Strip Jack (14 page)

‘Lawrie.’

Rebus was more than halfway there before he realized he was headed not for Stockbridge comforts and Patience
Aitken, but for Marchmont and his own neglected flat. So be it. Inside the flat, the atmosphere managed to be both chill and stale. A coffee mug beside the telephone resembled Glasgow insofar as it, too, was a city of culture, an interesting green and white culture.

But if the living room was growing mould, surely the kitchen would be worse. Rebus sat himself down in his favourite chair, stretched for the answering machine, and settled to listen to his calls. There weren’t many. Gill Templer, wondering where he was keeping himself these days . . . as if she didn’t know. His daughter Samantha, phoning from her new flat in London, giving him her address and telephone number. Then a couple of calls where the speaker had decided not to say anything.

‘Be like that then.’ Rebus turned off the machine, drew a notebook from his pocket, and, reading the number from it, telephoned Gregor Jack. He wanted to know why Jack hadn’t said anything about his own anonymous calls. Strip Jack . . . beggar my neighbour . . . Well, if someone
were
out to beggar Gregor Jack, Jack himself didn’t seem overly concerned. He didn’t exactly seem resigned, but he did seem unbothered. Unless he was playing a game with Rebus . . . And what about Rab Kinnoul, on-screen assassin? What was he up to all the time he was away from his wife? And Ronald Steele, too, a ‘hard man to catch’. Were they
all
up to something? It wasn’t that Rebus distrusted the human race . . . wasn’t just that he was brought up a Pessimisterian. He was sure there was something happening here; he just didn’t know what it was.

There was nobody home. Or nobody was answering. Or the apparatus had been unplugged. Or . . .

‘Hello?’

Rebus glanced at his watch. Just after quarter past seven. ‘Miss Greig?’ he said. ‘Inspector Rebus here. He does keep you working late, doesn’t he?’

‘You seem to work fairly late hours yourself, Inspector. What is it this time?’

Impatience in her voice. Perhaps Urquhart had warned her
against being friendly. Perhaps it had been discovered that she’d given Rebus the address of Deer Lodge . . .

‘A word with Mr Jack, if possible.’

‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ She didn’t sound afraid; she sounded if anything a bit smug. ‘He’s speaking at a function this evening.’

‘Oh. How did his meeting go this morning?’

‘Meeting?’

‘I thought he had some meeting in his constituency . . .?’

‘Oh, that. I think it went very well.’

‘So he’s not for the chop then?’

She attempted a laugh. ‘North and South Esk would be mad to get rid of him.’

‘All the same, he must be relieved.’

‘I wouldn’t know. He was on the golf course all afternoon.’

‘Nice.’

‘I
think
an MP is allowed one afternoon off a week, don’t you, Inspector?’

‘Oh yes, absolutely. That’s what I meant.’ Rebus paused. He had nothing to say, really; he was just hoping that if he kept her talking Helen Greig herself might tell him something, something he didn’t know . . . ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘about those telephone calls . . .’

‘What calls?’

‘The ones Mr Jack was getting. The anonymous ones.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry, I’ve got to go now. My mum’s expecting me home at quarter to eight.’

‘Right you are then, Miss Gr –’ But she had already put the phone down.

Golf? This afternoon? Jack must be keen. The rain had been falling steadily in Edinburgh since midday. He looked out of his unwashed window. It wasn’t falling now, but the streets were glistening. The flat felt suddenly empty, and colder than ever. Rebus picked up the phone and made one more call. To Patience Aitken. To say he was on his way. She asked him where he was.

‘I’m at home.’

‘Oh? Picking up some more of your stuff?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You could do with bringing a spare suit if you’ve got one.’

‘Right.’

‘And some of your precious books, since you don’t seem to approve of my taste.’

‘Romances were never my thing, Patience.’ In fiction as in life, he thought to himself. On the floor around him were strewn some of his ‘precious books’. He picked one up, tried to remember buying it, couldn’t.

‘Well, bring whatever you like, John, and as much as you like. You know how much room we’ve got here.’

We. We’ve got.

‘Okay, Patience. See you later.’ He replaced the receiver with a sigh and took a look around him. After all these years, there were
still
gaps on the wall-shelves from where his wife Rhona had removed her things. Still gaps in the kitchen, too, where the tumble-drier had sat, and her precious dishwasher. Still clean rectangular spaces on the walls where her posters and prints had been hung. The flat had last been redecorated–when?–in ’81 or ’82. Ach, it still didn’t look too bad though. Who was he kidding? It looked like a squat.

