“I wasn’t-my company was.”

“What’s your interest in debt relief, sir?”

But Pennen’s focus was on Rebus. “I was told I might be seeing you.”

“Nice to have Commander Steelforth on your team…”

Pennen looked Rebus up and down. “His description didn’t do you justice, Inspector.”

“Still, it’s nice that he took the trouble.” Rebus could have added because it means I’ve got him rattled.

“You’re aware, of course, of how much flak you might get if I were to report this intrusion?”

“We’re just enjoying a cup of tea, sir,” Rebus said. “Far as I’m aware, you’re the one doing the intruding.”

Pennen smiled again. “Nicely put.” He turned to Mairie. “Ben Webster was a fine MP and PPS, Miss Henderson, and scrupulous with it. As you know, any gifts in kind received from my company would be listed in members’ interests.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

Pennen’s jawline twitched. He took a deep breath. “Pennen Industries does most of its business overseas-get your economics editor to fill you in. You’ll see what a major exporter we’ve become.”

“Of arms,” Mairie stated.

“Of technology,” Pennen countered. “What’s more, we put money back into some of the poorest nations. That’s why Ben Webster was involved.” He turned his gaze back to Rebus. “No cover-up, Inspector. Just David Steelforth doing his job. A lot of contracts could get signed during these next few days…huge projects green-lighted. Contacts made, and jobs saved as a result. Not the sort of feel-good story our media seem to be interested in. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He turned away, and Rebus was gratified to see that there was a blob of something on the heel of one black leather brogue. No expert, Rebus would still have bet heavily on it being peacock shit.

Mairie slumped onto a sofa, which creaked beneath her, as if unused to such mistreatment.

“Bloody hell,” she said, pouring out some tea. Rebus could smell the peppermint. He poured himself some coffee from the small carafe.

“Remind me,” he said, “how much is this whole thing costing?”

“The G8?” She waited till he’d nodded, puffed out her cheeks as she tried to remember. “A hundred and fifty?”

“As in millions?”

“As in millions.”

“And all so businessmen like Mr. Pennen can keep plying their trade.”

“There might be a bit more to it than that.” Mairie was smiling. “But you’re right in a sense: the decisions have already been made.”

“So what’s Gleneagles all about but a few nice dinners and some handshakes for the cameras.”

“Putting Scotland on the map?” she offered.

“Aye, right.” Rebus finished his coffee. “Maybe we should stay for lunch, see if we can rile Pennen more than we already have.”

“Sure you can afford it?”

Rebus looked around him. “Which reminds me, that flunky’s not come back with my change.”

“Change?” Mairie gave a laugh. Rebus caught her meaning and decided he was going to drain the carafe to its last drop.

According to the TV news, central Edinburgh was a war zone.

Half past two on a Monday afternoon. Normally, there would have been shoppers in Princes Street, laden with purchases; people in the adjacent gardens, enjoying a promenade or resting on one of the commemorative benches.

But not today.

The newsroom cut to protests at the Faslane Naval Base, home to Britain ’s four Trident-class submarines. The place was under siege from about two thousand demonstrators. Police in Fife had been handed control of the Forth Road Bridge for the first time in its history. Cars heading north were being stopped and searched. Roads out of the capital had been blocked by sit-down protests. There had been scuffles near the Peace Camp in Stirling.

And a riot was kicking off in Princes Street. Baton-wielding police making their presence felt. They carried circular shields of a kind Siobhan hadn’t seen before. The area around Canning Street was still causing trouble, marchers still bringing traffic to a halt on the Western Approach. The studio cut back to Princes Street. The protesters seemed to be outnumbered not only by police but by cameras, too. A lot of pushing on both sides.

“They’re trying to start a fight,” Eric Bain said. He’d come to Gayfield to show her what little he’d been able to find so far.

“It could have waited till after you’d seen Mrs. Jensen,” she’d told him, to which all he’d done was shrug.

They were alone in the CID office. “See what they’re doing?” Bain asked, pointing at the screen. “A rioter wades in, then backs off. The nearest cop raises his billy club, and the papers get a photo of him striking out at some poor guy who’s first in line. Meantime, the real troublemaker is tucked away somewhere behind, ready to do the same thing again.”

Siobhan nodded. “Makes it look like we’re being heavy-handed.”

“Which is what the rioters want.” He folded his arms. “They’ve learned a few tricks since Genoa.”

“But so have we,” Siobhan said. “Containment, for one thing. That’s four hours now the group in Canning Street have been corralled.”

Back in the studio, one of the presenters had a live feed to Midge Ure. He was telling the troublemakers to go home.

“Shame none of them are watching,” Bain commented.

“Are you going to speak with Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan hinted.

“Yes, boss. How hard should I push her?”

“I’ve already warned we could set her for obstruction. Remind her of that.” Siobhan wrote the Jensens’ address on a sheet of her notebook, ripped it out, and handed it over. Bain’s attention was back on the TV screen. More live pictures from Princes Street. Some protesters had climbed onto the Scott Monument. Others scrambled over the railings into the gardens. Kicks were aimed at shields. Divots of earth were being thrown. Benches and trash cans were next.

“This is getting bad,” Bain muttered. The screen flickered. A new location: Torphichen Street, site of the city’s West End police station. Sticks and bottles were being hurled. “Glad we’re not stuck there” was all Bain said.

“No, we’re stuck here instead.”

He looked at her. “You’d rather be in the thick of things?”

She shrugged, stared at the screen. Someone was calling into the studio by cell phone, a shopper, trapped like so many others in the branch of British Home Stores on Princes Street.

“We’re just bystanders,” the woman was shrieking. “All we want to do is get out, but the police are treating us all the same, mothers with babies, old folk…”

“You’re saying the police are overreacting?” the journalist in the studio asked. Siobhan used the remote to change channels: Columbo on one side, Diagnosis: Murder on another, and a film on Channel 4.

“That’s Kidnapped,” Bain said. “Brilliant.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, finding another of the news channels. Same riots; different angles. The same protester she’d seen in Canning Street was still on top of his wall. He sat swinging his feet, only his eyes showing through the gap in his ski mask. He was holding a cell phone to his ear.

“That reminds me,” Bain said, “I had Rebus on the phone, asking how an out-of-service number could still be active.”

Siobhan looked at him. “Did he say why?” Bain shook his head. “So what did you tell him?”

“You can clone the SIM card, or specify outgoing calls only.” He gave a shrug. “All kinds of ways to do it.”

Siobhan nodded, eyes back on the TV screen. Bain ran a hand across the back of his neck.

“So what did you think of Molly?” he asked.

“You’re a lucky man, Eric.”

He gave a huge grin. “Pretty much my thinking.”

“But tell me,” Siobhan asked, hating herself for being led down this route, “does she always twitch so much?”

Bain’s grin melted away.

“Sorry, Eric, that was out of order.”

“She said she likes you,” he confided. “She’s not got a bad bone in her body.”