by Ian Rankin
He was able to avail himself of Dufftown police station for the interview with Alec Corbie.
‘You’re in keech up to your chin, son. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.’
Rebus and Corbie, seated across the table from one another, were smoking, DS Knox, resting against the wall behind Rebus, was not. Corbie had prepared an extremely thin veneer of macho indifference, which Rebus was quick to wipe off.
‘This is a murder investigation. The victim’s car has been found in your barn. It’ll be dusted for prints, and if we find yours I’m going to have to charge you with murder. Anything you think you know that might help your case, you’d better talk.’
Then, seeing the effect of these words: ‘You’re in keech up to your chin, son. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.’
Corbie sang like his namesake: it didn’t make for edifying listening, but it had an honest sound. First, though, he asked for some paracetamol.
‘I’ve got a hell of a headache.’
‘That’s what daytime drinking does to you,’ said Rebus, knowing it wasn’t the drinking that was to blame – it was the stopping. The tablets were brought and swallowed, washed down with water. Corbie coughed a little, then lit another cigarette. Rebus had stubbed his out. He just couldn’t deal with them any more.
‘The car was in the lay-by,’ Corbie began. ‘It was there for hours, so I went and took a look. The keys were still in the ignition. I started her up and brought her back to the farm.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Never refuse a gift horse.’ He grinned. ‘Or gift horse-power, eh?’ The two detectives were not impressed. ‘No, well, it was, you know, like with treasure. Finders keepers.’
‘You didn’t think the owner was coming back?’
He shrugged again. ‘Never really thought about it. All I knew was that there were going to be some gey jealous looks if I turned up in town driving a BMW.’
‘You planned to race it?’ The question came from DS Knox.
‘Sure.’
Knox explained to Rebus. ‘They take cars out on to the back roads and race them one against one.’
Rebus remembered the phrase Moffat had used: boy racer. ‘You didn’t see the owner then?’ he asked.
Corbie shrugged.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means maybe. There was another car in the lay-by. Looked like a couple were in it, having an argument. I heard them from the yard.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Just that the BMW was parked, and this other car was in front of it.’
‘You didn’t get a look at the other car?’
‘No. But I could hear the shouting, sounded like a man and a woman.’
‘What were they arguing about?’
‘No idea.’
‘No?’
Corbie shook his head firmly.
‘Okay,’ said Rebus, ‘and this was on . . .?’
‘Wednesday. Wednesday morning. Maybe around lunch-time.’
Rebus nodded thoughtfully. Alibis would need re-checking . . . ‘Where was your mother all this time?’
‘In the kitchen, same as always.’
‘Did you mention the argument to her?’
Corbie shook his head. ‘No point.’
Rebus nodded again. Wednesday morning: Elizabeth Jack was killed that day. An argument in a lay-by . . .
‘You’re sure it was an argument?’
‘I’ve been in enough in my time, it was an argument all right. The woman was screeching.’
‘Anything else, Alec?’
Corbie seemed to relax at the use of his first name. Maybe he wouldn’t be in trouble after all, so long as he told them . . .
‘Well, the other car disappeared, but the BMW was still there. Couldn’t tell if there was anyone in it, windows being tinted. But a radio was playing. Then in the afternoon –’
‘So the car had been there all morning?’
‘That’s right. Then in the afternoon –’
‘What time precisely?’
‘No idea. I think there was horse-racing or something on the telly.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I looked out and there was another car had turned up. Or maybe it was the same one come back.’
‘You still couldn’t see?’
‘I saw it better the second time. Don’t know what make it was, but it was blue, light blue. I’m fairly sure of that.’
Cars would need checking . . . Jamie Kilpatrick’s Daimler wasn’t blue. Gregor Jack’s Saab wasn’t blue. Rab Kinnoul’s Land-Rover wasn’t blue.
‘Anyway,’ Corbie was saying, ‘then there was more shouting the odds. I reckon it was coming from the BMW, because at one point the volume went right up on the radio.’
Rebus nodded appreciation of the observation.
‘Then what?’
