by Ian Rankin
‘How was the lodge when you arrived?’ Rebus asked.
Byars wrinkled his nose. ‘Disgusting. It hadn’t been cleaned since the last party a fortnight before. One of Liz’s parties, not one of Gregor’s. Gregor was going spare. Liz or somebody was supposed to have had it cleaned. It looked like a bloody sixties squat or something.’ He smiled. ‘Actually, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, you being a member of the constabulary and all, but I didn’t bother staying the night. Drove back about four in the morning. Absolutely guttered, but there was nobody about on the roads for me to be a menace to. Wait till you hear this though. I thought my feet were cold when I stopped the car. Got out to open the garage . . . and I didn’t have any shoes on! Just the one sock and no fucking shoes! Christ knows how come I didn’t notice . . .’
8
Spite and Malice
Did John Rebus receive a hero’s welcome? He did not. There were some who felt he’d merely added to the chaos of the case. Perhaps he had. Chief Superintendent Watson, for example, still felt William Glass was the man they were looking for. He sat and listened to Rebus’s report, while Chief Inspector Lauderdale rocked to and fro on another chair, sometimes staring ruminatively at the ceiling, sometimes studying the one immaculate crease down either trouser-leg. It was Friday morning. There was coffee in the air. There was coffee, too, coursing through Rebus’s nervous system as he spoke. Watson interrupted from time to time, asking questions in a voice as thin as an after-dinner mint. And at the end of it all, he asked the obvious question.
‘What do you make of it, John?’
And Rebus gave the obvious, if only mostly truthful, answer.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Lauderdale, raising his eyes from a trouser-crease. ‘She’s at a telephone box. She meets a man in a car. They’re arguing. The man drives off. She hangs around for some time. Another car, maybe the same car, arrives. Another argument. The car goes off, leaving her car still in the lay-by. And next thing we know of her, she’s turning up dumped in a river next to the house owned by a friend of her husband’s.’ Lauderdale paused, as though inviting Rebus to contradict him. ‘We still don’t know when or where she died, only that she managed to end up in Queensferry. Now, you say this actor’s wife is an old friend of Gregor Jack’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any hint that they were a bit more than friends?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘What about the actor, Rab Kinnoul? Maybe he and Mrs Jack . . .?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Convenient, isn’t it?’ said the Chief Superintendent, rising to pour himself another cup of black death. ‘I mean, if Mr Kinnoul did ever want to dispose of a body, what better place than his own fast-flowing river, discharging into the sea, body turning up weeks later, or perhaps never at all. And he’s always played killers on the TV and in films. Maybe it’s all gone to his head . . .’
‘Except,’ said Lauderdale, ‘that Kinnoul was in a series of meetings all day that Wednesday.’
‘And Wednesday night?’
‘At home with his wife.’
Watson nodded. ‘We come back to Mrs Kinnoul again. Could she be lying?’
‘She’s certainly under his thumb,’ said Rebus. ‘And she’s on all sorts of anti-depressants. I’d be surprised if she could tell Wednesday night at home in Queensferry from the twelfth of July in Londonderry.’
Watson smiled. ‘Nicely put, John, but let’s try to stick to facts.’
‘What precious few there are,’ said Lauderdale. ‘I mean, we all know who the obvious candidate is: Mrs Jack’s husband. She finds out he’s been caught trousers-down in a brothel, they have a row, he may not mean to kill her but he strikes her. Next thing, she’s dead.’
‘He was caught trousers-up,’ Rebus reminded his superior.
‘Besides,’ added Watson, ‘Mr Jack, too, has his alibis.’ He read from a sheet of paper. ‘Constituency meeting in the morning. Round of golf in the afternoon – corroborated by his playing partner and checked by Detective Constable Broome. Then a dinner appointment where he made a speech to eighty or so fine upstanding members of the business community in Central Edinburgh.’
‘And he drives a white Saab,’ Rebus stated. ‘We need to check car colours for everyone involved in the case, all Mrs Jack’s friends and all Mr Jack’s.’
‘I’ve already put DS Holmes on to it,’ said Lauderdale. ‘And forensics say they’ll have a report on the BMW ready by morning. I’ve another question though.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘Mrs Jack was, apparently, up north for anything up to a week. Did she stay all that time at Deer Lodge?’
