by Ian Rankin
Bugger it. And on top of everything, he’d now to get out of the flat without being seen or heard. The taps had stopped running. No noise to cover his retreat . . . He crouched by the range and considered. The bold as brass approach might be best. Just go marching past saying something about having left behind your keys . . . Aye, sure, Kemp would fall for that. Might as well put five bar on Cowdenbeath for the league and cup double.
He found that, as he thought, he was staring at the range’s small oven, or rather at the closed door of that oven. A spider-plant sat above it, with two of its fronds trapped in the door. Dear me, he couldn’t have that, could he? So he pulled open the door, releasing the leaves. Sitting in the oven itself were some books. Old hardbacks. He lifted one and examined its spine.
John Knox on predestination. Well, wasn’t that a coincidence.
The bathroom door flew in.
‘Christ’s sake!’ Chris Kemp, who had been lying with his head floating on the surface of the water, now shot up. Rebus marched over to the toilet, lowered its lid, and made himself comfortable.
‘Carry on, Chris. Don’t mind me. Just thought I might borrow a few of your books.’ He slapped the pile he was holding. They were resting on his knees, all seven of them. ‘I like a good read.’
Kemp actually blushed. ‘Where’s your search warrant?’
Rebus looked stunned. ‘Search warrant? Why should I need a search warrant? I’m just borrowing a few books, that’s all. Thought I might show them to my old friend Professor Costello. You know Professor Costello, don’t you? Only this stuff’s right up his street. No reason why you should mind me borrowing them . . . is there? If you like, I’ll go get that search warrant and –’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Language, son,’ Rebus reprimanded. ‘Don’t forget, you’re a journalist. You’re the protector of our language. Don’t go cheapening it. You just cheapen yourself.’
‘I thought you wanted me to do you a favour?’
‘What? You mean the story about Jack and his sister?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour. I know keen young reporters who’d give their eye teeth for –’
‘What do you want?’
Now Rebus sat forward. ‘Where did you get them, Chris?’
‘The books?’ Kemp ran his hands down his sleek hair. ‘They’re my girlfriend’s. As far as I know, she borrowed them from her university library . . .’
Rebus nodded. ‘It’s a fair story. I doubt it would get you off the hook, but it’s a fair story. For a start, it won’t explain why you hid them when you knew I was on my way up to see you.’
‘Hid them? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Rebus chuckled. ‘Fine, Chris, fine. There I was, thinking I could do you a favour. Another favour, I should say. . .’
‘What favour?’
Rebus slapped the books again ‘Seeing these get back to their rightful owner without anyone needing to know where they’ve been in the interim.’
Kemp considered this. ‘In exchange for what?’
‘Whatever it is you’re keeping from me. I know you know something, or you think you do. I just want to help you do your duty.’
‘My duty?’
‘Helping the police. It is your duty, Chris.’
‘Like it’s your duty to go creeping around people’s flats without their permission.’
Rebus didn’t bother replying. He didn’t need to reply; he just needed to bide his time. Now that he had the books, he had the reporter in his pocket, too. Safe and snug for future use . . .
Kemp sighed. ‘The water’s getting cold. Mind if I get out?’
‘Any time you like. I’ll go wait next door.’
Kemp came into the living room wearing a blue towelling robe and using a matching towel to rub at his hair.
‘Tell me about your girlfriend,’ Rebus said. Kemp filled the kettle again. He had used the minute’s solitary time to do a little thinking, and he was ready now to talk.
‘Vanessa?’ he said. ‘She’s a student.’
‘A divinity student? With access to Professor Costello’s room?’
‘Everybody’s got access to Prof Costello’s room. He told you that himself.’
‘But not everyone knows a rare book when they see it . . .’
‘Vanessa also works part time in Suey Books.’
‘Ah.’ Rebus nodded. Pencilling in her prices. Earrings and a bicycle . . .
‘Old Costello’s a customer, so Vanessa knows him fairly well,’ Kemp added.
‘Well enough to steal from him, at any rate.’