Corbie shrugged. ‘It went quiet again. Next time I looked out, the other car was gone and the BMW was still there. Later on, I took a wander into the yard and through the field. Took a closer look. The passenger door was a bit open. Didn’t look as though anyone was there, so I crossed the road. Keys were in the ignition . . .’ He gave a final shrug. He had told his all.
And an interesting all it was. Two other cars? Or had the car from the morning returned in the afternoon? Who had Liz Jack been calling from the phone-box? What had she been arguing about? The volume rising on the radio . . . to mask an argument, or because, in the course of a struggle, the knob had been moved? His head was beginning to birl again. He suggested they have some coffee. Three plastic cups were brought, with sugar and a plate containing four digestive biscuits.
Corbie seemed relaxed in the hard-back chair, one leg slung over the other, and smoking yet another cigarette. So far Knox had eaten all the biscuits . . .
‘Right,’ said Rebus, ‘now what about the microwave . . .?’
The microwave was easy. The microwave was more treasure, again found by the side of the road.
‘You don’t expect us to believe that?’ Knox sneered. But Rebus could believe it.
‘It’s the truth,’ Corbie said easily, ‘whether you believe it or not, Sergeant Knox. I was out in the car this morning, and saw it lying in a ditch. I couldn’t believe it. Someone had just dumped it there. Well, it looked good enough, so I thought I’d take it home.’
‘But why did you hide it?’
Corbie shifted in his seat. ‘I knew my mum would think I’d nicked it. Well, anyway, she’d never believe I just found it. So I decided to keep it out of her way till I could come up with a story . . .’
‘There was a break-in last night,’ Rebus said, ‘at Deer Lodge. Do you know it?’
‘That MP owns it, the one from the brothel.’
‘You know it then. I think that microwave was stolen during the break-in.’
‘Not by me it wasn’t.’
‘Well, we’ll know soon enough. The place is being dusted for prints.’
‘Lot of dusting going on,’ Corbie commented. ‘You lot are worse than my mum.’
‘Believe it,’ Rebus said, rising to his feet. ‘One last thing, Alec. The car, what did you tell your mum about it?’
‘Nothing much. Said I was storing it for a friend.’
Not that she’d have believed it. But if she lost her son, she lost her farm, too.
‘All right, Alec.’ said Rebus, ‘it’s time to get it all down on paper. Just what you’ve told us. Sergeant Knox will help you.’ He paused by the door. ‘Then, if we’re still not happy that you’ve told us the truth and nothing but, maybe it’ll be time to talk about drunk driving, eh?’
It was a long drive back to Mrs Wilkie’s, and Rebus regretted not having taken a room in Dufftown. Still, it gave him time to think. He had made a telephone call from the station, putting back a certain appointment until tomorrow morning. So the rest of today was free. Clouds had settled low over the hills. So much for the nice weather. This was how Rebus remembered the Highl
ands – louring and forbidding. Terrible things had happened here in the past, massacres and forced migrations, blood feuds as vicious as any. Cases of cannibalism, too, he seemed to recall. Terrible things.
Who had killed Liz Jack? And why? The husband was always the first to fall under suspicion. Well, others could do the suspecting. Rebus, for one, didn’t believe it. Why not?
Why not?
Well, look at the evidence. That Wednesday morning, Jack had been at a constituency meeting, then a game of golf, and in the evening he’d attended some function . . . according to whom? According to Jack himself and to Helen Greig. Plus, his car was white. There could be no mistaking it for blue. Plus, someone was out to get Jack into terrible trouble. And that was the person Rebus needed to find . . . unless it had been Liz Jack herself. He’d thought about that, too. But then there were the anonymous phone calls . . . according to whom? Only Barney Byars. Helen Greig had been unable (or unwilling) to confirm their existence. Rebus realized now that he really did need to talk to Gregor Jack again. Did his wife have any lovers? Judging by what Rebus had learned of her, the question needed changing to: how many did she have? One? Two? More? Or was he guilty of judging what he did not know? After all, he knew next to nothing about Elizabeth Jack. He knew what her allies and her critics thought of her. But he knew nothing of her. Except that, judging by her tastes in friends and furnishings, she hadn’t had much taste . . .