Rebus had to give Lauderdale credit, the bugger had his thinking cap on today. Watson was nodding as though he’d been about to ask the selfsame thing, but of course he hadn’t. Rebus had thought about it though.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I do think she spent some time there, otherwise where did the Sunday papers and the green suitcase come from? But a whole week . . .? I doubt it. No signs of recent cooking. All the food and cartons and stuff I found were either from one party or another. There had been an attempt to clear a space on the living room floor, so one person or maybe two could sit and have a drink. But maybe that goes back to the last party, too. I suppose we could ask the guests while we’re fingerprinting them . . .’
‘Fingerprinting them?’ asked Watson.
Lauderdale sounded like an exasperated parent. ‘Purposes of elimination, sir. To see if any prints are left that can’t be identified.’
‘What would that tell us?’ Watson said.
‘The point is, sir,’ commented Lauderdale, ‘if Mrs Jack didn’t stay at Deer Lodge, then who was she with and where did she stay? Was she even up north all that time?’
‘Ah . . .’ said Watson, nodding again as though understanding everything.
‘She visited Andrew Macmillan on the Saturday,’ added Rebus.
‘Yes,’ said Lauderdale, getting into his stride, ‘but then she’s next seen on the Wednesday by that yob at the farm. What about the days in between?’
‘She was at Deer Lodge on the Sunday with her newspapers,’ Rebus said. Then he realized the point Lauderdale was making. ‘When she saw the story,’ he continued, ‘you think she may have headed south again?’
Lauderdale spread out his hands, examining the nails. ‘It’s a theory,’ he said, merely.
‘Well, we’ve plenty bloody theories,’ said Watson, slapping one of his own much meatier hands down on the desk. ‘We need something concrete. And let’s not forget friend Glass. We still want to talk to him. About Dean Bridge if nothing else. Meanwhile . . .’ he seemed to be trying to think of some path they might take, of some instructions or inspiration he might give. But he gave up and swigged back his coffee instead. ‘Meanwhile,’ he said at last, while Rebus and Lauderdale waited for the imparted wisdom, ‘let’s be careful out there.’
The old man’s really showing his age now, thought Rebus, as he waited to follow Lauderdale out of the office. Hill Street Blues was a long, long time ago. In the corridor, after the door was closed behind them, Lauderdale grasped Rebus’s arm. His voice was an excited hiss.
‘Looks like the Chief Super’s on the way out, doesn’t it? Can’t be long before the high heidyins see what’s going on and pension him off.’ He was trying to control his glee. Yes, Rebus was thinking, one or two very public foul-ups, that’s all it would take. And he wondered . . . he wondered if Lauderdale was capable of engineering a balls-up with this in mind. Someone had tipped off the papers about Operation Creeper. Christ, it seemed such a long time ago. But wasn’t Chris Kemp supposed to be doing some digging into that? He’d have to remember to ask Kemp what he’d found. So much still needed to be done . . .
He was shrugging his arm free of Lauderdale when Watson’s door opened again, and Watson stood there staring at the two of them. Rebus wondered if they looked as guilty and conspirato
rial as he himself felt. Then Watson’s eyes settled on him.
‘John,’ he said, ‘telephone call. It’s Mr Jack. He says he’d be grateful if you’d go and see him. Apparently, there’s something he’d like to talk to you about . . .’
Rebus pressed the bell at the locked gate. The voice over the intercom was Urquhart’s.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Rebus to see Mr Jack.’
‘Yes, Inspector, be right with you.’
Rebus peered through the bars. The white Saab was parked outside the house. He shook his head slowly. Some people never learned. A reporter had been sent from one of the line of cars to ask who Rebus was. The other reporters and photographers took shelter in the cars themselves, listening to the radio, reading newspapers. Soup or coffee was poured from flasks. They were here for the duration. And they were bored. As he waited, the wind sliced against Rebus, squeezing through a gap between jacket and shirt collar, trickling down his neck like ice water. He watched Urquhart emerge from the house, apparently trying to sort out the tangle of keys in his hand. The reconnaissance reporter still stood beside Rebus, twitching, readying himself to ask Urquhart his questions.
