Authors: Ian Rankin
‘Fine, Rab.’
Kinnoul looked at Rebus again. The grin had disappeared. ‘Maybe you’d like to see the library, Inspector? Cath and you can have a chat in there.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Rebus took the back roads on his way into Edinburgh. They were nicer, certainly quieter. He’d learned very little in the
Kinnoul’s library, except that Kinnoul felt protective towards his wife, so protective that he’d felt unable to leave Rebus alone with her. What was he afraid of? He had stalked the library, had pretended to browse, and sat down with a book, all the time listening as Rebus asked his simple questions and left the simple list and asked Cath Kinnoul to be on the lookout. And she’d nodded, fingering the xeroxed sheet of paper.
The ‘library’ in fact was an upper room of the house, probably intended at one time as a bedroom. Two walls had been fitted with shelves, most of them sheeted with sliding glass doors. And behind these sheets of glass sat a dull collection of books – dull to Rebus’s eyes, but they seemed enough to bring Cath Kinnoul out of her daydreams. She pointed out some of the exhibits to Rebus.
‘Fine first edition . . . rebound in calfskin . . . some pages still uncut. Just think, that book was printed in 1789, but if I cut open those pages I’d be the first person ever to read them. Oh, and that’s a Creech edition of Burns . . . first time Burns was published in Edinburgh. And I’ve some modern books, too. There’s Muriel Spark . . .
Midnight’s Children
. . . George Orwell . . .’
‘Have you read them all?’
She looked at Rebus as though he’d asked her about her sexual preferences. Kinnoul interrupted.
‘Cath’s a collector, Inspector.’ He came over and put his arm around her. ‘It could have been stamps or porcelain or old china dolls, couldn’t it, love? But it’s books. She collects books.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘She doesn’t read them. She collects them.’
Rebus shook his head now, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He’d shoved a Rolling Stones tape into the car’s cassette player. An aid to constructive thought. On the one hand, you had Professor Costello, with his marvellous library, the books read and reread, worth a fortune but still there for the borrowing . . . for the
reading
. And on the other hand there was Cath Kinnoul. He didn’t quite know why he felt so sorry for her. It couldn’t be easy being married to . . .
well, she’d said it herself, hadn’t she? Except that she’d been talking about Elizabeth Jack. Rebus was intrigued by Mrs Jack. More, he was becoming
fascinated
by her. He hoped he would meet her soon . . .
The call from Dufftown came just as he got into the office. On the stairs, he’d been told of another rumour. By the middle of next week, there would be official notification that Great London Road was to close. Then back I go to Marchmont, Rebus thought.
The telephone was ringing. It was always ringing either just as he was coming in, or else just as he was about to go out. He could sit in his chair for hours and never once . . .
‘Hello, Rebus here.’
There was a pause, and enough snap-crackle over the line for the call to be trans-Siberian.
‘Is that Inspector Rebus?’
Rebus sighed and fell into his chair. ‘Speaking.’
‘Hello, sir. This is a terrible line. It’s Constable Moffat. You wanted someone to go to Deer Lodge.’
Rebus perked up. ‘That’s right.’
‘Well, sir, I’ve just been over there and –’ And there was a noise like an excited geiger counter. Rebus held the receiver away from his ear. When the noise had stopped, the constable was still speaking. ‘I don’t know what more I can tell you, sir.’
‘You can tell me the whole bloody lot again for a start,’ Rebus said. ‘The line went supernova for a minute there.’
Constable Moffat began again, articulating his words as though in conversation with a retard. ‘I was saying, sir, that I went over to Deer Lodge, but there’s no one at home. No car outside. I had a look through the windows. I’d say someone
had
been there at some time. Looked like there’d been a bit of a party. Wine bottles and glasses and stuff. But there’s no one there at the minute.’
‘Did you ask any of the neighbours . . .?’ As he said it, Rebus knew this to be a stupid question. The constable was already laughing.
‘There
aren’t
any neighbours, sir. The nearest would be Mr and Mrs Kennoway, but they’re a mile hike the other side of the hills.’
‘I see. And there’s nothing else you can tell me?’
‘Not that I can think of. If there was anything in particular . . .? I mean, I know the lodge is owned by that MP, and I saw in the papers . . .’
‘No,’ Rebus was quick to say, ‘nothing to do with that.’ He didn’t want
more
rumours being tossed around like so many cabers at a Highland games. ‘Just wanted a word with Mrs Jack. We thought she might be up there.’
