by Ian Rankin
He peered round the door downstairs.
‘Come in, come in.’
Holmes was holding out a glass of whisky towards him. ‘Here you go, cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
They drank, and Rebus felt the better for it.
‘I’ll give you the tour of the house later,’ Holmes said. ‘Sit down.’
Rebus did so, and looked around him. ‘A real Holmes from home,’ he commented. There were good smells in the air, and cooking and clattering noises from the kitchen, which seemed to be through another door off the living room. The living room was almost cuboid, with a table in one corner set with three places for dinner, a chair in another corner, a TV in the third, and a standard lamp in the fourth.
‘Very nice,’ commented Rebus. Holmes was sitting on a two-person sofa against one wall. Behind him was a decent-sized window looking on to the back garden. He shrugged modestly.
‘It’ll do us,’ he said.
‘I’m sure it will.’
Now Nell Stapleton strode into the room. As imposing as ever, she seemed almost too tall for her surroundings, Alice after the ‘Eat Me’ cake. She was wiping her hands on a dishcloth, and smiled at Rebus.
‘Hello there.’
Rebus had risen to his feet. She came over and pecked him on his cheek.
‘Hello, Nell.’
Now she was standing over Holmes, and had lifted the glass out of his hand. There was sweat on her forehead, and she too was dressed casually. She took a swallow of whisky, exhaled noisily, and handed the glass back.
‘Ready in five minutes,’ she announced. ‘Shame your doctor friend couldn’t make it, John.’
He shrugged. ‘Prior engagement. A medical dinner party. I was glad of an excuse to get out of it.’
She gave him rather too fixed a smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ll leave you two to talk about whatever it is boys talk about.’
And then she was gone, the room seeming suddenly empty. Shit, what had he said? Rebus had tried to find words to describe Nell when speaking about her to Patience Aitken. But somehow the words never told the story. Bossy, stroppy, lively, canny, big, bright, a handful . . . like another set of seven dwarves. Certainly, she didn’t fit the stereotype of a university librarian. Which seemed to suit Brian Holmes just fine. He was smiling, studying what was left of his drink. He got up for a refill – Rebus refusing the offer – and came back with a manilla folder.
‘Here,’ he said.
Rebus accepted the folder. ‘What is it?’
‘Take a look.’
Newspaper cuttings mostly, magazine articles, press releases . . . all concerning Gregor Jack MP.
‘Where did you . . .?’
Holmes shrugged. ‘Innate curiosity. When I knew I was moving into his constituency, I thought I’d like to know more.’
‘The papers seem to have kept quiet about last night.’
‘Maybe they’ve been warned off.’ Holmes sounded sceptical. ‘Or maybe they’re just biding their time.’ Having just reseated himself, he now leapt up again. ‘I’ll see if Nell needs a hand.’
Leaving Rebus with little to do but read. There wasn’t much he didn’t already know. Working-class background. Comprehensive school in Fife, then Edinburgh University. Degree in Economics and Accounting. Chartered accountant. Married Elizabeth Ferrie. They’d met at university. She, the daughter of Sir Hugh Ferrie the businessman. She was his only daughter, his only child. He doted on her, could refuse her nothing, all, it was said, because she reminded him of his wife, dead these past twenty-three years. Sir Hugh’s most recent ‘companion’ was an ex-model less than half his age. Maybe she, too, reminded him of his wife . . .
Funny though. Elizabeth Jack was an attractive woman, beautiful even. Yet you never heard much about her. Since when was an attractive wife an asset not to be used by canny politicians? Maybe she wanted her own life. Skiing holidays and health resorts, rather than an MP’s round of factory openings, tea parties, all that.
Rebus recalled now what it was that he liked about Gregor Jack. It was the background – so similar to his own. Born in Fife, and given a comprehensive education. Except that back then they’d been called secondary and high schools. Both Rebus and Gregor Jack had gone to a high school, Rebus because he passed his eleven-plus, the younger Jack because of good grades at his junior high. Rebus’s school had been in Cowdenbeath, Jack’s in Kirkcaldy. No distance at all, really.
