by Ian Rankin
Rebus woke up the next morning with a bad feeling. He half expected to turn and see Mrs Wilkie lying beside him, saying ‘Come on, Andrew, time for the conjugals’. He turned. Mrs Wilkie was not lying beside him. She was outside his door and trying to get in.
‘Mr Rebus, Mr Rebus.’ A soft knock, then a hard. ‘The door seems to be jammed, Mr Rebus! Are you awake? I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’
During which time Rebus was out of bed and half dressed. ‘Coming, Mrs Wilkie.’
But the old lady was panicking. ‘You’re locked in, Mr Rebus. The door’s stuck! Shall I call for a carpenter? Oh dear.’
‘Hold on, Mrs Wilkie, I think I’ve got it.’ His shirt still unbuttoned, Rebus put his weight to the door, keeping it shut, and at the same time lifted the chair away, stretching so as to place it nearer the bed. Then he made show of thumping the edges of the door before pulling it open.
‘Are you all right, Mr Rebus? Oh dear, that’s never happened before. Dear me no . . .’
Rebus lifted the cup and saucer from her hand and began pouring the tea back from saucer into cup. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilkie.’ He made show of sniffing. ‘Is something cooking?’
‘Oh dear, yes. Breakast.’ And off she toddled, back down the stairs. Rebus felt a bit guilty for having pulled the ‘locked-door’ stunt. He’d show her after breakfast that the door was all right really, that she didn’t need to phone for cowboy carpenters to put it right. But for now he had to continue the process of waking up. It was seven thirty. The tea was cold but the day seemed unseasonally warm. He sat on the bed for a moment, collecting his thoughts. What day was it? It was Wednesday. What needed to be done today? What was the best order to do it in? He’d to return to the cottage with the Three Stooges. Then there was Mrs Corbie to speak to. And something else . . . something he’d been thinking about last night, in the melting moment between waking and sleep. Well, why not? He was in the area anyway. He’d telephone after breakfast. A fry-up by the smell of it, rather than Patience’s usual choice of muesli or Bran Crunch. Ah, that was another thing. He’d meant to phone Patience last night. He’d do it today, just to say hello. He thought about her for a little while, Patience and her collection of pets. Then he finished dressing and made his way downstairs . . .
He was first to arrive at the lodge. He let himself in and wandered into the living room. Immediately, he knew something was different. The place was tidier. Tidier? Well, say then that there was less debris around than before. Half the bottles looked to have disappeared. He wondered what else had vanished. He lifted the scatter cushions, searching in vain for the hand-mirror. Damn. He fairly flew through to the kitchen. The back window was lying in shards in the sink and on the floor. Here, the mess was as bad as before. Except that the microwave had gone. He went upstairs . . . slowly. The place seemed deserted, but you never could tell. The bathroom and small bedroom were as before. So was the main bedroom. No, hold on. The tights had been untied from their bedposts and were now lying innocently on the floor. Rebus crouched and picked one up. Then dropped it again. Thoughtfully, he made his way back downstairs.
A burglary, yes. Break in and steal the microwave. That was the way it was supposed to look. But no petty thief would take empty bottles and a mirror with him, no petty thief would have reason to untie pairs of tights from bedposts. That didn’t matter though, did it? What mattered was that the evidence had to disappear. Now it would merely be Rebus’s word.
‘Yes, sir, I’m sure there was a mirror in the living room. Lying on the floor, a small mirror with traces of white powder on it . . .’
‘And you’re sure you’re not merely imagining this, Inspector? You could be wrong, couldn’t you?’
No, no, he couldn’t. But it was too late for all that. Why take the bottles . . . and only some of them, not all? Obviously, because some bottles had certain prints on them. Why take the mirror? Maybe fingerprints again . . .
Should have thought of all this yesterday, John. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’
And he’d done the damage himself. Hadn’t he told the Three Stooges not to go near the lodge? Because it hadn’t been fingerprinted. Then he’d let them wander off, with no guard left on the house. A constable should have been here all night.
‘Stupid, stupid.’
