“More of an open invitation,” Rebus said, sniffing the contents of the wrap he’d just opened. “Wonder if he likes chicken tikka…”

Mungo did indeed, and demolished the gift in two huge bites while Rebus and Wylie examined the photographs.

“You work fast,” Rebus said by way of thanks.

“What are we looking at?” Ellen Wylie asked.

“Friday night,” Rebus explained, “a dinner at the castle.”

“Ben Webster’s suicide?”

Rebus nodded. “That’s him there,” he said, tapping one of the faces. Mungo had been as good as his word: not just his own snatched shots of the motorcade and its passengers, but copies of the official portraits. Lots of well-dressed smiling men shaking hands with other well-dressed smiling men. Rebus recognized only a few: the foreign secretary, defense secretary, Ben Webster, Richard Pennen…

“How did you get these?” Rebus asked.

“Openly available to the media-just the sort of PR opportunity the politicos like.”

“Got any names to put to the faces?”

“That’s a job for a sub-editor,” the photographer said, swallowing the last of the wrap. “But I dug out what I could.” He reached into his bag and pulled out sheets of paper.

“Thanks,” Rebus said. “I’ve probably already seen them…”

“But I haven’t,” Wylie said, taking them from Mungo. Rebus was more interested in the photos from the dinner.

“I didn’t realize Corbyn was there,” he mused.

“Who’s he when he’s at home?” Mungo asked.

“Our esteemed chief constable.”

Mungo looked to where Rebus was pointing. “Didn’t stay long,” he said, sifting through his own prints. “Here he is leaving again. I was just packing up…”

“So how long was that after it all kicked off?”

“Not even half an hour. I’d been biding my time in case of latecomers.”

Richard Pennen hadn’t made it into any of the official portraits, but Mungo had snapped his car as it entered the compound, Pennen caught unawares, mouth agape…

“It says here,” Ellen Wylie piped up, “Ben Webster helped try to negotiate a truce in Sierra Leone. Also visited Iraq, Afghanistan, and East Timor.”

“Racked up a few air miles,” Mungo commented.

“And liked a bit of adventure,” she added, turning a page. “I didn’t realize his sister was a cop.”

Rebus nodded. “Met her a few days back.” He paused for a moment. “Funeral’s tomorrow, I think. I was supposed to be calling her…” Then he went back to studying the official photographs. They’d all been posed, leaving little for him to glean: no tête-à-têtes caught in the background; nothing these powerful men didn’t want the world to see. Just like Mungo said: a PR exercise. Rebus picked up the phone and called Mairie on her cell.

“Any chance you could drop in to Gayfield?” he asked her. He could hear the clacking of her keyboard.

“Need to polish this off first.”

“Half an hour?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“There’s a Mars Bar riding on it.” Wylie’s face showed her displea sure. Rebus ended the call and watched Wylie unwrap the chocolate and bite into it.

“Bang goes my bribe,” Rebus told her.

“I’ll leave these with you,” Mungo was saying, brushing flour from his fingers. “They’re yours to keep anyway-but not for publication.”

“Our eyes only,” Rebus agreed. He spread out the photos of the various backseat passengers. Most were blurred, the result of vehicles refusing to slow for the photographer. A few of the foreign dignitaries were smiling, however, perhaps pleased to be noticed.

“And can you give these to Siobhan?” Mungo added, handing over a large envelope. Rebus nodded and asked what they were. “The Princes Street demonstration. She was interested in the woman on the edge of the crowd. I’ve managed to zoom in a little.”

Rebus opened the envelope. The young woman with braided hair held her own camera to her face. Santal, was that what she was called? Meaning sandalwood. Rebus wondered if Siobhan had run the name past Operation Sorbus. The face seemed focused on its job, the mouth a thin line of concentration. Dedicated; maybe a professional. In other snaps, she was holding the camera away from her, looking to left and right. As if on the lookout for something. Totally uninterested in the array of riot shields. Not scared of the flying debris. Not excited or in awe.

Just doing her job.

“I’ll see she gets them,” Rebus told Mungo as the photographer strapped his bag shut. “And thanks for these. I owe you.”

Mungo nodded slowly. “Maybe a tip-off, next time you’re first at a scene?”

“Seldom happens, son,” Rebus warned him. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”

Mungo shook both officers’ hands. Wylie watched him leave. “You’ll keep him in mind?” she echoed.

“Bugger is, Ellen, at my time of life the memory’s not what it was.” Rebus reached for the noodles, only to find they’d gone cold.

Good as her word, Mairie Henderson turned up within the half hour, her look turning sour as she saw the Mars Bar wrapper on the desk.

“Don’t blame me,” Rebus apologized, holding up his hands.

“Thought you might like to see this,” she said, unfolding a printout of the next morning’s front page. “We got lucky: no big stories.”

“Police Probe G8 Murder Mystery.” Plus photos of the Clootie Well and Gleneagles Hotel. Rebus didn’t bother reading the text.

“What was it you were just saying to Mungo?” Wylie teased.

Rebus ignored her, focusing instead on the dignitaries. “Care to enlighten me?” he asked Mairie. She took a deep breath and started reeling off names. Government ministers from countries as diverse as South Africa, China, and Mexico. Most had trade or economic portfolios, and when Mairie wasn’t sure, she placed a call to one of the paper’s pundits, who set her straight.

“So we can assume they were talking about trade or aid?” Rebus asked. “In which case what was Richard Pennen doing there? Or our own defense minister, come to that?”

“You can trade in weapons, too,” Mairie reminded him.

“And the chief constable?”

She shrugged. “Probably invited as a courtesy. This man here…” She tapped one of the portraits. “He’s Mr. Genetic Modification. I’ve seen him on TV, arguing with the environmentalists.”

“We’re selling genetics to Mexico?” Rebus wondered. Mairie shrugged again.

“You really think they’re covering something up?”

“Why would they do that?” Rebus asked, as though surprised by her question.

“Because they can?” Ellen Wylie suggested.

“These men are cleverer than that. Pennen’s not the only businessman on display.” She pointed to two other faces. “Banking and airlines.”

“They got the VIPs out of there in a hurry,” Rebus said, “once Webster’s body was discovered.”

“Standard procedure, I’d think,” Mairie answered.

Rebus slumped into the nearest chair. “Pennen doesn’t want us sticking our oars in, and Steelforth’s been trying to give me a good smack. What does that tell you?”

“That any publicity is bad publicity…when you’re trying to trade with some governments.”

“I like this guy,” Wylie said, coming to the end of the Webster notes. “I’m sorry now he’s dead.” She looked at Rebus. “You going to the funeral?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Another chance to rub Pennen and Special Branch the wrong way?” Mairie guessed.

“Paying my respects,” Rebus countered, “and telling his sister that we’re getting nowhere.” He’d picked up one of Mungo’s close-ups from Princes Street Gardens. Mairie was looking at them, too.

“Way I hear it,” she said, “you guys went over the top.”

“We went in hard,” Wylie said, sounding prickly.

“Few dozen hotheads versus a few hundred riot police.”

“And who is it gives them the oxygen of publicity?” Wylie sounded ready for the fight.

“You and your billy clubs,” Mairie countered. “If there was nothing to report, we wouldn’t report it.”

“But it’s the way the truth can be twisted…” Wylie realized that they had lost Rebus. He was staring at one photograph in particular, eyes narrowed. “John?” she said. When the name had no effect, she nudged him. “Care to back me up here?”