10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Right you are, sir. Just one more thing . . .?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Glass . . . is he still on for the double?’

  The line went dead.

  12

  Escort Service

  The way Rebus saw it . . .

  Well, it didn’t take too much brain activity once the name had been established. The way he saw it, Ronald Steele and Elizabeth Jack had been lovers, probably for some time. (Christ, Sir Hugh was going to love this when it came out.) Maybe nobody knew. Maybe everybody but Gregor Jack knew. Anyway, Liz Jack decided to head north, and Steele joined her whenever he could. (Deer Lodge and back every day? A superhuman effort. No wonder Steele looked ready to drop all the time . . .) Deer Lodge itself though was a tip, a heap. So they moved into Pond’s cottage, only using Deer Lodge itself for fetching changes of clothes. Maybe Liz Jack had been fetching clean clothes when she’d stopped and bought the Sunday rags . . . and found out all about her husband’s apparently naughty night.

  Steele, though, had plans way above the occasional legover scenario. He wanted Liz. He wanted her to himself. The quiet ones always got intense about that sort of thing, didn’t they? He’d been making anonymous calls maybe. And sending letters. Anything to throw a spanner in the works of the marriage, anything to unsettle Gregor. Maybe that’s why Liz had headed north, to get away from it all. Steele saw his chance. He’d already been to the brothel, and he’d already discovered just who Gail Crawley was. (All it took was a halfway decent memory, and maybe a question or two asked of the likes of Cathy Kinnoul.) Ah, Cathy . . . Yes, maybe Steele was seeing her too. But Rebus doubted it was for anything but conversation and counselling. There was that side to Steele, too.

  Which didn’t do anything to stop him trying to strip Gregor Jack, his lifelong friend, ally in his bookshop, all-round good guy, to strip him completely and utterly naked. The brothel plan was simple and knife-sharp. Find out the time of the planned raid . . . a call to Gregor Jack . . . and calls beforehand to the Docklands dirt-diggers.

  The set-up. And Gregor Jack shed his first layer.

  Did Steele try to keep it from Liz? Maybe, maybe not. He thought it would be the final screw in the marriage-coffin. It nearly was. But he couldn’t be north with her all the time, telling her how great they could be together, what a shit Gregor was, et cetera, et cetera. And during the time she was alone, Liz Jack wavered, until finally she made up her mind not to leave Gregor but to leave Steele. Something like that. She was unpredictable after all. She was fire. And they argued. In his interview, he’d alluded to the argument itself: She always accused me of not being enough fun . . . and I never had enough money either . . . So they argued, and he stormed off, leaving her in the lay-by. Alec Corbie’s blue car had been a green car, the green Citroën BX. Steele had sped off, only to return and continue the argument, an argument which became violent, violence which went a little too far . . .

  The next bit was, to Rebus’s mind, the cleverest, either that or the most fortuitous. Steele had to dump the body. The first thing to do was to get it away from the Highlands: there were too many clues up there to the fact that they’d spent time together. So he headed back towards Edinburgh with her in the boot. But what to do with her? Wait, there had been another killing, hadn’t there? A body dumped in a river. He could make it look the same. Better still, he could send her body out to sea. So he headed for someplace he knew: the hill above the Kinnoul house. He’d walked up there with Cathy so many times. He knew the small road, a road never used. And he knew that even if the body were found, the first suspect would be the Dean Bridge killer. So, at some point, he gave her that blow to the head, the blow so like the one administered to the Dean Bridge victim.

  And the beautiful irony was: his alibi for the afternoon was provided by Gregor Jack himself.

  ‘And that’s how you see it, is it?’

  The meeting was in Watson’s office: Watson, Lauderdale and Rebus. On the way in, Rebus had passed Brian Holmes.

  ‘I hear there’s a meeting in the Farmhouse.’

  ‘You’ve got good hearing.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘You mean you’re not on the guest list, Brian?’ Rebus winked. ‘Too bad. I’ll try to bring you a doggie-bag.’

  ‘Big of you.’

