‘Oh,’ said Helen Greig, ‘and there’s another policeman here. He was at the back door . . .’

The door opened to its full extent, and Brian Holmes walked into the room. Awkwardly, it seemed to Rebus. It struck him that Holmes was awkward in the presence of Gregor Jack MP.

‘Thank you, Helen. See you tomorrow.’

‘You’re at Westminster tomorrow, Gregor.’

‘God, so I am. Right, see you the day after.’

Helen Greig left, and Rebus introduced Jack to Brian Holmes. Holmes still seemed unnaturally awkward. What the hell was the matter? It couldn’t just be Jack could it? Then Holmes cleared his throat. He was looking at his superior, avoiding eye contact with the MP altogether.

‘Sir, er . . . there’s something maybe you should see. Round the back. In the dustbin. I had some rubbish in my pockets and I thought I’d get rid of it, and I happened to lift the lid off the bin . . .’

Gregor Jack’s face turned stark white.

‘Right,’ said Rebus briskly, ‘lead the way, Brian.’ He made a sweeping motion with his arm. ‘After you, Mr Jack.’

The back of the house was well lit. Two sturdy black plastic bins sat beside a bushy rhododendron. Each bin had attached inside it a black plastic refuse bag. Holmes lifted the lid off the left-hand bin and held it open so that Rebus could peer inside. He was staring at a flattened cornflake packet and the wrapping from some biscuits.

‘Beneath,’ Holmes stated simply. Rebus lifted the cornflake packet. It had been concealing a little treasure chest. Two video cassettes, their casings broken, tape spewing from them . . . a packet of photographs . . . two small gold-coloured vibrators . . . two pairs of flimsy-looking handcuffs . . . and clothing, body-stockings, knickers with zips. Rebus couldn’t help wondering what the hacks would have done if they’d found this lot first . . .

‘I can explain,’ said Jack brokenly.

‘You don’t have to, sir. It’s none of our business.’ Rebus said this in such a way that his meaning was clear: it might not be our business, but you’d better tell us anyway.

‘I . . . I panicked. No, not really a panic. It’s just, what with that story about the brothel, and now Liz is off somewhere . . . and I knew you were on your way . . . I just wanted rid of the lot of it.’ He was perspiring. ‘I mean, I know it must look strange, that’s precisely why I wanted rid of it all. Not my stuff, you see, it’s Liz’s. Her friends . . . the parties they have . . . well, I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression.’

Or the right impression, thought Rebus. He picked up the packet of photographs, which just happened to burst open. ‘Sorry,’ he said, making a show of gathering them up. They were polaroids, taken at a party it was true. Quite a party, by the look of it. And who was this?