Chris Kemp sighed. ‘Don’t ask me why she did it. Was she planning to sell them? I don’t know. Did she want to keep them for herself? I don’t know. I’ve asked her, believe me. Maybe she just had a . . . a brainstorm.’
‘Yes, maybe.’
‘Whatever, she reckoned Costello might not even miss them. Books are books to him. Maybe she thought he’d be as happy with the latest paperback editions . . .’
‘But she, presumably, wouldn’t be?’
‘Look, just take them back, okay? Or keep them for yourself. Anything.’
The kettle clicked off. Rebus refused the offer of more coffee. ‘So,’ he said, as Kemp made himself a mug, ‘what have you got to tell me, Chris?’
‘It’s just something Vanessa told me about her employer.’
‘Ronald Steele?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s having an affair with Mrs Rab Kinnoul.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Not your business, you see, Inspector. Nothing to do with law and order.’
‘But a juicy story nevertheless, eh?’ Rebus found it hard to talk. His head was birling again. New possibilities, new configurations. ‘So how did she come to this conclusion?’
‘It started a while back. Our entertainment correspondent on the paper had gone to interview Mr Kinnoul. But there’d been a cock-up over the dates. He turned up on a Wednesday afternoon when it should have been Thursday. Anyway, Kinnoul wasn’t there, but Mrs Kinnoul was, and she had a friend with her, a friend introduced as Ronald Steele.’
‘One friend visits another . . . I don’t see –’
‘But then Vanessa told me something. A couple of Wednesdays back, there was an emergency at the shop. Well, not exactly an emergency. Some old dear wanted to sell some of her deceased husband’s books. She brought a list to the shop. Vanessa could see there were a few gems in there, but she needed to talk to the boss first. He doesn’t trust her when it comes to the buying. Now, Wednesday afternoons are sacrosanct . . .’
‘The weekly round of golf –’
‘With Gregor Jack. Yes, precisely. But Vanessa thought, he’ll kill me if this lot get away. So she rang the golf club, out at Braidwater.’
‘I know it.’
‘And they told her that Messrs Steele and Jack had cancelled.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I started to put two and two together. Steele’s supposed to be playing golf every Wednesday, yet one Wednesday my colleague finds him out at the Kinnoul house, and another Wednesday there’s no sign of him on the golf course. Rab Kinnoul’s known to have a temper, Inspector. He’s known as a very possessive man. Do you think he knows that Steele’s visiting his wife when he’s not there?’
Rebus’s heart was racing. ‘You might have a point, Chris. You might have a point.’
‘But like I say, it’s hardly police business, is it?’
Hardly! It was absolutely police business. Two alibis chipped into the same bunker. Was Rebus nearer the end of the course than he’d suspected? Was he playing nine holes rather than eighteen? He got up from the sofa.
‘Chris, I’ve got to be going.’ Like spokes on a bicycle wheel, turning in his head: Liz Jack, Gregor Jack, Rab Kinnoul, Cath Kinnoul, Ronald Steele, Ian Urquhart, Helen Greig, Andrew Macmillan, Barney Byars, Louise Patterson-Scott, Julian Kaymer, Jamie Kilpatrick, William Glass. Li
ke spokes on a bicycle wheel.
‘Inspector Rebus?’
He paused by the door. ‘What?’
Kemp pointed to the sofa. ‘Don’t forget to take your books with you.’
Rebus stared at them as though seeing them for the first time. ‘Right,’ he said, heading back towards the sofa. ‘By the way,’ he said, picking up the bundle, ‘I know why Steele’s called Suey.’ Then he winked. ‘Remind me to tell you about it some time, when this is all over . . .’
He returned to the station, intending to share some of what he knew with his superiors. But Brian Holmes stopped him outside the Chief Superintendent’s door.
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Rebus, his fist raised high, ready to knock, paused. ‘Why not?’ he asked, every bit as quietly as Holmes himself had spoken.
‘Mrs Jack’s father’s in there.’
Sir Hugh Ferrie! Rebus lowered his hand carefully, then began backing away from the door. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into a discussion with Ferrie. Why haven’t you found . . . what are you doing about . . . when will you . . .? No, life was too short, and the hours too long.