  Rebus turned. ‘Look, Brian, the paint’s hardly dry on your promotion as it is. Relax, take it easy. If you’re looking for a quick road to Detective Inspector, go track down Lord Lucan. Meantime, I’m expected elsewhere, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Too cocky by half, thought Rebus. But speaking of cocky, he was doing a bit of strutting himself, wasn’t he? Sitting here in Watson’s office, spouting forth, while Lauderdale looked worriedly towards his suddenly caffeine-free superior.

  ‘And that’s how you see it, is it?’ The question was Watson’s. Rebus merely shrugged.

  ‘It sounds plausible,’ said Lauderdale. Rebus raised half an eyebrow: having Lauderdale’s support was a bit like locking yourself in with a starved alsatian . . .

  ‘What about Mr Glass?’ asked Watson.

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Lauderdale, shifting a little in his seat, ‘psychiatric reports don’t show him to be the most stable individual. He lives in a sort of fantasy world, you might say.’

  ‘You mean he made it up?’

  ‘Very probably.’

  ‘Which brings us back to Mr Steele. I think we’d better have him in for a word, hadn’t we. Did you say you brought him in yesterday, John?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. I thought we might give the boot of his car a once-over. But Mr Lauderdale seemed convinced by Steele’s story and let him go.’

  The look on Lauderdale’s face would remain long in Rebus’s memory. Man bites alsatian.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Watson, also seeming to enjoy Lauderdale’s discomfort.

  ‘We’d no reason to hold him then, sir. It’s only information received this morning which has allowed us –’

  ‘All right, all right. So have we picked him up again?’

  ‘He’s not at home, sir,’ said Rebus. ‘I checked last night and then again this morning.’

  Both men looked at him. Watson’s look said: Very efficient. Lauderdale’s look said: You bastard.

  ‘Well,’ said Watson, ‘we’d better get a warrant out, hadn’t we? I think there’s quite enough that needs explaining by Mr Steele.’

  ‘His car’s still in its garage, sir. We could get forensics to take a look at it. Most probably he’ll have cleaned it, but you never know . . .’

  Forensics? They loved Rebus. He was their patron saint.

  ‘Right you are, John,’ said Watson. ‘See to it, will you?’ He turned to Lauderdale. ‘Another cup of coffee? There’s plenty in the pot, and you seem to be the only one drinking it . . .’

  Strut, strut, strut. He was the little red rooster. He was the cock of the north. He’d felt it all along, of course: Ronald Steele. Suey, who had once tried to commit suicide when found by a girl masturbating in his hotel room.

  ‘Bound to be a bit screwed up.’ Who needed a psychology degree? What Rebus needed now was a combination of orienteering skills and old-fashioned man-hunting. His instincts told him that Steele would have headed south, leaving the car behind. (What use was it, after all? The police already had its description and licence number, and he’d known they were closing in. Or rather, he’d known Rebus was closing in.)

  ‘Ain’t nothing but a bloodhound,’ he sang to himself. He’d just phoned the hospital where Cathy Kinnoul was now a patient. Early days, he’d been told, but she’d had a peaceful night. Rab Kinnoul, however, hadn’t been near. Maybe this was understandable. It could be that she’d go for him with a broken water jug or try to strangle him with pyjama cord. All the same, Kinnoul was as shitty as the rest of them. Gregor Jack, too, risking all for a career in politics, a career he’d planned from birth, it seemed. Marrying Liz Ferrie not for herself but for her father. Completely unable
to control her, so that he just stuffed her into a compartment, dusting her off for photo-shoots and the occasional public engagement. Yes, shitty. Only one person, to Rebus’s mind, came out of this with anything like dignity intact, and that person was a burglar.

  The forensics team had come up with a match for the prints on the microwave: Julian Kaymer. He’d swiped Jamie Kilpatrick’s keys and driven to Deer Lodge in the dead of night, smashing the window to gain entry.

  Why? To tidy away evidence of anything too scandalous. Which meant the cocaine-stained hand-mirror and two pairs of tights tied to a four-poster. Why? Simple: to protect what he could of a friend’s reputation . . . a dead friend’s reputation. Pathetic, but noble, too, in a way. Stealing the microwave was outrageous really. PC Plod was supposed to put the whole thing down to kids, smashing their way into an empty house on the off-chance . . . and making off not with the hi-fi (always a favourite), but with the microwave. He’d driven off with it, then thrown it away, only to have it found by the magpie himself, Alec Corbie.

