by Ian Rankin
‘Yes, that’s right. But it’s called Thomson’s now.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Final question,’ he said. ‘What did Suzanne do on Tuesdays at four?’
‘Nothing special. I think she had some drama group at school.’
‘Thank you, Mr McKenzie. Sorry to have troubled you. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Inspector.’
Rebus stood on the top step, breathing in lungfuls of fresh air. Too much of a good thing could be stifling. He wondered if Suzanne McKenzie had felt stifled. He still wondered why she had died. And, knowing her father would be the first to find her, why had she lain down naked in the bath? Rebus had seen suicides before - lots of them - but whether they chose the bathroom or the bedroom, they were always clothed.
‘Naked I came,’ he thought to himself, remembering the passage from the Book of Job, ‘and naked shall return.’
On his way to Hawthornden School for Girls, Rebus received a message from Detective Constable Holmes, who had returned to the station.
‘Go ahead,’ said Rebus. The radio crackled. The sky overhead was the colour of a bruise, the static in the air playing havoc with the radio’s reception.
‘I’ve just run McKenzie’s name through the computer,’ said Holmes, ‘and come up with something you might be interested in.’
Rebus smiled. Holmes was as thorough as any airport sniffer dog. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Are you going to tell me, or do I have to buy the paperback?’
There was a hurt pause before Holmes began to speak and Rebus remembered how sensitive to criticism the younger man could be. ‘It seems,’ Holmes said at last, ‘that Mr McKenzie was arrested several months back for loitering outside a school.’
‘Oh? Which school?’
‘Murrayfield Comprehensive. He wasn’t charged, but it’s on record that he was taken to Murrayfield police station and questioned.’
‘That is interesting. I’ll talk to you later.’ Rebus terminated the call. The rain had started to fall in heavy drops. He picked up the radio again and asked to be put through to Murrayfield police station. His luck was in. A colleague there remembered the whole incident.
‘We kept it quiet, of course,’ the Inspector told Rebus. ‘And McKenzie swore he’d just stopped there to call into his office. But the teachers at the school were adamant he’d parked there before, during the lunch-break. It’s not the most refined area of town after all, is it? A Daimler does tend to stand out from the crowd around there, especially when there isn’t a bride in the back of it.’
‘I take your point,’ said Rebus, smiling. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, one of the kids told a teacher he’d seen someone get into McKenzie’s Daimler once, but we couldn’t find any evidence of that.’
‘Vivid imaginations, these kids,’ Rebus agreed. This was all his colleague could tell him, but it was enough to muddy the water. Had Suzanne discovered her father’s secret and, ashamed, killed herself? Or perhaps her schoolfriends had found out and teased her about it? If McKenzie liked kids, there might even be a tang of incest about the whole thing. That would at least go some way towards explaining Suzanne’s nudity: she wasn’t putting on show anything her father hadn’t seen before. But what about The Gentlemen’s Club? Where did it fit in? At Hawthornden School, Rebus hoped he might find some answers.
It was the sort of school fathers sent their daughters to so that they might learn the arts of femininity and ruthlessness. The headmistress, as imposing a character as the school building itself, fed Rebus on cakes and tea before leading him to Suzanne’s form mistress, a Miss Selkirk, who had prepared more tea for him in her little private room.
Yes, she told him, Suzanne had been a very popular girl and news of her death came as quite a shock. She had run around with Hazel Frazer, the banker’s daughter. A very vivacious girl, Hazel, head of school this year, though Suzanne hadn’t been far behind in the running. A competitive pair, their marks for maths, English, languages almost identical. Suzanne the better at sciences; Hazel the better at economics and accounts. Splendid girls, the pair of them.
Biting into his fourth or fifth cake, Rebus nodded again. These women were all so commanding that he had begun to feel like a schoolboy himself. He sat with knees primly together, smiling, asking his questions almost apologetically.
‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘the name The Gentlemen’s Club means anything to you?’
Miss Selkirk thought hard. ‘Is it,’ she said at last, ‘the name of a discotheque?’