‘Thanks, Brian. I owe you one. Who else is in there?’
‘Just the Farmer and the Fart.’
‘Best leave them to it, eh?’ They moved a safe distance from the door. ‘That list of cars you made up was pretty comprehensive. Well done.’
‘Thanks. Lauderdale never told me exactly what it was –’
‘Anything else happening?’
‘What? No, quiet as the grave. Oh, Nell thinks she might be pregnant.’
‘What?’
Holmes gave a bemused smile. ‘We’re not sure yet . . .’
‘Were you . . . you know, expecting it?’
The smiled stayed. ‘Expect the unexpected, as they say.’
Rebus whistled. ‘How does she feel about it?’
‘I think she’s holding back on the feelings till we know one way or the other.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me? If it’s a boy he’ll be called Stuart and grow up to be a doctor and a Scottish international.’
Rebus laughed. ‘And if it’s a girl?’
‘Katherine, actress.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and another bit of news – Pond’s back.’
‘Tom Pond?’
‘The very one. Back from across the pond. We reached him this morning. I thought I’d go have a talk with him, unless you want to?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘He’s all yours, Brian, for what he’s worth. Right now, he’s about the only bugger I think is in the clear. Him and Macmillan and Mr Glass.’
‘Have you seen the interview transcript?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I know you and Chief Inspector Lauderdale don’t always get on, but I’ll say this for him, he’s sharp.’
‘A Glass-cutter, you might say?’
Holmes sighed. ‘I might, but you always seem to beat me to the pun.’
Edinburgh was surrounded by golf courses catering to every taste and presenting every possible degree of difficulty. There were links courses, where the wind was as likely to blow your ball backwards as forwards. And there were hilly courses, all slope and gully, with greens and flags positioned on this or that handkerchief-sized plateau. The Braidwater course belonged to the latter category. Players made the majority of their shots trusting either to instinct or fortune, since the flag would often be hidden from view behind a rise or the brow of a hill. A cruel course designer would have tucked sand traps just the other side of these obstacles, and indeed a cruel course designer had.
People who didn’t know the course often started their round with high hopes of a spot of exercise and fresh air, but finished with high blood pressure and the dire need of a couple of drams. The club house comprised two contrasting sections. There was the original building, old and solid and grey, but to which had been added an oversized extension of breeze block and pebbledash. The old building housed committee rooms, offices and the like, but the bar was in the new building. The club secretary led Rebus into the bar, where he thought one of the committee members might be found.
The bar itself was on the first floor. One wall was all window, looking out over the eighteenth green and beyond to the rolling course itself. On another wall were framed photos, rolls of honour, mock-parchment scrolls and a pair of very old putters looking like emaciated crossbones. The club’s trophies – the small trophies – were arrayed on a shelf above the bar. The larger, the more ancient, the more valuable trophies were kept in the committee room in the old building. Rebus knew this because some of them had been stolen three years before, and he’d been one of the investigating officers. They had been recovered, too, though utterly by accident, found lying in an open suitcase by officers called out to a domestic.
The club secretary remembered Rebus though. ‘Can’t recall the name,’ he’d said, ‘but I know the face.’ He showed Rebus the new alarm system and the toughened glass case the trophies were kept in. Rebus hadn’t the heart to tell him that even an amateur burglar could still be in and out of the place in two minutes flat.
‘What will you have to drink, Inspector?’
‘I’ll have a small whisky, if it’s no trouble.’
‘No trouble at all.’
The bar wasn’t exactly busy. A late-afternoon hiatus, as the secretary had explained. Those who played in the afternoon usually liked to get started before three, while those who came for an early evening round arrived around five thirty.
Two men in identical yellow V-neck pullovers sat at a table by the window and stared out in silence, sipping from time to time at identical bloody marys. Two more men sat at the bar, one with a flat-looking half pint of beer, the other with what looked suspiciously like a glass of milk. They were all in their forties, or slightly older; all my contemporaries, thought Rebus.
