by Ian Rankin
There were two more newspapers, both telling a similar tale graced by similar (sometimes even identical) photos, THE DISHONOURABLE MEMBER; MP’S VICE SHAME. Ah, the great British Sunday headline, coined by an elect of teetotal virgins boasting the combined wisdom of Solomon and the magnanimity of a zealot. Rebus could be as prurient as the next man, but this stuff was a class above. He prised himself out of bed and stood up. The alcohol inside him stood up too; then it began to pogostick its way around his head. Red wine and whisky. Bad news and a chaser. What was the phrase? Never mix the grain and the grape. Never mind, a couple of litres of orange juice would sort him out.
But first there was the little matter of the fry-up. Nell looked as though she’d spent all night in the kitchen. She had washed up the debris of the previous night, and now was providing a breakfast of hotel proportions. Cereal, toast, bacon, sausage and egg. With a pot of coffee taking pride of place on the dining table. Only one thing was missing.
‘Any orange juice?’ Rebus suggested.
‘Sorry,’ said Brian. ‘I thought the paper shop would have some, but they’d run out. There’s plenty of coffee though. Tuck in.’ He was busy with another paper, a broadsheet this time. ‘Didn’t take them long to stick the knife in, did it?’
‘You mean Gregor Jack? No, well, what can you expect?’
Holmes turned a page. ‘Strange though,’ he said, and let it lie at that, wondering whether Rebus would know . . .
‘You mean,’ Rebus replied, ‘it’s strange that the London Sunday’s knew about Operation Creeper.’
Another page was turned. It didn’t take long to read a newspaper these days, not unless you were interested in the adverts. Holmes folded the paper into four and laid it down on the table beside him.
‘Yes,’ he said, lifting a piece of toast. ‘Like I say, it’s strange.’
‘Come on, Brian. Papers are always getting tip-offs to juicy stories. A copper looking for beer money, something like that. Chances are, you raid a posh brothel you’re going to come out with some weel-kent faces.’
Hold on though . . . Even as he spoke, Rebus knew there was something more. That night, the reporters had been biding their time, hadn’t they? Like they knew exactly who or what might be walking out of the door and down the steps. Holmes was staring at him now.
‘What are you thinking?’ Rebus asked.
‘Nothing. No, nothing at all . . . yet. Not our business, is it? And besides, this is Sunday.’
‘You’re a sly bugger, Brian Holmes.’
‘I’ve got a good tutor, haven’t I?’
Nell came into the room carrying two plates, filled with glistening fried food. Rebus’s stomach pleaded with its owner not to do anything rash, anything he would regret later on in the day.
‘You’re working too hard,’ Rebus told Nell. ‘Don’t let him treat you like a skivvy.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I don’t. But fair’s fair. Brian did wash last night’s dishes. And he’ll wash this morning’s too.’
Holmes groaned. Rebus opened one of the tabloids and tapped his finger against a photograph.
‘Better not work him too hard, Nell, not now he’s in pictures.’
Nell took the paper from him, studied it for a moment, then shrieked.
‘My God, Brian! You look like something off the Muppet Show.’
Holmes was on his feet now, too, staring over her shoulder. ‘And is that what Chief Superintendent Watson looks like? He could pass for an Aberdeen Angus.’
Rebus and Holmes shared a smile at that. He wasn’t called Farmer for nothing . . .
Rebus wished the young couple well. They had made a commitment to living together. They had bought a house together and set up home. They seemed content. Yes, he wished them well with all his heart.
But his brain gave them two or three years at most.
A policeman’s lot was not entirely a happy one. Striving towards inspectorship, Brian Holmes would find himself working still longer hours. If he could shut it all out when he got home of an evening or morning, fine. But Rebus doubted the young man would. Holmes was the type to get involved in a case, to let it rule his thinking hours whether on duty or off, and that was bad for a relationship.
Bad, and often terminal. Rebus knew more divorced and separated policemen (himself included) than happily married ones. It wasn’t just the hours worked, it was the way police work itself gnawed into you like a worm, burrowing deep. Eating away from the inside. As protection against the worm, you wore armour plating – more of it, perhaps, than was necessary. And that armour set you apart from friends and family, from the ‘civilians’ . . .