The only muck that had ever been thrown at Jack seemed to be over the siting of a new electronics factory just inside his constituency. Rumours that his father-in-law had pulled a few strings . . . It had all died down quickly enough. No evidence, and a whiff of writs for libel. How old was Jack? Rebus studied a recent newspaper photograph. He looked younger on paper than he did in real life. People in the media always did. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, something like that. Beautiful wife, plenty of money.
And he ends up caught on a tart’s bed during a brothel raid. Rebus shook his head. It was a cruel world. Then he smiled: serve the bugger right for not sticking to his wife.
Holmes was coming back in. He nodded towards the file. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Not really, Brian. Not really.’
‘Well, finish your whisky and sit at the table. I’m informed by the management that dinner is about to be served.’
It was a good dinner, too. Rebus insisted on making three toasts: one to the couple’s happiness, one to their new home, and one to Holmes’ promotion. By then, they were on to their second bottle of wine and the evening’s main course – roast beef. After that there was cheese, and after the cheese, crannachan. And after all that there was coffee and Laphroaig and drowsiness in the armchair and on the sofa for all concerned. It hadn’t taken long for Rebus to relax – the alcohol had seen to that. But it had been a nervous kind of relaxation, so that he felt he’d said too much, most of it rubbish.
There was some shop talk, of course, and Nell allowed it so long as it was interesting. She thought Farmer Watson’s drinking habit was interesting. (‘Maybe he doesn’t drink at all. Maybe he’s just addicted to strong mints.’) She thought Chief Inspector Lauderdale’s ambition was interesting. And she thought the brothel raid sounded interesting, too. She wanted to know where the fun was in being whipped, or dressed in nappies, or having sex with a scuba-diver. Rebus admitted he’d no answer. ‘Suck it and see,’ was Brian Holmes’ contribution. It earned him a cushion over the head.
By quarter past eleven, Rebus knew two things. One was that he was too drunk to drive. The other was that even if he could drive (or be driven) he’d not know his destination – Oxford Terrace or his own flat in Marchmont? Where, these days, did he live? He imagined himself parking the car on Lothian Road, halfway between the two addresses, and kipping there. But the decision was made for him by Nell.
‘The bed in the spare room’s made up. We need someone to christen it so we can start calling it the guest bedroom. Might as well be you.’
Her quiet authority was not to be challenged. Rebus shrugged his acceptance. A little later, she went to bed herself. Holmes switched on the TV but found nothing there worth watching, so he turned on the hi-fi instead.
‘I haven’t got any jazz,’ he admitted, knowing Rebus’s tastes. ‘But how about this . . .?’
It was Sergeant Pepper. Rebus nodded. ‘If I can’t get the Rolling Stones, I’ll always settle for second best.’
So they argued 60s pop music, then talked football for a little while and shop for a bit longer still.
‘How much more time do you think Doctor Curt will take?’
Holmes was referring to one of the pathologists regularly used by the police. A body had been fished out of the Water of Leith, just below Dean Bridge. Suicide, accident or murder? They were hoping Dr Curt’s findings would point the way.
Rebus shrugged. ‘Some of those tests take weeks, Brian. But actually, from what I hear, he won’t be much longer. A day or two maybe.�
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‘And what will he say?’
‘God knows.’ They shared a smile; Curt was notorious for his fund of bad jokes and ill-timed levity.
‘Should we stand by to repel puns?’ asked Holmes. ‘How about this: deceased was found near waterfall. However, study of eyes showed no signs of cataracts.’
Rebus laughed. ‘That’s not bad. Bit too clever maybe, but still not bad.’
They spent a quarter of an hour recalling some of Curt’s true gems, before, somehow, turning the talk to politics. Rebus admitted that he’d voted only three times in his adult life.
‘Once Labour, once SNP, and once Tory.’
Holmes seemed to find this funny. He asked what the chronological order had been, but Rebus couldn’t remember. This, too, seemed worth a laugh.
‘Maybe you should try an Independent next time.’