‘Aye, she’s up this way occasionally, so I hear.’
‘Well, if you hear anything else, let me know, won’t you?’
‘Goes without saying, sir.’ Which, Rebus supposed, it did. The constable sounded a bit hurt.
‘And thanks for your help,’ Rebus added, but received only a curt ‘Aye’ before the phone went dead.
‘Fuck you too, pal,’ he said to himself, before going off in search of Gregor Jack’s home telephone number.
Of course, there was an almighty chance that the phone would still be unplugged. Still, it was worth a try. The number itself would be on computer, but Rebus reckoned he’d be quicker looking for it in the filing cabinet. And sure enough, he found a sheet of paper headed ‘Parliamentary Constituencies in Edinburgh and Lothians’ on which were given the home addresses and telephone numbers of the area’s eleven MPs. He punched in the ten numbers, waited, and was rewarded with the ringing tone. Not that that meant –
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mr Urquhart?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Urquhart’s not here right at the moment –’
But of course by now Rebus recognized the voice. ‘Is that you, Mr Jack? It’s Inspector Rebus here. We met yester –’
‘Why yes, hello, Inspector. You’re in luck. We plugged the phone back in this morning, and Ian’s spent all day taking calls. He’s just taken a break. He thought we should unplug
the thing again, but I plugged it back in myself when he’d gone. I hate to think I’m completely cut off. My constituents, after all, might need to get –’
‘What about Miss Greig?’
‘She’s working. Work must go on, Inspector. There’s an office to the back of the house where she does the typing and so on. Helen’s really been a –’
‘And Mrs Jack? Any news?’
Now the flow seemed to have dried up. There was a parched cough. Rebus could visualize a readjustment of facial features, maybe even a scratching of finger, a running of fingers through hair . . .
‘Why . . . yes, funny you should mention it. She phoned this morning.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, poor love. Said she’d been trying for hours, but of course the phone was disconnected all day Sunday and busy most of today –’
‘She’s at your cottage then?’
‘That’s right, yes. Spending a week there. I told her to stay put. No point in her getting dragged into all this rubbish, is there? It’ll soon blow over. My solicitor –’
‘We’ve checked Deer Lodge, Mr Jack.’
Another pause. Then: ‘Oh?’
‘She doesn’t seem to be there. No sign of life.’
There was sweat beneath the collar of Rebus’s shirt. He could blame it on the heating of course. But he knew the heating wasn’t
all
to blame. Where was this leading? What was he wandering into?
‘Oh.’ A statement this time, a deflated sound. ‘I see.’
‘Mr Jack, is there anything you’d like to tell me?’
‘Yes, Inspector, there is, I suppose.’
Carefully: ‘Would you like me to come over?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just sit tight, all right?’
No answer.
‘All right, Mr Jack?’
‘Yes.’
But Gregor Jack didn’t sound it.
Of course, Rebus’s car wouldn’t start. The sound it made was more and more like an emphysema patient’s last hacking laugh. Herka-herka-her-ka-ka. Herka-herka-her.
‘Having trouble?’ This was yelled from across the car park by Brian Holmes, waving and about to get into his own car. Rebus slammed his car door shut and walked briskly over to where Holmes was just – with a first-time turn of the ignition – starting his Metro.
‘Off home?’
‘Yes.’ A nod towards Rebus’s doomed car. ‘Doesn’t sound as if you are. Want a lift?’
‘As it happens, Brian, yes. And you can come along for the ride if you like.’
‘I don’t get it.’
Rebus was trying to open the passenger-side door, without success. Holmes hesitated a moment before unlocking it.
‘It’s my turn to cook tonight,’ he said. ‘Nell’ll be up to high doh if I’m late . . .’
Rebus settled into the passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt down across his chest.
‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way.’
‘The way where?’
‘Not far from where you live. You won’t be late, honest. I’ll get a car to bring me back into town. But I’d quite like your attendance.’
Holmes wasn’t slow; careful – yes, but never slow. ‘You mean the male member,’ he said. ‘What’s he done this time?’
‘I shudder to think, Brian. Believe me, I shudder to think.’
There were no pressmen patrolling the gates, and the gates themselves were unlocked. The car had been put away in the garage, leaving the driveway clear. They left Holmes’ car sitting on the main road outside.
