime.’

‘I should think not,’ snapped Hector.

‘He’s still a royal pain in the arse,’ commented the milk-drinker.

‘How’s that, sir?’

‘Books and never shows. Him and his cronies.’ Rebus became aware that this was a long-festering sore, and that the man’s words were directed more towards the club secretary and Hector than towards him. ‘Gets away with it, too. Just because he’s an MP.’

‘Mr Jack has been warned,’ Hector said.

‘Reprimanded,’ corrected the club secretary. The milk-drinker just screwed up his face.

‘You kissed his bloody arse and you know it.’

‘Now then, Colin,’ said Bill and the Barman, ‘no need to –’

‘It’s about time somebody said it out loud!’

‘Hear hear,’ said the beer-drinker. ‘Colin’s right.’

An argument wasn’t much use to Rebus. ‘Do I take it,’ he said, ‘that Mr Jack and Mr Steele had a regular booking, but then wouldn’t turn up?’