‘Like Gregor Jack you mean?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s any such thing as an “Independent” in Scotland. It’s like living in Ireland and trying not to take sides. Damned hard work. And speaking of work . . . some of us have been working today. If you don’t mind, Brian, I think I’ll join Nell . . .’ More laughter. ‘If you see what I mean.’
‘Sure,’ said Holmes, ‘on you go. I don’t feel so bad. I might watch a video or something. See you in the morning.’
‘Mind you don’t keep me awake,’ said Rebus with a wink.
In fact, meltdown at the Torness reactor couldn’t have kept him awake. His dreams were full of pastoral scenes, skin-divers, kittens, and last-minute goals. But when he opened his eyes there was a dark shadowy figure looming over him. He pushed himself up on his elbows. It was Holmes, dressed and wearing a denim jacket. There was a jangle of car keys from one hand; the other hand held a selection of newspapers which he now threw down on to the bed.
‘Sleep all right? Oh, by the way, I don’t usually buy these rags but I thought you’d be interested. Breakfast’ll be ready in ten minutes.’
Rebus managed to mumble a few syllables. He heaved himself upright and studied the front page of the tabloid in front of him. This was what he’d been waiting for, and he actually felt some of the tension leave his body and his brain. The headline was actually subtle – JACK THE LAD! – but the sub-head was blunt enough – MP NICKED IN SEX-DEN SWOOP. And there was the photograph, showing Gregor Jack on his way down the steps to the waiting van. More photos were promised inside. Rebus turned to the relevant pages. A pasty-faced Farmer Watson; a couple of the ‘escorts’ posing for the cameras; and another four shots of Jack, showing his progress all the way into the van. None from the cop-shop aftermath, so presumably he’d been spirited away. You couldn’t hope to spirit this away though, photogenic or no. Ha! In the background of one of the photos Rebus could make out the cherubic features of Detective Sergeant Brian Holmes. One for the scrapbook and no mistake.
There were two more newspapers, both telling a similar tale graced by similar (sometimes even identical) photos, THE DISHONOURABLE MEMBER; MP’S VICE SHAME. Ah, the great British Sunday headline, coined by an elect of teetotal virgins boasting the combined wisdom of Solomon and the magnanimity of a zealot. Rebus could be as prurient as the next man, but this stuff was a class above. He prised himself out of bed and stood up. The alcohol inside him stood up too; then it began to pogostick its way around his head. Red wine and whisky. Bad news and a chaser. What was the phrase? Never mix the grain and the grape. Never mind, a couple of litres of orange juice would sort him out.
But first there was the little matter of the fry-up. Nell looked as though she’d spent all night in the kitchen. She had washed up the debris of the previous night, and now was providing a breakfast of hotel proportions. Cereal, toast, bacon, sausage and egg. With a pot of coffee taking pride of place on the dining table. Only one thing was missing.
‘Any orange juice?’ Rebus suggested.
‘Sorry,’ said Brian. ‘I thought the paper shop would have some, but they’d run out. There’s plenty of coffee though. Tuck in.’ He was busy with another paper, a broadsheet this time. ‘Didn’t take them long to stick the knife in, did it?’
‘You mean Gregor Jack? No, well, what can you expect?’
Holmes turned a page. ‘Strange though,’ he said, and let it lie at that, wondering whether Rebus would know . . .
‘You mean,’ Rebus replied, ‘it’s strange that the London Sunday’s knew about Operation Creeper.’
Another page was turned. It didn’t take long to read a newspaper these days, not unless you were interested in the adverts. Holmes folded the paper into four and laid it down on the table beside him.
‘Yes,’ he said, lifting a piece of toast. ‘Like I say, it’s strange.’
‘Come on, Brian. Papers are always getting tip-offs to juicy stories. A copper looking for beer money, something like that. Chances are, you raid a posh brothel you’re going to come out with some weel-kent faces.’
Hold on though . . . Even as he spoke, Rebus knew there was something more. That night, the reporters had been biding their time, hadn’t they? Like they knew exactly who or what might be walking out of the door and down the steps. Holmes was staring at him now.
‘What are you thinking?’ Rebus asked.