‘Quite a place,’ Holmes commented.
‘Wait till you see inside. It’s like a film set, Ingmar Bergman or something.’
Holmes shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘You, coming out here yesterday, barging your way in –’
‘Hardly barging, Brian. Now listen, I’m going to have a word with Jack. You sniff around, see if anything smells rotten.’
‘You mean literally rotten?’
‘I’m not expecting to find decomposing bodies in the flower beds, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, just keep your eyes open and your ears keen.’
‘And my nose wet?’
‘If you haven’t got a handkerchief on you, yes.’
They separated, Rebus to the front door, Holmes around to the side of the house, towards the garage. Rebus rang the doorbell. It was nearly six. No doubt Helen Greig would be on her way home . . .
But it was Helen Greig who answered the door.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Come in. Gregor’s in the living room. You know the way.’
‘Indeed I do. Keeping you busy, is he?’ He laid a finger on the face of his wristwatch.
‘Oh yes,’ she said smiling, ‘he’s a real slavemaster.’
An unkind image came to Rebus then, of Jack in leather gear and Helen Greig on a leash . . . He blinked it away. ‘Does he seem all right?’
‘Who? Gregor?’ She gave a quiet laugh. ‘He seems fine, under the circumstances. Why?’
‘Just wondering, that’s all.’
She thought for a moment, seemed about to say something, then remembered her place. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Right, see you later then.’ And off she went, back past the curving staircase, back to her office to the rear of the house. Damn, he hadn’t told Holmes about her. If Holmes peered in through the office window . . . Oh well. If he heard a scream, he’d know what had happened. He opened the living room door.
Gregor Jack was alone. Alone and listening to his hi-fi. The volume was low, but Rebus recognized the Rolling Stones. It was the album he’d been listening to earlier,
Let It Bleed
.
Jack rose from his leather sofa, a glass of whisky in one hand. ‘Inspector, you didn’t take long. You’ve caught me indulging in my secret vice. Well, we all have
one
secret vice, don’t we?’
Rebus thought again of the scene at the brothel. And Jack seemed to read his mind, for he gave an embarrassed smile. Rebus shook the proffered hand. He noticed that a plaster had been stuck on the left hand’s offending finger. One secret vice, and one tiny flaw . . .
Jack saw him noticing. ‘Eczema,’ he explained, and seemed about to say more.
‘Yes, you said.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘You’ll have to forgive me, Inspector. I don’t usually repeat myself. But what with yesterday and everything . . .’
‘Understood.’ Past Jack, Rebus noticed a card standing on the mantelpiece. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Jack realized he had a glass in his hand. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘You can, sir, and I accept.’
‘Whisky all right? I don’t think there’s much else . . .’
‘Whatever you’re having, Mr Jack.’ And for some reason he added: ‘I like the Rolling Stones myself, their earlier stuff.’
‘Agreed,’ said Jack. ‘The music scene these days, it’s all rubbish, isn’t it?’ He’d gone over to the wall to the left of the fireplace, where glass shelves held a series of bottles and glasses. As he poured, Rebus walked over to the table where yesterday Urquhart had been fussing with some papers. There were letters, waiting to be signed (all with the House of Commons portcullis at the head), and some notes relating to parliamentary business.
‘This job,’ Jack was saying, approaching with Rebus’s drink, ‘really is what you make of it. There are some MPs
who do the minimum necessary, and believe me that’s still plenty. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ They both drank.
‘Then there are those,’ said Jack, ‘who go for the maximum. They do their constituency work, and they become involved in the parliamentary process, the wider world. They debate, they write, they attend . . .’
‘And which camp do you belong to, sir?’ He talks too much, Rebus was thinking, and yet he says so little . . .
‘Straight down the middle,’ said Jack, steering a course with his flattened hand. ‘Here, sit down.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ They both sat, Rebus on the chair, Jack on the sofa. Rebus had noticed straight away that the whisky was watered, and he wondered by whom? And did Jack know about it? ‘Now then,’ said Rebus, ‘you said on the phone that there was something –’
Jack used a remote control to switch off the music. He aimed the remote at the wall, it seemed to Rebus. There was no hi-fi system in sight. ‘I want to get things straight about my wife, Inspector,’ he said. ‘About Liz. I
am
worried about her, I admit it. I didn’t want to say anything before . . .’