Rebus smiled. ‘I don’t think so. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, it’s just that I do seem to recall having heard it before from one of the girls, quite recently, but only in passing.’
Rebus looked disappointed.
‘I am sorry, Inspector.’ She tapped her skull. ‘This old head of mine isn’t what it used to be.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ said Rebus quietly. ‘One last thing, do you happen to know who takes the school’s drama classes?’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Selkirk, ‘that’s young Miss Phillips, the English teacher.’
Miss Phillips, who insisted that Rebus call her Jilly, was not only young but also very attractive. Waves of long auburn hair fell over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were dark and moist with recently shed tears. Rebus felt more awkward than ever.
‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that you run the school’s drama group.’
‘That’s right.’ Her voice was fragile as porcelain.
‘And Suzanne was in the group?’
‘Yes. She was due to play Celia in our production of As You Like It.’
‘Oh?’
‘That’s Shakespeare, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘I do know.’
They were talking in the corridor, just outside her classroom, and through the panes of glass in the door, Rebus could see a class of fairly mature girls, healthy and from well-ordered homes, whispering together and giggling. Odd that, considering they’d just lost a friend.
‘Celia,’ he said, ‘is Duke Frederick’s daughter, isn’t she?’
‘I’m impressed, Inspector.’
‘It’s not my favourite Shakespeare play,’ Rebus explained, ‘but I remember seeing it at the Festival a few years back. Celia has a friend, doesn’t she?’
‘That’s right, Rosalind.’
‘So who was going to play Rosalind?’
‘Hazel Frazer.’
Rebus nodded slowly at this. It made sense. ‘Is Hazel in your classroom at the moment?’
‘Yes, she’s the one with the long black hair. Do you see her?’
Oh yes, Rebus could see her. She sat, calm and imperturbable, at the still centre of a sea of admirers. The other girls giggled and whispered around her, hoping to catch her attention or a few words of praise, while she sat oblivious to it all.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I see her.’
‘Would you care to speak with her, Inspector?’
He knew Hazel was aware of him, even though she averted her eyes from the door. Indeed, he knew precisely because she refused to look, while the other girls glanced towards the corridor from time to time, interested in this interruption to their classwork. Interested and curious. Hazel pretended to be neither, which in itself interested Rebus.
‘No,’ he said to Jilly Phillips, ‘not just now. She’s probably upset, and it wouldn’t do much good for me to go asking her questions under the circumstances. There was one thing, though.’
‘Yes, Inspector?’
‘This after-school drama group of yours, the one that meets on Tuesdays, it doesn’t happen to have a nickname, does it?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Jilly Phillips furrowed her brow. ‘But, Inspector?’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re under some kind of misapprehension. The drama group meets on Fridays, not Tuesdays. And we meet before lunch.’
Rebus drove out of the school grounds and parked by the side of the busy main road. The drama group met during school hours, so
what had Suzanne done on Tuesdays after school, while her parents thought she was there? At least, McKenzie had said he’d thought that’s what she’d done on Tuesdays. Suppose he’d been lying? Then what?
A maroon-coloured bus roared past Rebus’s car. A 135, on its way to Princes Street. He started up the car again and followed it along its route, all the time thinking through the details of Suzanne’s suicide. Until suddenly, with blinding clarity, he saw the truth of the thing, and bit his bottom lip fiercely, wondering just what on earth he could - should - do about it.
Well, the longer he thought about doing something, the harder it would become to do it. So he called Holmes and asked him for a large favour, before driving over to the house owned by Sir Jimmy Frazer.
Frazer was not just part of the Edinburgh establishment - in many ways he was that establishment. Born and educated in the city, he had won hard-earned respect, friendship and awe on his way to the top. The nineteenth-century walled house in which his family made its home was part of his story. It had been about to be bought by a company, an English company, and knocked down to make way for a new apartment block. There were public protests about this act of vandalism and in had stepped Sir Jimmy Frazer, purchasing the house and making it his own.
