'The weekly round of golf -'

'With Gregor Jack. Yes, precisely. But Vanessa thought, he'll kill me if this lot get away. So she rang the golf club, out at Braidwater.'

'I know it.'

'And they told her that Messrs Steele and Jack had cancelled.'

'Yes?'

'Well, I started to put two and two together. Steele's supposed to be playing golf every Wednesday, yet one Wednesday my colleague finds him out at the Kinnoul house, and another Wednesday there's no sign of him on the golf course. Rab Kinnoul's known to have a temper, Inspector. He's known as a very possessive man. Do you think he knows that Steele's visiting his wife when he's not there?'

Rebus's heart was racing. 'You might have a point, Chris. You might have a point.'

'But like I say, it's hardly police business, is it?'

Hardly! It was absolutely police business. Two alibis chipped into the same bunker. Was Rebus nearer the end of the course than he'd suspected? Was he playing nine holes rather than eighteen? He got up from the sofa.

'Chris, I've got to be going.' Like spokes on a bicycle wheel, turning in his head: Liz Jack, Gregor Jack, Rab Kinnoul, Cath Kinnoul, Ronald Steele, Ian Urquhart, Helen Greig, Andrew Macmillan, Barney Byars, Louise Patterson-Scott, Julian Kaymer, Jamie Kilpatrick, William Glass. Like spokes on a bicycle wheel.

'Inspector Rebus?'

He paused by the door. 'What?'

Kemp pointed to the sofa. 'Don't forget to take your books with you.'

Rebus stared at them as though seeing them for the first time. 'Right,' he said, heading back towards the sofa. 'By the way,' he said, picking up the bundle, 'I know why Steele's called Suey.' Then he winked. 'Remind me to tell you about it some time, when this is all over…'

He returned to the station, intending to share some of what he knew with his superiors. But Brian Holmes stopped him outside the Chief Superintendent's door.

'I wouldn't do that.'

Rebus, his fist raised high, ready to knock, paused. 'Why not?' he asked, every bit as quietly as Holmes himself had spoken.

'Mrs Jack's father's in there.'

Sir Hugh Ferrie! Rebus lowered his hand carefully, then began backing away from the door. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into a discussion with Ferrie. Why haven't you found… what are you doing about… when will you…? No, life was too short, and the hours too long.

'Thanks, Brian. I owe you one. Who else is in there?'

'Just the Farmer and the Fart.'

'Best leave them to it, eh?' They moved a safe distance from the door. 'That list of cars you made up was pretty comprehensive. Well done.'

'Thanks. Lauderdale never told me exactly what it was -'

'Anything else happening?'

'What? No, quiet as the grave. Oh, Nell thinks she might be pregnant.'

'What?'

Holmes gave a bemused smile. 'We're not sure yet…'

'Were you… you know, expecting it?'

The smiled stayed. 'Expect the unexpected, as they say.'

Rebus whistled. 'How does she feel about it?'

'I think she's holding back on the feelings till we know one way or the other.'

'What about you?'

'Me? If it's a boy he'll be called Stuart and grow up to be a doctor and a Scottish international.'

Rebus laughed. 'And if it's a girl?'

'Katherine, actress.'

I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.'

'Thanks. Oh, and another bit of news – Pond's back.'

Tom Pond?'

The very one. Back from across the pond. We reached him this morning. I thought I'd go have a talk with him, unless you want to?'

Rebus shook his head. 'He's all yours, Brian, for what he's worth. Right now, he's about the only bugger I think is in the clear. Him and Macmillan and Mr Glass.'

'Have you seen the interview transcript?'

'No.'

'Well, I know you and Chief Inspector Lauderdale don't always get on, but I'll say this for him, he's sharp.'

'A Glass-cutter, you might say?'

Holmes sighed. 'I might, but you always seem to beat me to the pun.'

Edinburgh was surrounded by golf courses catering to every taste and presenting every possible degree of difficulty. There were links courses, where the wind was as likely to blow your ball backwards as forwards. And there were hilly courses, all slope and gully, with greens and flags positioned on this or that handkerchief-sized plateau. The Braidwater course belonged to the latter category. Players made the majority of their shots trusting either to instinct or fortune, since the flag would often be hidden from view behind a rise or the brow of a hill. A cruel course designer would have tucked sand traps just the other side of these obstacles, and indeed a cruel course designer had.

People who didn't know the course often started their round with high hopes of a spot of exercise and fresh air, but finished with high blood pressure and the dire need of a couple of drams. The club house comprised two contrasting sections. There was the original building, old and solid and grey, but to which had been added an oversized extension of breeze block and pebbledash. The old building housed committee rooms, offices and the like, but the bar was in the new building. The club secretary led Rebus into the bar, where he thought one of the committee members might be found.

The bar itself was on the first floor. One wall was all window, looking out over the eighteenth green and beyond to the rolling course itself. On another wall were framed photos, rolls of honour, mock-parchment scrolls and a pair of very old putters looking like emaciated crossbones. The club's trophies – the small trophies – were arrayed on a shelf above the bar. The larger, the more ancient, the more valuable trophies were kept in the committee room in the old building. Rebus knew this because some of them had been stolen three years before, and he'd been one of the investigating officers. They had been recovered, too, though utterly by accident, found lying in an open suitcase by officers called out to a domestic.

The club secretary remembered Rebus though. 'Can't recall the name,' he'd said, 'but I know the face.' He showed Rebus the new alarm system and the toughened glass case the trophies were kept in. Rebus hadn't the heart to tell him that even an amateur burglar could still be in and out of the place in two minutes flat.

'What will you have to drink, Inspector?'

'I'll have a small whisky, if it's no trouble.'

'No trouble at all.'

The bar wasn't exactly busy. A late-afternoon hiatus, as the secretary had explained. Those who played in the afternoon usually liked to get started before three, while those who came for an early evening round arrived around five thirty.

Two men in identical yellow V-neck pullovers sat at a table by the window and stared out in silence, sipping from time to time at identical bloody marys. Two more men sat at the bar, one with a flat-looking half pint of beer, the other with what looked suspiciously like a glass of milk. They were all in their forties, or slightly older; all my contemporaries, thought Rebus.

'Bill here could tell you a few stories, Inspector,' the club secretary said, nodding towards the barman. Bill nodded back, half in greeting, half in agreement. His own V-neck was cherry red, and did nothing to hide his bulging stomach. He didn't look like a professional barman, but took a slow, conspicuous pride in the job. Rebus reckoned him for just another member, doing his stint of duty.

Nobody had twitched at the secretary's mention of 'Inspector'. These men were law-abiding; or, if not, they were certainly law-abetting. They believed in law and order and that criminals should be punished. They just didn't think fiddling your tax was a criminal act. They looked… secure. They thought of themselves as secure. But Rebus knew he held the skeleton keys.

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