It had to be one of them, didn’t it? The woman, or one of the men. But why? Why had they done it? So it couldn’t be proved they’d been there in the first place? Again, why? It didn’t make much sense. Not much sense at all.
‘Stupid.’
He heard a car approaching, pulling up outside, and went to meet it. It was the Daimler, Kilpatrick driving, Patterson-Scott in the passenger seat, and Julian Kaymer emerging from the rear. Kilpatrick looked a lot breezier than before.
‘Inspector, good morning to you.’
‘Morning, sir. How was the hotel?’
‘Fair, I’d say. Only fair.’
‘Better than average,’ added Kaymer.
Kilpatrick turned to him. ‘Julian, when you’re used to excellence as I am, you no longer recognize “average” and “better than”.’
Kaymer stuck his tongue out.
‘Children, children,’ chided Louise Patterson-Scott. But they all seemed light of heart.
‘You sound chirpy,’ Rebus said.
‘A decent night’s sleep and a long breakfast,’ said Kilpatrick, patting his stomach.
‘You stayed at the hotel last night?’
They seemed not to understand his question.
‘You didn’t go for a drive or anything?’
‘No,’ Kilpatrick said, his tone wary.
‘It’s your car, isn’t it, Mr Kilpatrick?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘And you kept the keys with you last night?’
‘Look, Inspector . . .’
‘Did you or didn’t you?’
‘I suppose I did. In my jacket pocket.’
‘Hanging up in your bedroom?’
‘Correct. Look, can we go ins –’
‘Any visitors to your room?’
‘Inspector,’ interrupted Louise Patterson-Scott, ‘perhaps if you’d tell us . . .?’
‘Someone broke into the lodge during the night, disturbing potential evidence. That’s a serious crime, madam.’
‘And you think one of us –?’
‘I don’t think anything yet, madam. But whoever did it must have come by car. Mr Kilpatrick here has a car.’
‘Both Julian and I are capable of driving, Inspector.’
‘Yes,’ said Kaymer, ‘and besides, we all went to Jamie’s room for a late-night brandy . . .’
‘So any one of you could have taken the car?’
Kilpatrick shrugged mightily. ‘I still don’t see,’ he said, ‘why you think we should want –’
‘As I say, Mr Kilpatrick, I don’t think anything. All I know is that a murder inquiry is under way, Mrs Jack’s last known whereabouts remain this lodge, and now someone’s trying to tamper with evidence.’ Rebus paused. ‘That’s all I know. You can come inside now, but, please, don’t touch anything. I’d like to ask you all a few questions.’
Really, what he wanted to ask was: Is the house pretty much in the state you remember it from the last party here? But he was asking too much. Yes, they remembered drinking champagne and armagnac and a lot of wine. They remembered cooking popcorn in the microwave. Some people drove off – recklessly, no doubt – into the night, while others slept where they lay or staggered off into the various bedrooms. No, Gregor hadn’t been present. He didn’t enjoy parties. Not his wife’s, at any rate.
‘A bit of a bore, old Gregor,’ commented Jamie Kilpatrick. ‘At least, I thought he was till I saw that story about the brothel. Just goes to show . . .’
But there had been another party, hadn’t there? A more recent party. Barney Byars had told Rebus about it that night in the pub. A party of Gregor’s friends, of The Pack. Who else knew Rebus was on his way up
here? Who else knew what he might find? Who else might want to stop him finding anything? Well, Gregor Jack knew. And what he knew, The Pack might know, too. Maybe not one of these three then; maybe someone entirely different.
‘Seems funny,’ said Louise Patterson-Scott, ‘to think we won’t be having parties here any more . . . to think Liz won’t be here . . . to think she’s gone . . .’ She began to cry, loudly and tearfully. Jamie Kilpatrick put an arm around her, and she buried her face in his chest. She reached out a hand and found Julian Kaymer, pulling him to her so that he, too, could be embraced.
And that’s pretty much how they were when Constable Moffat arrived . . .
Rebus, with a real sense of bolting the stable door, left Moffat to stand guard, much against the young man’s will. But the forensics team would be arriving before lunchtime, and Detective Sergeant Knox with them.
