‘That’s right,’ said Rebus, resting against the edge of the desk. There was a chair for him, but he was stiff after the drive. ‘I was wondering why he visited. It’s unusual after all, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a first,’ corrected Macmillan. ‘They should put up a plaque. When I saw him come in, I thought he must be here to open an extension or something. But no, he just walked right up to me . . .’ His hands were moving now, carving air, his eyes held by the movements they made. ‘Walked right up to me, and he said . . . he said, “Hello, Mack.” Just like that. Like we’d seen one another the day before, like we saw one another every day.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Old friends. Yes, old friends . . . old friendships. We’d always be friends, he told me. We couldn’t not be friends. We went back all the way. Yes, all the way back . . . All of us. Suey and Gowk, Beggar and me, Bilbo, Tampon, Sexton Blake . . . Friends are important, that’s what he said. I told him about Gowk, about how she visited sometimes . . . about the money she gives this place . . . He didn’t know about any of that. He was interested. He works too hard though, you can see that. He doesn’t look healthy any more. Not enough sunlight. Have you ever seen the House of Commons? Hardly any windows. They work away in there like moles . . .’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘I asked him why he never answered my letters. Do you know what he said? He said he never even received them! He said he’d take it up with the post office, but I know who it is.’ He turned to Forster. ‘It’s you, Dr Forster. You’re not letting out any of my mail. You’re steaming off the stamps and using them for yourself! Well, be warned, Gregor Jack MP knows all about it now. Something’ll be done now.’ He remembered something and turned quickly to Rebus. ‘Did you touch the earth for me?’

Rebus nodded. ‘I touched the earth for you.’

Macmillan nodded too, satisfied. ‘How did it feel, Inspector?’

‘It felt fine. Funny, it’s something I’ve always taken for granted –’

‘Never take anything for granted, Inspector,’ said Macmillan. He was calming a little. All the same, you could see him fighting against the soporifics in his bloodstream, fighting for the right to get angry, to get . . . to get mad. ‘I asked him about Liz,’ he said. ‘He told me she’s the same as ever. But I didn’t believe that. I’m sure their marriage is in trouble. In-com-pat-ible. My wife and I were just the same . . .’ His voice trailed off. He swallowed, laid his hands flat against his knees again and studied them. ‘Liz was never one of The Pack. He should have married Gowk, only Kinnoul got to her first.’ He looked up. ‘Now there’s a man who needs treatment. If Gowk knew what she was about, she’d have him see a psychiatrist. All those roles he’s played . . . bound to have an effect, aren’t they? I’ll tell Gowk next time I see her. I haven’t seen her for a while . . .’