  Yes, Steele would be in London by now. His shop operated in the sphere of cash. There would have been some hidden somewhere; perhaps quite a lot. He might be on a flight out of Heathrow or Gatwick, a train to the coast and the boat over to France.

  ‘Trains and boats and planes . . .’

  ‘Somebody sounds happy.’ It was Brian Holmes, standing in the doorway to Rebus’s office. Rebus was seated at his desk, feet resting on the desk itself, hands behind his head. ‘Mind if I come in, or do we need to reserve tickets to touch your hem?’

  ‘You leave my hem out of this. Sit down.’ Holmes was halfway to the chair when he tripped over a gash in the linoleum. He put his hands out to save himself, and found himself sprawled on Rebus’s desktop, an inch from one of the shoes.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘you may kiss them.’

  Holmes managed something between a smile and a grimace. ‘This place really should be condemned.’ He slumped into the chair.

  ‘Mind out for the shoogly leg,’ warned Rebus. ‘Any progress on Steele?’

  ‘Not much.’ Holmes paused. ‘None at all, really. Why didn’t he take his car?’

  ‘We know it too well, remember? I thought you were responsible for putting together that list? Everybody in the world’s car make, colour and registration number. Oh no, I forgot, you delegated the work to a detective constable.’

  ‘What was it for anyway?’ Rebus stared at him. ‘Seriously. I’m just a sergeant, as you’ll recall. Nobody tells me anything. Lauderdale was vaguer even than usual.’

  ‘Mrs Jack’s BMW was parked in a lay-by,’ explained Rebus.

  ‘That much I knew.’

  ‘So was another car. An eye witness said it might be blue. It wasn’t, it was green.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Holmes, ‘I meant to ask you: what was she waiting around for?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Jack. At that lay-by, what was she hanging around there for?’ While Rebus considered this, Holmes thought of another question. ‘What about Mr Jack’s car?’

  Rebus sighed. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t get a good look at it that night you dragged me out there . . . I mean, it was in the garage, and there were lights to the front and back of the house, but not to the side. But you did say to have a snoop. The side door to the garage was open, so I wandered in. Too dark really, and I couldn’t find the light switch. . .’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Brian, get on with it!’

  ‘Well, I was only going to ask: what about the car in Jack’s garage? It was blue. At least, I think it was blue.’

  This time, Rebus rubbed his temples. ‘It’s white,’ he explained, slowly. ‘It’s a white Saab.’

  But Holmes was shaking his head. ‘Blue,’ he said. ‘It could never have been white, it was blue. And it was an Escort, definitely an Escort.’

  Rebus stopped rubbing his temples. ‘What?’

  ‘There was some stuff on the passenger seat, too. I peered in through the side window. All that bumpf they give you with hire cars. That sort of thing. Yes, the more I think back on it, the clearer it comes. A blue Ford Escort. And whatever else was in that garage, there certainly wasn’t room to swing a Saab . . .’

  No rooster now, no strutting cock, no bloodhound. But rather cowed, sheepish, with his tail between his legs . . . Rebus took Holmes and his story to Watson first, and Watson called for Lauderdale.

  ‘I thought,’ Lauderdale said to Rebus, ‘you told us Mr Jack’s car was white?’

  ‘It is white, sir.’

  ‘You’re sure it was a hire car?’ Watson asked Holmes. Holmes thought again before nodding. This was serious. He was where he wanted to be, in the thick of things, but he was realizing, too, that here one mistake – one slightest error – could send him to limbo.

  ‘We can check,’ said Rebus.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Phone Gregor Jack’s house and ask.’

  ‘And warn him off?’

  ‘We don’t have to talk to Jack. Ian Urquhart or Helen Greig would know.’

  ‘They could still tip him off.’

  ‘Maybe. Of course, there’s another possibility. The car Brian saw could have been Urquhart’s or even Miss Greig’s.’

  ‘Miss Greig doesn’t drive,’ said Holmes. ‘And Urquhart’s car’s nothing like the one I saw. Remember, they’ve all been checked.’