‘There are some magazines in the bathroom, if you need something to read,’ Rebus told Moffat. ‘Or, better still, here . . .’ And he opened the car, reached into his bag, and took out Fish out of Water. ‘Don’t bother returning it. Think of it as a sort of present.’
Then, the Daimler having already left, Rebus got into his own car, waved back at Constable Moffat, and was off. He’d read Fish out of Water last night, every fraught sentence of it. It was a dreadful romantic tale of doomed love between a young Italian sculptor and a wealthy but bored married woman. The sculptor had come to England to work on a commission for the woman’s husband. At first, she uses him like a plaything, but then falls in love. Meantime, the sculptor, bowled over by her at first, has moved his attentions to her niece. And so on.
It looked to Rebus as though the title alone had been what had made Ronald Steele pluck it from the shelf and throw it with such venom. Yes, just that title (the title, too, of the young sculptor’s statue). The fish out of water was Liz Jack. But Rebus wondered whether she’d been out of water, or just out of her depth . . .
He drove to Cragstone Farm, parking in the yard to the rear of the farmhouse, scattering chickens and ducks before him. Mrs Corbie was at home, and took him into the kitchen, where there was a wondrous smell of baking. The large kitchen table was white with flour, but only a few globes of leftover pastry remained. Rebus couldn’t help recalling that scene in The Postman Always Rings Twice . . .’
Sit yourself down,’ she ordered. ‘I’ve just made a pot . . .’
Rebus was given tea, and some of yesterday’s batch of fruit scones, with fresh butter and thick strawberry jam.
‘Ever thought about doing B&B, Mrs Corbie?’
‘Me? I wouldn’t have the patience.’ She was wiping her hands on her white cotton apron. She seemed always to be wiping her hands. ‘Mind you, it’s not for shortage of space. My husband passed away last year, so now there’s just Alec and me.’
‘What? Running the whole farm?’
She made a face. ‘Running it down would be more like it. Alec just isn’t interested. It’s a sin, but there you are. We’ve got a couple of workers, but when they see he’s not interested, they can’t see why they should be. We’d be as well selling up. That’s what Alec would like. Maybe that’s the only thing that stops me from doing it . . .’ She was looking at her hands. Then she slapped them against her thighs. ‘Goodness, would you listen to me! Now, Inspector, what was it you wanted?’
After all his years on the force, Rebus reckoned that at last he was in the presence of someone with a genuinely clear conscience. It didn’t usually take so long for people to ask what a policeman was after. When it did take so long, the person either knew already what was wanted, or else had absolutely nothing to fear or to hide. So Rebus asked his question.
‘I notice you keep the telephone kiosk sparkling, Mrs Corbie. I was wondering if you’d noticed anything suspicious recently? I mean, anything up at the box?’
‘Oh, well, let me think.’ She placed the flat of one hand against her cheek. ‘I can’t say . . . what sort of thing exactly, Inspector?’
Rebus couldn’t look her in the eye – for he knew that she had started to lie to him.
‘A woman perhaps. Making a telephone call. Something left in the box . . . a note or a telephone number . . . anything at all.’
‘No, no, nothing in the box.’
His voice hardened a little. ‘Well, outside the box then, Mrs Corbie. I’m thinking specifically of a week ago, last Wednesday or maybe the Tuesday . . .?’
She was shaking her head. ‘Have another scone, Inspector.’
He did, and chewed slowly, in silence. Mrs Corbie looked to be doing some thinking. She got up and checked in her oven. Then she poured the last of the tea from the pot, and returned to her seat, studying her hands again, laying them against her lap for inspection.
But she didn’t say anything. So Rebus did.
‘You were here last Wednesday?’
She nodded. ‘But not the Tuesday. I go to my sister’s on a Tuesday. I was here all day Wednesday though.’
‘What about your son?’
She shrugged. ‘He might have been here. Or maybe he was in Dufftown. He spends a lot of time off gallivanting . . .’
‘He’s not here just now?’
‘No, he’s gone to town.’
‘Which town?’
‘He didn’t say. Just said he was off . . .’
Rebus stood up and went to the kitchen window. It faced on to the yard, where chickens now pecked at Rebus’s tyres. One of them was sitting on the bonnet of the car.