Ach. Pleasant thoughts for a Sunday morning. After all, it wasn’t all gloom. The car had started without a hitch (that is, without him having to hitch a ride to the nearest garage), and there was just enough blue in the sky to send hardy day-trippers off into the country. Rebus was going on a drive, too. An aimless tour, he told himself. A nice day for a drive. But he knew where he was headed. Knew where, if not exactly why.
Gregor Jack and his wife lived in a large, old, detached and walled residence on the outskirts of Rosebridge, a little further south than Eskwell, a little bit more rural. Gentry country. Fields and rolling hills and an apparent moratorium on new building work. Rebus had no excuse save curiosity for this detour, but he was not, it seemed, alone. The Jacks’ house was recognizable by the half dozen cars parked outside its gates and by the posse of reporters who were lounging around, chatting to each other or instructing fed-up-looking photographers on how far they should go (morally rather than geographically) for that elusive picture. Clamber on to the wall? Climb that nearby tree? Try the back of the house? The photographers didn’t seem keen. But just then something seemed to galvanize them.
By this time, Rebus had parked his own car further along the road. To one side of the road was a line of perhaps half a dozen houses, none of them spectacular in terms of design or size, but wonderfully isolated by those high walls, long driveways, and (doubtless) vast back gardens. The other side of the road was pasture. Bemused cows and fat-looking sheep. Some sizeable lambs, their voices not yet quite broken. The view ended at some steepish hills, three or so miles distant. It was nice. Even the troglodyte Rebus could appreciate that.
Which was perhaps why the reporters left a more bitter taste than usual beneath his tongue. He stood behind them, an observer. The house was dark-stoned, reddish from this distance. A two-storey construction, probably built in the early 1900s. Tacked on to it at one side was a large garage, and in front of the house at the top of the drive sat a white Saab, one of the 9000 series. Sturdy and reliable, not cheap but not show-offish. Distinctive though: a car of distinction.
A youngish man, early thirties, a sneer creasing his face, was unlocking the gates just wide enough so that a younger woman, out of her teens but trying to look ten years older, could hand a silver tray to the reporters. She spoke louder than she needed to.
‘Gregor thought you might like some tea. There may not be enough cups, you’ll just have to share. There are biscuits in the tin. No ginger nuts, I’m afraid. We’ve run out.’
There were smiles at this, nods of appreciation. But throughout questions were being fired off.
‘Any chance of a word with Mr Jack?’
‘Can we expect a statement?’
‘How’s he taking it?’
‘Is Mrs Jack in the house?’
‘Any chance of a word?’
‘Ian, is he going to be saying anything?’
This last question was directed at the sneering man, who now held up one hand for silence. He waited patiently, and the silence came. Then:
‘No comment,’ he said. And with that he began to close the gates. Rebus pushed through the good-natured crush until he was face to face with Mr Sneer.
‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said. ‘Could I have a word with Mr Jack?’
Mr Sneer and Miss Teatray seemed highly suspicious, even when they accepted a
nd examined Rebus’s ID. Fair enough: he’d known of reporters who’d try a stunt just like this, fake ID and all. But eventually there was a curt nod, and the gates opened again wide enough to allow him to squeeze through. The gates were shut again, locked. With Rebus on the inside.
He had a sudden thought: What the hell am I doing? The answer was: He wasn’t sure. Something about the scene at the gates had made him want to be on the other side of those gates. Well, here he was. Being led back up the gravel driveway, towards the large car, the larger house behind it, and the garage off to the side. Being led towards Gregor Jack MP, with whom, apparently, he wanted a word.
I believe you want a word, Inspector?
No, sir, just being nosey.
It wasn’t much of an opening line, was it? Watson had warned him before about this . . . this . . . was it a character flaw? This need to push his way into the centre of things, to become involved, to find out for himself rather than accepting somebody’s word, no matter who that somebody was.
Just passing, thought I’d pay my respects. Jesus, and Jack would recognize him, wouldn’t he? From the brothel. Sitting on the bed, while the woman in the bed kicked up her legs, screeching with laughter. No, maybe not. He’d had other things on his mind after all.