*
Thursday morning. A week since the body had been found.
He woke up early, but was in no hurry to rise, and this time he let Mrs Wilkie bring him his tea in bed. She’d had a good night, never once thinking him her long-dead husband or long-lost son, so he reckoned she deserved not to be kept out of the bedroom. Not only tea this morning, but ginger nuts, too. And the tea was hot. But the day was cool, still grey and drizzly. Well, never mind. He’d be heading back to civilization, just as soon as he’d paid his respects elsewhere.
He ate a hurried breakfast, and received a peck on the cheek from Mrs Wilkie before leaving.
‘Come back again some time,’ she called, waving to him from the door. ‘And I hope the jam sells all right . . .’
The rain came on at its heaviest just as his windscreen wipers gave up. He stopped the car to study his map, then dashed outside to give the wipers a quick shake. It had happened before: they just stuck, and could be righted with a bit of force. Except this time they really had packed in. And not a garage in sight. So he drove slowly, and found after a while that the heavier the rain fell, the clearer his windscreen became. It was the slow fine rain that was the problem, blotting out all but the vaguest shapes and outlines. The heavy dollops of rain came and went so fast that they seemed to clear the windscreen rather than obscuring it.
Which was just as well, for the rain stayed heavy all the way to Duthil.
Duthil Special Hospital had been planned and built to act as a showpiece for treatment of the criminally insane. Like the other ‘special hospitals’ dotted around the British Isles, it was just that – a hospital. It wasn’t a prison, and patients who arrived in its care were treated like patients, not prisoners. Treatment, not punishment, was its function, and with the brand new buildings came up-to-date methods and understandings.
All this the hospital’s medical director, Dr Frank Forster, told Rebus in his pleasant but purposeful office. Rebus had spent a long time last night on the telephone with Patience, and she’d told him much the same thing. Fine, thought Rebus. But it was still a place of detention. The people who came here came with no time limit attached, no ‘sentence’ that had to be served. The main gates were operated electronically and by guards, and everywhere Rebus had gone so far the doors had been locked again behind him. But now Dr Forster was talking about recreation facilities, staff/patient ratios, the weekly disco . . . He was obviously proud. He was also obviously overdoing it. Rebus saw him for what he was: the front-man whose job it was to publicize the benefits of this particular special hospital, the caring attitude, the role of treatment. The likes of Broadmoor had come in for a lot of criticism in previous years. To avoid criticism, you needed good PR. And Dr Forster looked good PR. He was young for a start, a good few years younger than Rebus. And he had a healthy, scrupulous look to him, with a smile always just around the corner.
He reminded Rebus of Gregor Jack. That enthusiasm and energy, that public image. It used to be the sort of stuff Rebus associated with American presidential campaigns; now it was everywhere. Even in the asylums. The lunatics hadn’t taken over; the image-men had.
‘We have just over three hundred patients here,’ Forster was saying, ‘and we like the staff to get to know as many of them as possible. I don’t just mean faces, I mean names. First names at that. This isn’t Bedlam, Inspector Rebus. Those days are long past, thank God.’
‘But you’re a secure unit.’
‘Yes.’
‘You deal with the criminally insane.’
Forster smiled again. ‘You wouldn’t know it to look at most of our patients. Do you know, the majority of them – over sixty per cent, I believe – have above-average IQs? I think some of them are brighter than I am!’ A laugh this time, then the serious face again, the caring face. ‘A lot of our patients are confused, deluded. They’re depressed, or schizophrenic. But they’re not, I assure you, anything like the lunatics you see in the movies. Take Andrew Macmillan, for example.’ The file had been on Forster’s desk all along. He now opened it. ‘He’s been with us since the hospital opened. Before that, he was in much less . . . savoury surroundings. He was making no progress at all before he came here. Now, he’s becoming more talkative, and he seems about ready to participate in some of the available activities. I believe he plays a very good game of chess.’