‘What have you done with your life, John Rebus?’ The answer was: Not much. Gregor Jack was younger than him, and more successful. Barney Byars was younger than him, and more successful. Who did he know who was
older
than him and
less
successful? Not a single soul, discounting the beggars in the city centre, the ones he’d spent the afternoon with – without a result, but with a certain uncomfortable sense of belonging . . .

What was he thinking about? ‘You’re becoming a morbid old bugger.’ Self-pity wasn’t the answer. Moving in with Patience was the answer . . . so why didn’t it feel like one? Why did it feel like just another problem?

He rested his head against the back of the chair. I’m caught, he thought, between a cushion and a soft place. He sat there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. It was dark outside, and foggy, too, a haar drifting in across the city from the North Sea. In a haar, Edinburgh seemed to shift backwards
through time. You half expected to see press-gangs on the streets of Leith, hear coaches clattering over cobblestones and cries of gardy-loo in the High Street.

If
he sold the flat, he could buy himself a new car, send some money to Samantha.
If
he sold the flat . . .
if
he moved in with Patience . . .

‘If shit was gold,’ his father used to say, ‘you’d have a tyke at yer erse.’ The old bugger had never explained exactly what a tyke was . . .

Jesus, what made him think of that?

It was no good. He couldn’t think straight, not here. Perhaps it was that his flat held too many memories, good and bad. Perhaps it was just the mood of the evening.

Or perhaps it was that the image of Gill Templer’s face kept appearing unbidden (he told himself unbidden) in his mind . . .

Burglary with violent assault: just the thing for a dreich Thursday morning. The victim was in hospital, head bandaged and face bruised. Rebus had been to talk with her, and was at the house in Jock’s Lodge, overseeing the dusting for prints and the taking of statements, when word reached him from Great London Road. The call came from Brian Holmes.

‘Yes, Brian?’

‘There’s been another drowning.’

‘Drowning?’

‘Another body in the river.’

‘Oh Christ. Whereabouts this time?’

‘Out of town, up towards Queensferry. Another woman. She was found this morning by someone out for a walk.’ He paused while someone handed him something. Rebus heard a muted ‘thanks’ as the person moved away. ‘It could be our Mr Glass, couldn’t it?’ Holmes said now, pausing again to slurp coffee. ‘We expected him to stick around the city, but he could as easily have headed north. Queensferry’s an easy walk, and mostly across open land, well away from roads where he might be spotted. If I was on the run, that’s the way I’d do it . . .’

Yes, Rebus knew that country. Hadn’t he been out there just the other day? Quiet back roads, no traffic, nobody to notice . . . Hang on, there was a stream – no, more a river – running past the Kinnouls’ house.

‘Brian . . .’ he started.

‘And that’s another thing,’ Holmes interrupted. ‘The woman who found the body . . . guess who it was?’

‘Cathy Gow,’ Rebus said casually.

Holmes seemed puzzled, ‘Who? Anyway, no, it was Rab Kinnoul’s wife. You know, Rab Kinnoul . . . the actor. Who’s this Cathy Gow . . .?’

It was uphill from the Kinnoul house, and along the side of the hill, too. Not too far a walk, but the country grew if anything bleaker still. Fifty yards from the fast-flowing river there was a narrow road, leading eventually to a wider road which meandered down to the coast. For someone to get here, they either had to walk past the Kinnoul house, or else walk down from the road.

‘No sign of a car?’ Rebus asked Holmes. Both men had zippered their jackets against the snell wind and the occasional smirr.

‘Any car in particular?’ Holmes asked. ‘The road’s tarmac. I’ve had a look for myself. No tyre tracks.’

‘Where does it lead?’

‘It peters out into a farm track, then, surprise surprise, a farm.’ Holmes was moving his weight from one foot to the other, trying in vain to keep warm.

‘Better check at the farm and see –’

‘Someone’s up there doing precisely that.’

Rebus nodded. Holmes knew this routine well enough by now: he would do something, and Rebus would double check that it had been done.

‘And Mrs Kinnoul?’

‘She’s in the house with a WPC, drinking sweet tea.’