That had been years ago, but it was a story still heard told by hard men to other hard men in watering holes throughout the city. Rebus examined the house as he drove in through the open gates. It was an ugly near-Gothic invention, mock turrets and spires, hard, cold and uninviting. A maid answered the door. Rebus introduced himself and was ushered into a large drawing-room, where Sir Jimmy’s wife, tall and dark haired like her daughter, waited.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Lady -’ Rebus was cut short by an imperious hand, but an open smile.
‘Just Deborah, please.’ And she motioned for Rebus to sit.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but -’
‘Yes, your call was intriguing, Inspector. Of course, I’ll do what I can. It’s a tragedy, poor Suzanne.’
‘You knew her then?’
‘Of course. Whyever shouldn’t we know her? She visited practically every Tuesday.’
‘Oh?’ Rebus had suspected as much, but was keen to learn more.
‘After school,’ Lady Deborah continued. ‘Hazel and Suzanne and a few other chums would come back here. They didn’t stay late.’
‘But what exactly did they do?’
She laughed. ‘I’ve no idea. What do girls of that age do? Play records? Talk about boys? Try to defer growing up?’ She gave a wry smile, perhaps thinking of her own past. Rebus checked his wristwatch casually. Five to four. He had a few minutes yet.
‘Did they,’ he asked, ‘confine themselves to your daughter’s room?’
‘More or less. Not her bedroom, of course. There’s an old playroom upstairs. Hazel uses that as a kind of den.’
Rebus nodded. ‘May I see it?’
Lady Deborah seemed puzzled. ‘I suppose so, though I can’t see -’
‘It would help,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘to give me an overall picture of Suzanne. I’m trying to work out the kind of girl she was.’
‘Of course,’ said Lady Deborah, though she sounded unconvinced.
Rebus was shown to a small, cluttered room at the end of a long corridor. Inside, the curtains were closed. Lady Deborah switched on the lights.
‘Hazel won’t allow the maid in here,’ Lady Deborah explained, apologising for the untidiness. ‘Secrets, I suppose,’ she whispered.
Rebus did not doubt it. There were two small sofas, piles of pop and teenage magazines scattered on the floor, an ashtray full of dog-ends (which Lady Deborah pointedly chose to ignore), a stereo against one wall and a desk against another, on which sat a personal computer, its screen switched on but blank.
‘She always forgets to turn that thing off,’ said Lady Deborah. Rebus could hear the telephone ringing downstairs. The maid answered it and then called up to Lady Deborah.
‘Oh dear. Please excuse me, Inspector.’
Rebus smiled and bowed slightly as she left. His watch said four o’clock. As prearranged, it would be Holmes on the phone. Rebus had told him to pretend to be anybody, to say anything, so long as he kept Lady Deborah occupied for five minutes. Holmes had suggested he be a journalist seeking some quotes for a magazine feature. Rebus smiled now. Yes, there was probably vanity enough in Lady Deborah to keep her talking with a reporter for at least five minutes, maybe more.
Still, he couldn’t waste time. He had expected to have to do a lot of searching, but the computer seemed the obvious place to start. There were floppy discs stored in a plastic box beside the monitor. He flipped through them until he came to one labelled GC DISC. There could be no doubt. He slipped the disc into the computer and watched as the display came up. He had found the records of The Gentlemen’s Club.
He read quickly. Not that there was much to read. Members must attend every week, at four o’clock on Tuesday. Members must wear a tie. (Rebus looked quickly in a drawer of the desk and found five ties. He recognised them as belonging to various clubs in the city: the Strathspey, the Forth Golf Club, Finlay’s Club. Stolen from the girls’ fathers of course, and worn to meetings of a secret little clique, itself a parody of the clubs their fathers frequented.)
In a file named ‘Exploits of the Gentlemen’s Club’, Rebus found lists of petty thefts, acts of so-called daring, and lies. Members had stolen from city centre shops, had carried out practical jokes against teachers and pupils alike, had been, in short, malicious.
There were many exploits attributed to Suzanne, including lying to her parents about what she did on Tuesday after school. Twenty-eight exploits in all. Hazel Frazer’s list totalled thirty at the bottom, yet Rebus could count only twenty-nine entries on the screen. And in a separate file, the agenda for a meeting yet to be held, was a single item, recorded as ‘New Business: can suicide be termed an exploit of the Gentlemen’s Club?’