‘I shouldn’t bother, son,’ advised Rebus.
Urquhart was at the gate now.
‘Mr Urquhart,’ blurted the reporter, ‘anything to add to your previous statement?’
‘No,’ said Urquhart coolly, opening the gate. ‘But I’ll repeat it for you if you like – bugger off!’
And with that, Rebus safely through the gate, he slammed it shut and locked it, giving the bars an extra shake to make sure they were secure. The reporter, smiling sourly, was heading back to one of the cars.
‘You’re under siege,’ Rebus observed.
Urquhart looked like he’d done without sleep for a night or two too many. ‘It’s diabolical,’ he confided as they walked towards the house. ‘Day and night they’re out there. God knows what they think they’re going to get.’
‘A confession?’ Rebus hazarded. He was rewarded with a weak smile.
‘That, Inspector, they’ll never get.’ The smile left his face. ‘But I am worried about Gregor . . . what all this is doing to him. He’s . . . well, you’ll see for yourself.’
‘Any idea what this meeting’s all about?’
‘He wouldn’t say. Inspector . . .’ Urquhart had stopped. ‘He’s very fragile. I mean, he might say anything. I just hope you can tell truth from fantasy.’ Then he started to walk again.
‘Are you still diluting his whisky?’ Rebus asked.
Urquhart gave him an appraising look, then nodded. ‘That’s not the answer, Inspector. That’s not what he needs. He needs friends.’
Andrew Macmillan, too, had gone on about friends. Rebus wanted to talk to Jack about Andrew Macmillan. But he wasn’t in a hurry. He had paused beside the Saab, causing Urquhart to pause too.
‘What is it?’
‘You know,’ said Rebus, ‘I’ve always liked Saabs, but I’ve never had the money around to buy one. Do you think Mr Jack would mind if I just sat in the driver’s seat for a minute?’
Urquhart looked at a loss for an answer. He ended up making a gesture somewhere between a shrug and a shake of the head. Rebus tried the driver’s door. It was unlocked. He slid into the seat and rested his hands on the steering wheel, leaving the door itself open so Urquhart could stand there and watch.
‘Very comfortable,’ Rebus said.
‘So I believe.’
‘You’ve never driven it yourself then?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ Rebus stared out of the windscreen, then at the passenger seat and the floor. ‘Yes, well designed, comfortable. Plenty of room, eh?’ And he turned in his seat, twisting his whole body round to examine the rear seat . . . the rear floor. ‘Heaps of room,’ he commented. ‘Lovely.’
‘Maybe Gregor would let you take her for a spin?’
Rebus looked up keenly. ‘Do you think so? I mean, when this has all blown over, of course.’ He started to get out of the car. Urquhart snorted.
‘Blown over? This sort of thing doesn’t “blow over”, not when you’re an MP. The broth – . . . those allegations in the newspapers, they were bad enough, but now murder? No.’ He shook his head. ‘This won’t just blow over, Inspector. It’s not a raincloud, it’s a mud bath, and mud sticks.’
Rebus closed the door. ‘Nice solid clunk, too, when you shut it, isn’t there? How well did you know Mrs Jack?’
‘Pretty well. I used to see her most days.’
‘But I believe Mr and Mrs Jack led fairly separate lives?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. They were married.’
‘And in love?’
Urquhart thought for a moment. ‘I’d say so, yes.’
‘Despite everything?’ Rebus was walking around the car now, as though deciding whether or not to buy it.
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Oh, you know, different sorts of friends, different lifestyles, separate holidays . . .’
‘Gregor is an MP, Inspector. He can’t always get away at the drop of a hat.’
‘Whereas,’ Rebus said, ‘Mrs Jack was . . . what would you say? Spontaneous? Flighty, maybe even? The sort who’d say, let’s just up and go?’
‘Actually, yes, that’s fairly accurate.’
Rebus nodded and tapped the boot. ‘What about luggage room?’
Urquhart himself actually came forward and opened the boot.
‘Goodness,’ said Rebus, ‘yes, there’s plenty of room. Quite deep, isn’t it?’