‘But is he still dangerous?’
Forster chose not to answer. ‘He suffers occasional panic attacks . . . hyperventilation, but nothing like the frenzies he went into before.’ He closed the file. ‘I would say, Inspector, that Andrew Macmillan is on his way to a complete recovery. Now, why do you want to talk to him?’
So Rebus explained about The Pack, about the friendship between ‘Mack’ Macmillan and Gregor Jack, about Elizabeth Jack’s murder and the fact that she had been staying not forty miles from Duthil.
‘I just wondered if she’d visited.’
‘Well, we can check that for you.’ Forster was flipping through the file again. ‘Interesting, there’s nothing in here about Mr Macmillan knowing Mr Jack, or about his having that nickname. Mack, did you say?’ He reached for a pencil. ‘I’ll just make a note . . .’ He did so, then flicked through the file again. ‘Apparently, Mr Macmillan has written to several MPs in the past . . . and to other public figures. Mr Jack is mentioned . . .’ He read a little more in silence, then closed the file and picked up the telephone. ‘Audrey, can you bring me the records of recent visitors . . . say in the last month? Thanks.’
Duthil wasn’t exactly a tourist attraction, and, out of sight being out of mind, there were few enough entries in the book. So it was the work of minutes to find what Rebus was looking for. The visit took place on Saturday, the day after Operation Creeper, but before the story became public knowledge.
‘“Eliza Ferrie,”’ he read. ‘“Patient visited: Andrew Macmillan. Relation to patient: friend.” Signed in at three o’clock and out again at four thirty.’
‘Our regular visiting hours,’ Forster explained. ‘Patients can have visitors in the main recreation room. But I’ve arranged for you to see Andrew in his ward.’
‘His ward?’
‘Just a large room, really. Four beds to a room. But we call them wards to enforce . . . perhaps enhance would be a better word . . . to enhance the hospital atmosphere. Andrew’s in the Kinnoul Ward.’
Rebus started. ‘Why Kinnoul?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Why call the ward Kinnoul?’
Forster smiled. ‘After the actor. You must have heard of Rab Kinnoul? He and his wife
are among the hospital’s patrons.’
Rebus decided not to say anything about Cath Kinnoul being one of The Pack, about her having known Macmillan at school . . . It was no business of his. But the Kinnouls went up in his estimation; well, Cath did. She had not, it seemed, forgotten her one-time friend. Nobody calls me Gowk any more. And Liz Jack, too, had visited, albeit under her maiden name and with a twist to her Christian name to boot. He could understand that: the papers would have had a field day. MP’s Wife’s Visits to Crazed Killer. All those possessives. She couldn’t have known that the papers were about to have their story anyway . . .
‘Perhaps at the end of your visit,’ Dr Forster said, ‘you’d like to see some of our facilities? Pool, gym, workshops . . .’
‘Workshops?’
‘Simple mechanics. Car maintenance, that sort of thing.’
‘You mean you give the patients spanners and screwdrivers?’
Forster laughed. ‘And we count them in again at the end of the session.’
Rebus had thought of something. ‘Did you say car maintenance? I don’t suppose somebody could take a look at my windscreen wipers?’
Forster started to laugh again, but Rebus shook his head.
‘I’m serious,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll see what we can do.’ Forster rose to his feet. ‘Ready when you are, Inspector.’
‘I’m ready,’ said Rebus, not at all sure that he was.
There was much passing through corridors, and the nurse who was to show Rebus to Kinnoul Ward had to unlock and relock countless doors. A heavy chain of keys swung from his waistband. Rebus attempted conversation, but the nurse replied with short measures. There was just the one incident. They were passing along a corridor when from an open doorway a hand appeared, grabbing at Rebus. A small, elderly man was trying to say something, eyes shining, mouth making tiny movements.
‘Back into your room, Homer,’ said the nurse, prising the fingers from Rebus’s jacket. The man scuttled back inside. Rebus waited a moment for his heart rate to ease, then asked: ‘Why do you call him Homer?’
