‘Juniper Green!’ she said, pointing at the signpost, delighted to have something to show him. Rebus attempted a smile. There were plenty of golf courses around the city. He couldn’t hope to take her to every one of them, not in a week never mind an hour. He stopped for a few moments by the side of a field. Candice got out, so he followed, lit a cigarette. There were two stone gateposts next to the road, but no sign of a gate between them, or any sort of path behind them. Once there might have been a track, and a house at the end of it. Atop one of the pillars sat the badly worn representation of a bull. Candice pointed towards the ground behind the other pillar, where another lump of carved stone lay, half-covered by weeds and grass.

‘Looks like a serpent,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe a dragon.’ He looked at her. ‘It’ll all mean something to somebody.’

She looked back at him blankly. He saw Sammy’s features, reminded himself that he wanted to help her. He was in danger of letting that slip, of focusing on how she might help them get to Telford.

Back in the car, he branched off towards Livingston, intending to head for Ratho and from there back into town. Then he noticed that Candice had turned to look out of the back window.

‘What 1S It?’

She came out with a stream of words, her tone uncertain. Rebus turned the car anyway, and drove slowly back the way they’d just come. He stopped at the side of the road, opposite a low dry-stone wall, beyond which lay the undulations of a golf course.

‘Recognise it?’

She mumbled more words. Rebus pointed. ‘Here? Yes?’

She turned to him, said something which sounded apologetic.

‘It’s okay,’ he told her. ‘Let’s take a closer look anyway.’

He drove to where a vast iron double-gate stood open. A sign to one side read POYNTINGHAME GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB. Beneath it: ‘Bar Lunches and A La Carte, Visitors Welcome’. As Rebus drove through the gates, Candice started nodding again, and when an oversized Georgian house came into view she almost bounced in her seat, slapping her hands against her thighs.

‘I think I get the picture,’ Rebus said.

He parked outside the main entrance, squeezing between a Volvo estate and a low-slung Toyota. Out on the course, three men were finishing their round. As the final putt went in, hands went to wallets and money changed hands.

Two things Rebus knew about golf: one, to some people it was a religion; two, a lot of players liked a bet. They’d bet on final tally, each hole, even every shot if they could.

And didn’t the Japanese have a passion for gambling? He took Candice’s arm as he escorted her into the main building. Piano music from the bar. Panatella smoke and oakpanelling. Huge portraits of self-important unknowns. A few old wooden putters, framed behind glass. A poster advertised a Halloween dinner-dance for that evening. Rebus walked up to reception, explained who he was and what he wanted. The receptionist made a phone call, then led them to the Chief Executive’s office.