‘Nothing. No, nothing at all . . . yet. Not our business, is it? And besides, this is Sunday.’
‘You’re a sly bugger, Brian Holmes.’
‘I’ve got a good tutor, haven’t I?’
Nell came into the room carrying two plates, filled with glistening fried food. Rebus’s stomach pleaded with its owner not to do anything rash, anything he would regret later on in the day.
‘You’re working too hard,’ Rebus told Nell. ‘Don’t let him treat you like a skivvy.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I don’t. But fair’s fair. Brian did wash last night’s dishes. And he’ll wash this morning’s too.’
Holmes groaned. Rebus opened one of the tabloids and tapped his finger against a photograph.
‘Better not work him too hard, Nell, not now he’s in pictures.’
Nell took the paper from him, studied it for a moment, then shrieked.
‘My God, Brian! You look like something off the Muppet Show.’
Holmes was on his feet now, too, staring over her shoulder. ‘And is that what Chief Superintendent Watson looks like? He could pass for an Aberdeen Angus.’
Rebus and Holmes shared a smile at that. He wasn’t called Farmer for nothing . . .
Rebus wished the young couple well. They had made a commitment to living together. They had bought a house together and set up home. They seemed content. Yes, he wished them well with all his heart.
But his brain gave them two or three years at most.
A policeman’s lot was not entirely a happy one. Striving towards inspectorship, Brian Holmes would find himself working still longer hours. If he could shut it all out when he got home of an evening or morning, fine. But Rebus doubted the young man would. Holmes was the type to get involved in a case, to let it rule his thinking hours whether on duty or off, and that was bad for a relationship.
Bad, and often terminal. Rebus knew more divorced and separated policemen (himself included) than happily married ones. It wasn’t just the hours worked, it was the way police work itself gnawed into you like a worm, burrowing deep. Eating away from the inside. As protection against the worm, you wore armour plating – more of it, perhaps, than was necessary. And that armour set you apart from friends and family, from the ‘civilians’ . . .
Ach. Pleasant thoughts for a Sunday morning. After all, it wasn’t all gloom. The car had started without a hitch (that is, without him having to hitch a ride to the nearest garage), and there was just enough blue in the sky to send hardy day-trippers off into the country. Rebus was going on a drive, too. An aimless tour, he told himself. A nice day for a drive. But he knew where he was headed. Knew where, if not exactly why.
Gregor Jack and his wife lived in a large, old, detached and walled
residence on the outskirts of Rosebridge, a little further south than Eskwell, a little bit more rural. Gentry country. Fields and rolling hills and an apparent moratorium on new building work. Rebus had no excuse save curiosity for this detour, but he was not, it seemed, alone. The Jacks’ house was recognizable by the half dozen cars parked outside its gates and by the posse of reporters who were lounging around, chatting to each other or instructing fed-up-looking photographers on how far they should go (morally rather than geographically) for that elusive picture. Clamber on to the wall? Climb that nearby tree? Try the back of the house? The photographers didn’t seem keen. But just then something seemed to galvanize them.
By this time, Rebus had parked his own car further along the road. To one side of the road was a line of perhaps half a dozen houses, none of them spectacular in terms of design or size, but wonderfully isolated by those high walls, long driveways, and (doubtless) vast back gardens. The other side of the road was pasture. Bemused cows and fat-looking sheep. Some sizeable lambs, their voices not yet quite broken. The view ended at some steepish hills, three or so miles distant. It was nice. Even the troglodyte Rebus could appreciate that.
Which was perhaps why the reporters left a more bitter taste than usual beneath his tongue. He stood behind them, an observer. The house was dark-stoned, reddish from this distance. A two-storey construction, probably built in the early 1900s. Tacked on to it at one side was a large garage, and in front of the house at the top of the drive sat a white Saab, one of the 9000 series. Sturdy and reliable, not cheap but not show-offish. Distinctive though: a car of distinction.
A youngish man, early thirties, a sneer creasing his face, was unlocking the gates just wide enough so that a younger woman, out of her teens but trying to look ten years older, could hand a silver tray to the reporters. She spoke louder than she needed to.