‘I’m Ian Urquhart, Gregor’s constituency agent.’ Now that he had his back to the reporters, the sneer had left Urquhart’s face. What was left was a mixture of worry and bewilderment. ‘We got word last night of what was coming. I’ve been here ever since.’
Rebus nodded. Urquhart was compact, a bunching of well-kept muscles inside a tailored suit. A bit smaller than the MP, and a bit less good-looking. In other words, just right for an agent. He also looked efficient, which Rebus would say was a bonus.
‘This is Helen Greig, Gregor’s secretary.’ Urquhart was nodding towards the young woman. She gave a quick smile towards Rebus. ‘Helen came over this morning to see if there was anything she could do.’
‘The tea was my idea actually,’ she said.
Urquhart glanced towards her. ‘Gregor’s idea, Helen,’ he warned.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, reddening.
Efficient and faithful, thought Rebus. Rare qualities indeed. Helen Greig, like Urquhart himself, spoke in an educated Scots accent which did not really betray county of origin. He would hazard at east coast for both of them, but couldn’t narrow things down any further. Helen looked either like she’d been to an early Kirk service, or was planning to attend one later on. She was wearing a pale woollen two-piece with plain white blouse offset by a simple gold chain around her neck. Sensible black shoes on her feet and thick black tights. She was Urquhart’s height, five feet six or seven, and shared something of his build. You wouldn’t call her beautiful: you’d call her handsome, in the way Nell Stapleton was handsome, though the two women were dissimilar in many ways.
They were passing the Saab now, Urquhart leading. ‘Was there anything in particular, Inspector? Only, I’m sure you can appreciate that Gregor’s hardly in a state . . .’
‘It won’t take long, Mr Urquhart.’
‘Well, in you come then.’ The front door opened, and Urquhart ushered both Rebus and Helen Greig into the house before him. Rebus was immediately surprised by how modern the interior was. Polished pine flooring, scatter rugs, Mackintosh-style chairs and low-slung Italian-looking tables. They passed through the hall and into a large room boasting more modern furnishings still. Pride of place went to a long angular sofa constructed from leather and chrome. On which sat, in much the same position as when Rebus had first met him, Gregor Jack. The MP was scratching absent-mindedly at a finger and staring at the floor. Urquhart cleared his throat.
‘We have a visitor, Gregor.’
The effect was that of a talented actor changing roles – tragedy to comedy. Gregor Jack stood up and fixed a smile on to his face. His eyes now sparkled, looking interested, his whole face speaking sincerity. Rebus marvelled at the ease of the transformation.
‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ he said, taking the proffered hand.
‘Inspector, what can we do for you? Here, sit down.’ Jack gestured towards a squat black chair, matching the sofa in design. It was like sinking into marshmallow. ‘Something to drink?’ Now Jack seemed to remember something and turned to Helen Greig. ‘Helen, you took the tea out to our friends?’
She nodded.
‘Excellent. Can’t have the gentlemen of the press going without their elevenses.’ He smiled towards Rebus, then lowered himself on to the edge of the sofa, arms resting on his knees so that the hands remained mobile. ‘Now, Inspector, what’s the problem?’
‘Well, sir, it’s really just that I happened to be passing, and saw that gang at the gates, so I stopped.’
‘You know why they’re here though?’
Rebus was obliged to nod. Urquhart cleared his throat again.
‘We’re going to prepare a statement for them over lunch,’ he said. ‘It probably won’t be enough to see them off, but it might help.’
‘You know, of course,’ said Rebus, aware that he had to tread carefully, ‘that you’ve done nothing wrong, sir. I mean, nothing illegal.’
Jack smiled again and shrugged. ‘It doesn’t need to be illegal, Inspector. It just has to be news.’ His hands kept fluttering, as did his eyes and head. It was as though his mind were elsewhere. Then something seemed to click. ‘You didn’t say, Inspector,’ he said, ‘tea or coffee? Something stronger perhaps?’
Rebus shook his head slowly. His hangover was a dull presence now. No point swaddling it. Jack raised his soulful eyes to Helen Greig.
