The Hanging Garden

The Hanging Garden by Ian Rankin Page A

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Authors: Ian Rankin
turned to look out of the back window.
    ‘What is 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 oak-panelling. 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.
    Hugh Malahide, bald and thin, mid-forties, already had a slight stammer, which intensified when Rebus asked his first question. By throwing it back at the questioner, he seemed to be playing for time.
    ‘Have we had any Japanese visitors recently? Well, we do get a few golfers.’
    ‘These men came to lunch. Maybe a fortnight, three weeks back. There were three of them, plus three or four Scottish men. Probably driving Range Rovers. The table may have been reserved in the name of Telford.’
    ‘Telford?’
    ‘Thomas Telford.’
    ‘Ah, yes …’ Malahide wasn’t enjoying this at all.
    ‘You know Mr Telford?’
    ‘In a manner of speaking.’
    Rebus leaned forward in his chair. ‘Go on.’
    ‘Well, he’s … look, the reason I seem so reticent is because we don’t want this made common knowledge.’
    ‘I understand, sir.’
    ‘Mr Telford is acting as go-between.’
    ‘Go-between?’
    ‘In the negotiations.’
    Rebus saw what Malahide was getting at. ‘The Japanese want to buy Poyntinghame?’
    ‘You understand, Inspector, I’m just the manager here. I mean, I run the day-to-day business.’
    ‘But you’re the Chief Executive.’
    ‘With no personal share in the club. The actual owners were set against selling at first. But an offer has been made, and I believe it’s a very good one. And the potential buyers … well, they’re persistent.’
    ‘Have there been any threats, Mr Malahide?’
    He looked horrified. ‘What sort of threats?’
    ‘Forget it.’
    ‘The negotiations haven’t been
hostile
, if that’s what you mean.’
    ‘So these Japanese, the ones who had lunch here … ?’
    ‘They were representing the consortium.’
    ‘The consortium being … ?’
    ‘I don’t know. The Japanese are always very secretive. Some big company or corporation, I’d guess.’
    ‘Any idea why they want Poyntinghame?’
    ‘I’ve wondered that myself.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Everyone knows the Japanese love golf. It might be a prestige thing. Or it could be that they’re opening a plant of some kind in Livingston.’
    ‘And Poyntinghame would become the factory social club?’
    Malahide shivered at the

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