by Ian Rankin
Rebus had to admit, he was intrigued. An unlikely little threesome. And about to become more unlikely still . . .
A couple of people had entered the lounge bar, and looked like staying there. The barman slipped through a doorway between rooms to serve these new customers, and this seemed to start off a conversation between the two men and the woman.
‘God, the nerve. He hasn’t served us yet.’
‘Well, Jamie, we’re not exactly gasping, are we?’
‘Speak for yourself. I hardly felt that first one slip down. Should have asked for quadruples in the first place.’
‘Have mine,’ said the woman, ‘if you’re going to become ratty.’
‘I am not becoming ratty,’ said the slouching pouncer, becoming very ratty indeed.
‘Well fuck you then.’
Rebus had to stifle a grin. The woman had said this as though it were part of any polite conversation.
‘And fuck you, too, Louise.’
‘Ssh,’ the French-smoker warned. ‘Remember, we’re not alone.’
The other man and woman looked towards Rebus, who sat staring straight ahead, glass to lips.
‘Yes we are,’ said the man. ‘We’re all alone.’
This utterance seemed to signal the end of the conversation. The barman reappeared.
‘Same again, barman, if you’ll be so kind . . .’
The evening hotted up quickly. Three locals appeared and started to play dominoes at a nearby table. Rebus wondered if they were paid to come in and add the requisite local colour. There was probably more colour in a Meadowbank Thistle–Raith Rovers friendly. Two other drinkers appeared, wedging themselves in between Rebus and the threesome. They seemed to take it as an insult that there were other drinkers in the bar before them, and that some of those drinkers were standing next to their space at the bar. So they drank in dour silence, merely exchanging looks whenever the Englishman or his two friends said anything.
‘Look,’ said the woman, ‘are we heading back tonight? If not, we’d better think about accommodation.’
‘We could sleep at the lodge.’
Rebus put down his glass.
‘Don’t be so sick,’ the woman retorted.
‘I thought that was why we came.’
‘I wouldn’t be able to sleep.’
‘Maybe that’s why they call it a wake.’
The Englishman’s laughter filled the silent bar, then died. A domino clacked on to a table. Another chapped. Rebus left his glass where it was and approached the group.
‘Did I hear you mention a lodge?’
The Englishman blinked slowly. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m a police officer.’ Rebus brought out his ID. The two dour regulars finished their drinks and left the bar. Funny how an ID had that effect sometimes . . .
‘Detective Inspector Rebus. Which lodge did you mean?’
All three looked sober now. It was an act, but a good act, years in the learning.
‘Well, officer,’ said the Englishman, ‘now what business is that of yours?’
‘Depends which lodge you were talking about, sir. There’s a nice police station at Dufftown if you’d prefer to go there . . .’
‘Deer Lodge,’ said the French-smoker. ‘A friend of ours owns it.’
‘Owned it,’ corrected the woman.
‘You were friends of Mrs Jack then?’
They were. Introductions were made. The Englishman was actually a Scot, Jamie Kilpatrick the antique dealer. The woman was Louise Patterson-Scott, wife (separated) of the retail tycoon. The other man was Julian Kaymer, the painter.
‘I’ve already spoken with the police,’ Julian Kaymer said. ‘They telephoned me yesterday.’
Yes, they had all been questioned, asked if they knew Mrs Jack’s movements. But they hadn’t seen her for weeks.
‘I spoke to her on the telephone,’ Mrs Patterson-Scott announced, ‘a few days before she went off on holiday. She didn’t say where she was going, just that she fancied a few days away by herself.’
‘So what are you all doing here?’ Rebus asked.
‘This is a wake,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Our little token of friendship, our time of mourning. So why don’t you bugger off and let us get on with it.’
‘Ignore him, Inspector,’ said Julian Kaymer. ‘He’s a bit pissed.’
‘What I am,’ stated Kilpatrick, ‘is a bit upset.’
‘Emotional,’ Rebus offered.
‘Exactly, Inspector.’
Kaymer carried on the story. ‘It was my idea. We’d all been on the phone to each other, none of us really able to take it in. Devastated. So I said why don’t we take a run to the lodge? That was where we all met last.’
‘At a party?’ asked Rebus.
Kaymer nodded. ‘A month back.’
‘A great bloody big piss-up it was,’ confirmed Kilpatrick.
‘So,’ said Kaymer, ‘the plan was to drive here, have a few drinks in memory of Lizzie, and drive back. Not everybody could make it. Prior commitments and so on. But here we are.’
‘Well,’ said Rebus, ‘I would like you to look inside the house. But there’s no point going out there in the dark. What I don’t want is the three of you going out there on your own. The place still has to be gone over for fingerprints.’
They looked a bit puzzled at this. ‘You haven’t heard?’ Rebus said, recalling that Curt had only revealed his findings that morning. ‘It’s a murder hunt now. Mrs Jack was murdered.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Christ . . .’
‘I’m going to be –’
And Louise Patterson-Scott, wife of the et cetera, threw up on to the carpeted floor. Julian Kaymer was weeping, and Jamie Kilpatrick was losing all the blood from his face. The barman stared in horror, while the domino players stopped their game. One of them had to restrain his dog from investigating further. It cowered under the table and licked its whiskery chops . . .
Local colour, as provided by John Rebus.
Finally, a hotel was found, not far out of Dufftown. It was arranged that the three would spend the night there. Rebus had considered asking Mrs Wilkie if she had any spare rooms, but thought better of it. They would stay at the hotel, and meet Rebus at the lodge in the morning. Bright and early: some of them had jobs to get back to.
When Rebus returned to the cottage, Mrs Wilkie was knitting by her gas fire and watching a film on the TV. He put his head round the living room door.
‘I’ll say goodnight, Mrs Wilkie.’
‘Night-night, son. Mind, say your prayers. I’ll be up to tuck you in a bit later on . . .’
Rebus made himself a mug of tea, went to his room, and wedged the chair against the door handle. He opened the window to let in some air, switched on his own little television, and fell on to the bed. There was something wrong with the picture on the TV, and he couldn’t fix it. The vertical hold had gone. So he switched it off again and dug into his bag, coming up with Fish out of Water. Well, he’d nothing else to read, and he certainly didn’t feel tired. He opened the book at chapter one.
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 bath
room, 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?’