‘I’d love a cup of tea, Helen. Inspector, you’re sure you won’t . . .?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Ian?’
Urquhart nodded towards Helen Greig.
‘Would you, Helen?’ said Gregor Jack. What woman, Rebus wondered, would refuse? Which reminded him . . .
‘Your wife’s not here then, Mr Jack?’
‘On holiday,’ Jack said quickly. ‘We’ve a cottage in the Highlands. Not much of a place, but we like it. She’s probably there.’
‘Probably? Then you don’t know for sure?’
‘She didn’t make out an itinerary, Inspector.’
‘So does she know . . .?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Inspector. Maybe she does. She’s an insatiable reader of newsprint. There’s a village nearby stocks the Sundays.’
‘But she hasn’t been in touch?’
Urquhart didn’t bother clearing his throat this time before interrupting. ‘There’s no phone at the lodge.’
‘That’s what we like about it,’ Jack explained. ‘Cut off from the world.’
‘But if she knew,’ Rebus persisted, ‘surely she’d get in touch?’
Jack sighed, and began scratching at his finger again. He caught himself doing it and stopped. ‘Eczema,’ he explained. ‘Just on the one finger, but it’s annoying all the same.’ He paused. ‘Liz . . . my wife . . . she’s very much a law unto herself, Inspector. Maybe she’d get in touch, maybe she wouldn’t. She’s just as likely not to want to talk about it. Do you see what I mean?’ Another smile, a weaker one, seeking the sympathy vote. Jack ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. Rebus wondered idly whether the perfect teeth were capped. Maybe the thatch was capped, too. The open-necked shirt didn’t look like chain-store stuff . . .
Urquhart was still standing. Or, rather, was on his feet but in constant movement. Over to the window to peer through the net curtains. Over to a glass-topped table to examine some papers lying there. Over to a smaller table where the telephone sat, disconnected at the wall. So that even if Mrs Jack did try to call . . . Neither Urquhart nor Jack seemed to have thought of that. Curious. The room, the taste it displayed, seemed to Rebus not Jack’s but his wife’s. Jack looked like a man for older established pieces of furniture, safe comfy armchairs and a chesterfield sofa. A conservative taste. Look at the car he chose to drive . . .
/> Yes, Jack’s car: now there was an idea, or rather an excuse, an excuse for Rebus’s presence.
‘Maybe if we could get that statement out by lunchtime, Gregor,’ Urquhart was saying. ‘Sooner we dampen things down the better, really.’
Not very subtle, thought Rebus. The message was: state your business and leave. Rebus knew the question he wanted to ask: Do you think you were set up? Wanted to ask, but daren’t. He wasn’t here officially, was a tourist merely.
‘About your car, Mr Jack,’ he began. ‘Only, I noticed when I stopped that it’s sitting there in the drive, on full view so as to speak. And there are photographers out there. If any pictures of your car get into the papers . . .’
‘Everyone will recognize it in future?’ Jack nodded. ‘I see what you’re getting at, Inspector. Yes, thank you. We hadn’t thought of that, had we, Ian?’ Better put it in the garage. We don’t want everyone who reads a newspaper to know what kind of car I drive.’
‘And its registration,’ Rebus added. ‘There are all sorts of people out there . . . terrorists . . . people with a grudge . . . plain nutters. Doesn’t do any good.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’ The door swung open and Helen Greig entered, carrying two large mugs of tea. A far cry from the silver salver routine at the gates. She handed one to Urquhart and one to Gregor Jack, then removed a slim box from where it had been held between her arm and her side. It was a fresh box of ginger nuts. Rebus smiled.
‘Lovely, Helen, thanks,’ said Gregor Jack. He eased two biscuits from the packet.
Rebus rose to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’d better be going. Like I say, I only dropped in . . .’
‘I do appreciate it, Inspector.’ Jack had placed mug and biscuits on the floor and was now standing, too, hand held out again towards Rebus. A warm, strong and unflawed hand. ‘I meant to ask, do you live in the constituency?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘One of my colleagues does. I was staying with him last night.’
Jack raised his head slowly before nodding. The gesture could have meant anything. ‘I’ll open the gates for you,’ Ian Urquhart was saying.