‘Bill here could tell you a few stories, Inspector,’ the club secretary said, nodding towards the barman. Bill nodded back, half in greeting, half in agreement. His own V-neck was cherry red, and did nothing to hide his bulging stomach. He didn’t look like a professional barman, but took a slow, conspicuous pride in the job. Rebus reckoned him for just another member, doing his stint of duty.
Nobody had twitched at the secretary’s mention of ‘Inspector’. These men were law-abiding; or, if not, they were certainly law-abetting. They believed in law and order and that criminals should be punished. They just didn’t think fiddling your tax was a criminal act. They looked . . . secure. They thought of themselves as secure. But Rebus knew he held the skeleton keys.
‘Water, Inspector?’ The secretary pushed a jug towards him.
‘Thank you.’ Rebus adulterated the whisky. The secretary was looking around him, as though surrounded by bodies.
‘Hector’s not here. I thought he was.’
Bill the Barman chipped in: ‘He’ll be back in a sec.’
‘Gone for the proverbial jimmy,’ added the drinker of milk, while Rebus pondered which proverb he meant.
‘Ah, here he comes.’
Rebus had imagined a large Hector, curly hair, distended gut, tangerine V-neck. But this man was small and had thinning, Brylcreemed black hair. He, too, was in his forties, and peered at the world through thick-lensed, thick-rimmed glasses. His mouth was set in a defiance at odds with his appearance, and he examined Rebus thoroughly while the introductions were made.
‘How do you do?’ he said, slipping a small, damp hand into Rebus’s paw. It was like shaking hands with a well-brought-up child. His V-neck was camel-coloured but expensive-looking. Cashmere . . .?
‘Inspector Rebus,’ the secretary said, ‘is wondering about a particular round which was either played or was not played a couple of Wednesdays ago.’
‘Yes.’
‘I told him you’re the brains of the set-up, Hector.’
‘Yes.’
The se
cretary seemed to be struggling. ‘We thought maybe you’d –’
But Hector now had enough information, and had digested it. ‘First thing to do,’ he said, ‘is look at the bookings. They may not tell us the whole story, but they’re the place to start. Who was playing?’
The question was directed at Rebus. ‘Two players, sir,’ he replied. ‘A Mr Ronald Steele and a Mr Gregor Jack.’
Hector glanced behind Rebus to where the two drinkers sat at the bar. The room hadn’t exactly grown quieter, but there was a palpable change of atmosphere. The drinker of milk spoke first.
‘Those two!’
Rebus turned to him. ‘Yes, sir, those two. How do you mean?’
But it was Hector’s place to answer. ‘Messrs Jack and Steele have a regular booking. Mr Jack was an MP, you know.’
‘He still is, sir, so far as I know.’
‘Not for much longer,’ muttered the milk-drinker’s companion.
‘I’m not aware that Mr Jack has committed any crime.’
‘I should think not,’ snapped Hector.
‘He’s still a royal pain in the arse,’ commented the milk-drinker.
‘How’s that, sir?’
‘Books and never shows. Him and his cronies.’ Rebus became aware that this was a long-festering sore, and that the man’s words were directed more towards the club secretary and Hector than towards him. ‘Gets away with it, too. Just because he’s an MP.’
‘Mr Jack has been warned,’ Hector said.
‘Reprimanded,’ corrected the club secretary. The milk-drinker just screwed up his face.
‘You kissed his bloody arse and you know it.’
‘Now then, Colin,’ said Bill and the Barman, ‘no need to –’
‘It’s about time somebody said it out loud!’
‘Hear hear,’ said the beer-drinker. ‘Colin’s right.’
An argument wasn’t much use to Rebus. ‘Do I take it,’ he said, ‘that Mr Jack and Mr Steele had a regular booking, but then wouldn’t turn up?’
‘You take it absolutely right,’ said Colin.
‘Let’s not exaggerate or misrepresent,’ said Hector quietly. ‘Let us deal in facts.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Rebus, ‘while we’re dealing in facts, it’s a fact that a colleague of mine, Detective Constable Broome, came out here last week to check on whether that particular round of golf had been played. I believe he dealt with you, seeing how the club secretary here was ill that day.’