It was also immaculately clean. No mud or scuff marks, no crumbs of earth. It looked as though it had never been used. Inside were a small reserve petrol tank, a red warning triangle, and a half-set of golf clubs.
‘He’s keen on golf, isn’t he?’
‘Oh yes.’
Rebus closed the boot shut. ‘I’ve never seen the attraction myself. The ball’s too small and the pitch is too big. Shall we go in?’
Gregor Jack looked like he’d been to hell and back on an LRT bus. He’d probably combed his hair yesterday or the day before, and last changed his clothes then, too. He was shaven, but there were small patches of dark stubble the razor had missed. He didn’t bother rising when Rebus entered the room. He just nodded a greeting and gestured with his glass to a vacant chair, one of the infamous marshmallow chairs. Rebus approached with care.
There was whisky in Jack’s crystal tumbler, and a bottle of the stuff – three quarters empty – on the rug beside him. The room smelt unaired and unpolished. Jack took a gulp of liquid, then used the edge of the glass to scratch at his raw red finger.
‘I want to talk to you, Inspector Rebus.’
Rebus sat down, sinking, sinking . . . ‘Yes, sir?’
‘I want to say a few things about me . . . and maybe about Liz, too, in a roundabout way.’
It was another prepared speech, another well-considered opening. There were just the two of them in the room. Urquhart had said he’d make a pot of coffee. Rebus, still jumpy from his meeting with Watson, had begged for tea. Helen Greig, it seemed, was at home, her mother having been taken ill – ‘again’, as Urquhart put it, before marching off kitchenwards. Faithful women: Helen Greig and Cath Kinnoul. Doggedly faithful. And Elizabeth Jack? Doggie-style faithful maybe . . . Christ, that was a terrible thing to think! And especially of the dead, especially of a woman he’d never met! A woman who liked to be tied to bedposts for a spot of . . .
‘It’s nothing to do with . . . well, I don’t know, maybe it is.’ Jack paused for thought. ‘You see, Inspector, I can’t help feeling that if Liz saw those stories about me, and if they upset her, then maybe she did something . . . or stayed away . . . and maybe . . .’ He leapt to his feet and wandered over towards the window, looking out at nothing. ‘What I’m trying to say is, what if I’m responsible?’
‘Responsible, sir?’
‘For Liz’s . . . murder. If we’d been together, if we’d
been here together, it might never have happened. It wouldn’t have happened. Do you see what I mean?’
‘No good blaming yourself, sir –’
Jack whirled towards him. ‘But that’s just it, I do blame myself.’
‘Why don’t you sit down, Mr Jack –’
‘Gregor, please.’
‘All right . . . Gregor. Now why don’t you sit down and calm down.’
Jack did as he was told. Bereavement affected different people in different ways, the weak becoming strong and the strong becoming weak. Ronald Steele hurled books around, Gregor Jack became . . . pathetic. He was scratching at the finger again. ‘But it’s all so ironic,’ he spat.
‘How’s that?’ Rebus wished the tea would hurry up. Maybe Jack would pull himself together in Urquhart’s presence.
‘That brothel,’ Jack said, fixing Rebus’s eyes with his own. ‘That’s what started it all. And the reason I was there . . .’
Rebus sat forward. ‘Why were you there, Gregor?’
Gregor Jack paused, swallowed, seemed to take a breath while he thought about whether to answer or not. Then he answered.
‘To see my sister.’
There was silence in the room, so profound that Rebus could hear his watch ticking. Then the door flew open.
‘Tea,’ said Ian Urquhart, sidling into the room.
Rebus, who had been so eager for Urquhart’s arrival, now couldn’t wait for the man to leave. He rose from the chair and walked to the mantelpiece. The card from The Pack was still there, but it had been joined by over a dozen condolence cards – some from other MPs, some from family and friends, some from the public.
Urquhart seemed to sense the atmosphere in the room. He left the tray on a table and, without a word, made his exit. The door had barely closed before Rebus said, ‘What do you mean, your sister?’
‘I mean just that. My sister was working in that brothel. Well, I suspected she was, I’d been told she was. I thought maybe it was a joke, a sick joke. Maybe a trap, to get me to a brothel. A trap and a trick. I thought long and hard before I went, but I still went. He’d sounded so confident.’