‘Is it possible to see the kiosk from the house, Mrs Corbie?’
‘Eh . . . yes, from the sitting room. But we don’t spend much time in there. That is, I don’t. I prefer here in the kitchen.’
‘Could I take a look?’
Well, it was clear enough who did spend time in the living room. There was a direct line between sofa, coffee table and television set. The coffee table was marked with rings made by too many hot mugs. On the floor by the sofa there was an ashtray and the remains of a huge bag of crisps. Three empty beer cans lay on their sides beneath the coffee table. Mrs Corbie tut-tutted and went to work, lifting the cans. Rebus went to the window and peered out.
He could make out the kiosk in the distance, but only just. It was possible Alec Corbie might have seen something. Possible, but doubtful. Not worth sticking around for. He’d let DS Knox come and ask Corbie the questions.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘thanks for your help, Mrs Corbie.’
‘Oh.’ Her relief was palpable. ‘Right you are, Inspector. I’ll see you out.’
But Rebus knew he had one last bet worth laying. He stood with Mrs Corbie in the yard and looked around him.
‘I used to love farms when I was a lad. A pal of mine lived on one,’ he glibly lied. ‘I used to go up there every evening after tea. It was great.’ He turned his wide-eyed nostalgic smile towards her. ‘Mind if I take a wander round?’
‘Oh.’ No relief now; rather, sheer terror. Which didn’t stop Rebus. No, it pushed him on. So that before she knew it, he was walking up to the hutches and sties, looking in, moving on. On past the chickens and the roused ducks, into the barn. Straw underfoot and a strong smell of cattle. Concrete cubicles, coiled hosepipes, and a leaking tap. There were pools of water underfoot. One sick-looking cow blinked slowly at him from its enclosure. But the livestock wasn’t his concern. The tarpaulin in the corner was.
‘What’s under here, Mrs Corbie?’
‘That’s Alec’s property!’ she shrieked. ‘Don’t touch it! It’s nothing to do with –’
But he’d already yanked the tarpaulin off. What was he expecting to find? Something . . . nothing. What he did find was a black BMW 3-series bearing Elizabeth Jack’s registration. It was Rebus’s turn to tut-tut, but only after he’d sucked in his breath and held back a whoop of delight.
‘Dear me, Mrs Corbie,’ he said. ‘This is just the very car I’ve been looking for.’
But Mrs Corbie wasn’t listening. ‘He’s a good laddie, he doesn�
�t mean any harm. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’ And so on. While Rebus circled the car, looking but not touching. Lucky the forensics team was on its way. They’d be kept busy . . .
Wait, what was that? On the back seat. A huddled shape. He peered in through the tinted glass.
‘Expect the unexpected, John,’ he muttered to himself.
It was a microwave.
7
Duthil
Rebus telephoned Edinburgh to make his report and request an extra day’s stay up north. Lauderdale sounded so impressed that the car had been found that Rebus forgot to tell him about the break-in at the lodge. Then, once Alec Corbie had arrived home (drunk and in charge of a vehicle – but let that pass), he’d been arrested and taken to Dufftown. Rebus seemed to be stretching the local police like they’d never been stretched before, so that Detective Sergeant Knox had to be diverted from the lodge and brought to the farm instead. He looked like an older brother of Constable Moffat, or perhaps a close cousin.
‘I want forensics to go over that car,’ Rebus told him. ‘Priority, the lodge can wait.’
Knox rubbed his chin. ‘It’ll take a tow-truck.’
‘A trailer would be better.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Where will you want it taken?’
‘Anywhere secure and with a roof.’
‘The police garage?’
‘It’ll do.’
‘What exactly are we looking for?’
‘Christ knows.’
Rebus went back into the kitchen, where Mrs Corbie was sitting at the table studying an array of burnt cakes. He opened his mouth to speak, but kept his silence. She was an accessory, of course. She’d lied to him to protect her son. Well, they had the son now, and he was the one that mattered. As quietly as he could, Rebus left the farmhouse and started his car, staring through the windscreen at his bonnet, where one of the chickens had left him a little gift . . .