Rebus heard steps behind him. He turned, but it was not Lady Deborah. It was Hazel Frazer. Her eyes looked past him to the screen, firstly in fear and disbelief, then in scorn.
‘Hello, Hazel.’
‘You’re the policeman,’ she said in a level tone. ‘I saw you at the school.’
‘That’s right.’ Rebus studied her as she came into the room. She was a cool one, all right. That was Hawthornden for you, breeding strong, cold women, each one her father’s daughter. ‘Are you jealous of her?’
‘Of whom? Suzanne?’ Hazel smiled cruelly. ‘Why should I be?’
‘Because,’ answered Rebus, ‘Suzanne’s is the ultimate exploit. For once, she beat you.’
‘You think that’s why she did it?’ Hazel sounded smug. When Rebus shook his head, a little of her confidence seeped away.
‘I know why she did it, Hazel. She did it because she found out about you and her father. She found out because you told her. I notice it’s too much of a secret for you to put on your computer, but you’ve added it to the list, haven’t you? As an exploit. I expect you were having an argument, bragging, being competitive. And it just slipped out. You told Suzanne you were her father’s lover.’
Her cheeks were becoming a deep strawberry red, while her lips drained of colour. But she wasn’t about to speak, so Rebus went on at her.
‘You met him at lunchtime. You couldn’t meet near Hawthornden. That would be too risky. So you’d take a bus to Murrayfield. It’s only ten minutes ride away. He’d be waiting in his car. You told Suzanne and she couldn’t bear to know. So she killed herself.’ Rebus was becoming angry. ‘And all you can be bothered to do is write about her on your files and wonder whether suicide is an “exploit”.’ His voice had risen and he hardly registered the fact that Lady Deborah was standing in the doorway, looking on in disbelief.
‘No!’ yelled Hazel. ‘She did it first! She slept with Daddy months ago! So I did it back to her. That’s what she couldn’t live with! That’s why she — ’
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nbsp; Then it happened. Hazel’s shoulders fell forward and, eyes closed, she began to cry, silently at first, but then loudly. Her mother ran to comfort her and told Rebus to leave. Couldn’t he see what the girl was going through? He’d pay, she told him. He’d pay for upsetting her daughter. But she was crying too, crying like Hazel, mother and child. Rebus could think of nothing to say, so he left.
Descending the stairs, he tried not to think about what he had just unleashed. Two families broken now instead of one, and to what end? Merely to prove, as he had always known anyway, that a pretty face was no mirror of the soul and that the spirit of competition still flourished in Scotland’s well-respected education system. He dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets, felt something there and drew out Suzanne’s note. The crumpled note, found discarded in her bin, sticky on one side. He stopped halfway down the stairs, staring at the note without really seeing it. He was visualising something else, something almost too horrible, too unbelievable.
Yet he believed it.
Thomas McKenzie was surprised to see him. Mrs McKenzie had, he said, gone to stay with a sister on the other side of the city. The body had been taken away, of course, and the bathroom cleaned. McKenzie was without jacket and tie and had rolled up his shirt-sleeves. He wore half-moon glasses and carried a pen with him as he opened the door to Rebus.
In the drawing-room, there were signs that McKenzie had been working. Papers were strewn across a writing desk, a briefcase open on the floor. A calculator sat on the chair, as did a telephone.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, sir,’ Rebus said, taking in the scene. McKenzie had sobered up since the morning. He looked like a businessman rather than a grieving father.
McKenzie seemed to realise that the scene before Rebus created a strange impression.
‘Keeping busy,’ he said. ‘Keeping the mind occupied, you know. Life can’t stop because ...’ He fell silent.
‘Quite, sir,’ Rebus said, seating himself on the sofa. He reached into his pocket. ‘I thought you might like this.’ He held the paper towards McKenzie, who took it from him and glanced at it. Rebus stared hard at him, and McKenzie twitched, attempting to hand back the note.