‘Don’t let her take too many downers. We’ll need a statement.’

Holmes was lost, until Rebus explained about his previous visit here. ‘What about Mr Kinnoul?’

‘He went off somewhere this morning early. That’s why Mrs Kinnoul went for a walk. She said she always went for a walk in the morning when she was on her own.’

‘Do we know where he’s gone?’

Holmes shrugged. ‘Just on business, that’s all she could tell us. Couldn’t say where or how long he’d be. But he should be back this evening, according to Mrs Kinnoul.’

Rebus nodded again. They were standing above the river, near the roadway. The others were down by the river itself. It was in spate after the recent rain. Just about wide enough and deep enough to be classed a river rather than a stream. The ‘others’ included police officers, dressed in waders and plunging their arms into the icy water, feeling for evidence which would long have been flushed away, forensics men, hovering above the body, the Identification Unit, similarly hovering but armed with cameras and video equipment, and Dr Curt, dressed in a long flapping raincoat, its collar turned up. He trudged towards Rebus and Holmes, reciting as he came.

‘When shall we three meet again . . . blasted heath et cetera. Good morning, Inspector.’

‘Morning, Doctor Curt. What have you got for us?’

Curt removed his glasses and wiped spots of water from them. ‘Double pneumonia, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he answered, replacing them.

‘Accident, suicide, or murder?’ asked Rebus.

Curt tut-tutted him, shaking his head sadly. ‘You know I can’t make snap decisions, Inspector. Granted, this poor woman hasn’t been in the water as long as the previous one, but all the same . . .’

‘How long?’

‘A day at most. But with the weight of water and all . . . debris and so on . . . she’s taken a bit of a battering. Lucky she was found at all, really.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Didn’t the sergeant say? Her wrist caught in a dead branch. Otherwise, she’d almost certainly have been swept down into the river and out into the sea.’

Rebus thought about the direction the river would take, bypassing the only settlements . . . yes, a body falling into the stream here might well have disappeared without trace . . .

‘Any idea who she is?’

‘No identification on the body. Plenty of rings on her
fingers though, and she’s wearing quite a nice dress, too. Care to take a look?’

‘Why not, eh? Come on, Brian.’

But Holmes stood his ground. ‘I had a look earlier, sir. Don’t let me stop you though . . .’

So Rebus followed the pathologist down the slope. He was thinking: difficult to bring a body down here . . . but you could always roll it from the top . . . yes, roll it . . . hear the splash and assume it had fallen into the river . . . you might not know the wrist had caught in a branch. But to get a body up here in the first place – dead
or
alive – surely you’d need a car. Was William Glass capable of stealing a car? Why not, everyone else seemed to know how to do it these days. Kids in primary school could show you how to do it . . .

‘Like I say,’ Curt was saying, ‘she’s been bashed about a bit . . . can’t tell yet whether post- or ante-mortem. Oh, about that other drowning at Dean Bridge . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Recent sexual intercourse. Traces of semen in the vagina. We should be able to get a DNA profile. Ah, here we go . . .’

The body had been laid out on a plastic sheet. Yes, it was a nice dress, distinctive, summery, though torn now and smeared with mud. The face was muddy, too . . . and cut . . . and swollen . . . the hair drawn back and part of the skull exposed. Rebus swallowed hard. Had he been expecting this? He wasn’t sure. But the photographs he’d seen made him sure in his mind.

‘I know her,’ he said.

‘What?’ Even the forensics men looked up at him in disbelief. The tableau must have alerted Brian Holmes, for he came stumbling down the slope to join them.

‘I said I know her. At least, I think I do. No, I’m
sure
I do. Her name is Elizabeth Jack. Her friends call her Liz or Lizzie. She’s . . . she
was
married to Gregor Jack MP.’

‘Good God,’ said Dr Curt. Rebus looked at Holmes, and Holmes stared back at him, and neither seemed to know what to say.

There was more to identification than that, of course. Much more. Death was certainly suspicious, but this had to be decided
officially
by the gentleman from the Procurator Fiscal’s office, the gentleman who now stood talking with Dr Curt, nodding his head gravely while Curt made hand gestures which would not have disgraced an excited Italian. He was explaining – explaining tirelessly, explaining for the thousandth time – about the movement of diatoms within the body, while his listener grew paler still.