By this time, Rebus had parked his own car further along the road. To one side of the road was a line of perhaps half a dozen houses, none of them spectacular in terms of design or size, but wonderfully isolated by those high walls, long driveways, and (doubtless) vast back gardens. The other side of the road was pasture. Bemused cows and fat-looking sheep. Some sizeable lambs, their voices not yet quite broken. The view ended at some steepish hills, three or so miles distant. It was nice. Even the troglodyte Rebus could appreciate that.

Which was perhaps why the reporters left a more bitter taste than usual beneath his tongue. He stood behind them, an observer. The house was dark-stoned, reddish from this distance. A two-storey construction, probably built in the early 1900s. Tacked on to it at one side was a large garage, and in front of the house at the top of the drive sat a white Saab, one of the 9000 series. Sturdy and reliable, not cheap but not show-offish. Distinctive though: a car of distinction.

A youngish man, early thirties, a sneer creasing his face, was unlocking the gates just wide enough so that a younger woman, out of her teens but trying to look ten years older, could hand a silver tray to the reporters. She spoke louder than she needed to.

‘Gregor thought you might like some tea. There may not be enough cups, you’ll just have to share. There are biscuits in the tin. No ginger nuts, I’m afraid. We’ve run out.’

There were smiles at this, nods of appreciation. But throughout questions were being fired off.

‘Any chance of a word with Mr Jack?’

‘Can we expect a statement?’

‘How’s he taking it?’

‘Is Mrs Jack in the house?’

‘Any chance of a word?’

‘Ian, is he going to be saying anything?’

This last question was directed at the sneering man, who now held up one hand for silence. He waited patiently, and the silence came. Then:

‘No comment,’ he said. And with that he began to close the gates. Rebus pushed through the good-natured crush until he was face to face with Mr Sneer.

‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said. ‘Could I have a word with Mr Jack?’

Mr Sneer and Miss Teatray seemed highly suspicious, even when they accepted and examined Rebus’s ID. Fair enough: he’d known of reporters who’d try a stunt just like this, fake ID and all. But eventually there was a curt nod, and the gates opened again wide enough to allow him to squeeze through. The gates were shut again, locked. With Rebus on the inside.

He had a sudden thought: What the hell am I doing? The answer was: He wasn’t sure. Something about the scene at the gates had made him want to be on the other side of those gates. Well, here he was. Being led back up the gravel driveway, towards the large car, the larger house behind it, and the garage off to the side. Being led towards Gregor Jack MP, with whom, apparently, he wanted a word.