  ‘Well, whatever,’ said Watson, ‘let’s tread carefully, eh? Get on to the hire firms first.’

  ‘What about Steele?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Until we know what we’re dealing with, we still want to talk to him.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Lauderdale. He seemed aware that Watson was back in control, at least for now.

  ‘Well,’ said Watson, ‘what are you all waiting for? Jump to it!’

  They jumped.

  There weren’t that many hire firms in Edinburgh, and the third call brought a result. Yes, Mr Jack had hired a car for a few days. Yes, a blue Ford Escort. Did he give any reason for the hire? Yes, his own car was going in for a service.

  And, thought Rebus, he needed a change of cars so he could escape the attentions of the press. Christ, hadn’t Rebus put the idea into his head himself? Your car’s out there . . . being photographed . . . everyone’ll know what it looks like. So Jack had hired another car for a few days, just to help him get around incognito.

  Rebus stared at the office wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He would have banged his head against the wall if he could have been sure it wouldn’t fall down . . .

  It had been a devil of a job, the man from the hire firm said. The client had wanted his car-phone transferred from his own car to the hire car.

  Of course: how else could Liz Jack have contacted him? He had been on the move all day, hadn’t he?

  Had the hire car been cleaned since its return? Naturally, a full valet service. What about the boot? The boot? The boot, had it been cleaned too? A bit of a wipe maybe . . . Where was the car now? On hire again, a London businessman. A forty-eight-hour hire only, and due back by six o’clock. It was now a quarter to five. Two CID men would be waiting to drive it from the car-hire offices to the police pound. Were there any forensics people available at Fettes HQ . . .?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Not the same car returning to the lay-by, but another car. Holmes had asked the question: what had Liz Jack been waiting for? She’d been waiting for her husband. She must have telephoned him from the box in the lay-by. She’d just had the argument with Steele. Too upset to drive herself home maybe. So he’d told her to wait there and he’d pick her up. He had a free afternoon anyway. He’d pick her up in the blue Escort. But when he’d arrived there had been another argument. About what? It could have been anything. What would it take to smash the ice that was Gregor Jack? The original newspaper story? The police finding evidence of his wife’s lifestyle? Shame and embarrassment? The thought of further public scrutiny, of losing his precious constituency?

 
There was enough there to be going on with.

  ‘Okay,’ said Lauderdale, ‘so we’ve got the car. Let’s see if Jack’s at home.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘You phone, John.’

  Rebus phoned. Helen Greig answered.

  ‘Hello, Miss Greig. It’s Inspector Rebus.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ she blurted out. ‘I haven’t seen him all day, or yesterday come to that.’

  ‘But he’s not in London?’

  ‘We don’t know where he is. He was with you yesterday morning, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He came into the station, yes.’

  ‘Ian’s going up the wall.’

  ‘What about the Saab?’

  ‘It’s not here either. Hold on . . .’ She placed her hand over the mouthpiece, but not very effectively. ‘It’s that Inspector Rebus,’ he heard her say. Then a frantic hiss: ‘Don’t tell him anything!’ And Helen again: ‘Too late, Ian.’ Followed by a sort of snarl. She removed her hand.

  ‘Miss Greig,’ said Rebus, ‘how has Gregor seemed?’

  ‘Same as you might expect of a man whose wife’s been murdered.’

  ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘Depressed. He’s been sitting around in the living room, just staring into space, not saying much. Like he was thinking. Funny, the only time I got a conversation out of him was when he asked me about last year’s holiday.’

  ‘The one you went on with your mum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remind me, where did you go again?’

  ‘Down the coast,’ she said. ‘Eyemouth, round there.’

  Yes, of course. Jack had uttered the name of the first town that had come to mind. Then he’d pumped Helen for details so he could prop up his rickety story . . .

  He put down the receiver.

  ‘Well?’asked Watson.

  ‘His car’s gone, and Gregor Jack with it. All that stuff he told us about Eyemouth . . . eye wash more like . . . he got it all from his secretary. She went there on holiday last year.’

  The room was stuffy, the late afternoon outside preparing itself for thunder. Watson spoke first.

  ‘What a mess.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lauderdale.