Strip Jack

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Milkman!’ he called.

  ‘In here.’

  The living room was at the end of the hall. It was large, but contained almost no space. Kemp, dressed in last week’s t-shirt and the week before’s denims, ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Morning, Inspector. A timely alarm call. I’m supposed to be meeting someone at three o’clock.’

  ‘Hint taken. I was just passing and –’

  Kemp threw him a disbelieving glance, then busied himself at the sink, where he was trying his damnedest to get the stains off two mug-rims. The room served as living room and kitchen both. There was a fine old cooking range in the fireplace, but it had become a display case for pot plants and ornamental boxes. The actual cooker was a greasy-looking electrical device sited just next to the sink. On a dining table sat a word processor, boxes of paper, files, and next to the table stood a green metal filing cabinet, four drawers high, its bottom drawer open to show more files. Books, magazines, and newspapers were stacked on most of the available floor space, but there was room for a sofa, one armchair, TV and video, and a hi-fi.

  ‘Cosy,’ said Rebus. He actually thought he meant it. But Kemp looked around and made a face.

  ‘I’m supposed to be cleaning this place up today.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Coffee was spooned into the mugs, the milk splashed in after it. The kettle came to the boil and switched itself off, and Kemp poured.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Rebus had settled on the arm of the sofa, as if to say: don’t worry, I’m not about to linger. He accepted the mug with a nod. Kemp threw himself on to the armchair and gulped at the coffee, screwing up his face as it burned his mouth and throat.

  ‘Christ,’ he gasped.

  ‘Heavy night?’

  ‘Heavy week.’

  Rebus wandered over in the direction of the dining table. ‘It’s a terrible thing, drink.’

  ‘Maybe it is, but I was talking about work.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ He turned from the table and headed over to the sink . . . the cooker . . . stopping beside the fridge. Kemp had left the carton of milk sitting on top of the fridge, next to the kettle. ‘I’d better put this away,’ he said, lifting the carton. He opened the fridge. ‘Oh, look,’ he said, pointing. ‘There already is milk in the fridge. Looks fresh enough, doesn’t it? I needn’t have bothered going to the shop.’

  He put the new carton of milk in beside the other, slammed shut the door, and returned to the arm of the sofa. Kemp was attempting something like a grin.

  ‘You’re sharp for a Monday.’

  ‘But I can be blunt when I need to. What were you hiding from old Uncle Rebus, Chris? Or did you just need the time to check there was nothing to hide? A bit of blaw? That sort of thing. Or maybe something else, eh? Some story you’re working on . . . working on late into the night. Something I should know about. How about it?’

  ‘Come on, Inspector. I’m the one who’s doing you a favour, remember?’

  ‘You’ll have to refresh my memory.’

  ‘You wanted me to see what I could find about the brothel story, about how the Sundays knew it was breaking.’

  ‘But you never got back to me, Chris.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been pressed for time.’

  ‘You still are. Remember, you’ve got that meeting at three. Better tell me what you know, then I can be on my way.’ Now Rebus slid off the arm and on to the sofa proper. He could feel the springs probing at him through what was left of the patterned covering.

  ‘Well,’ said Kemp, sitting forward in his chair, ‘it looks like there was a kind of mass tip-off. All the papers thought they were getting an exclusive. Then, when they all turned up they knew they’d been had.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if there was a story, they had to publish. If they didn’t, and their rivals did . . .’

  ‘Editors would be asking questions about how come they got scooped?’

  ‘Exactly. So whoever set the story up was guaranteed maximum exposure.’

  ‘But who did set it up?’

  Kemp shook his head. ‘Nobody knows. It was anonymous. A telephone call on the Thursday to all the news desks. Police are going to raid a brothel in Edinburgh on Friday night . . . here’s the address . . . if you’re there around midnight, you’re guaranteed to bag an MP.’

  ‘The caller said that?’

  ‘Apparently, his exact words were “at least one MP will be inside”.’

  ‘But he didn’t name any names?’

  ‘He didn’t have to. Royalty, MPs, actors and singers – give those papers a sniff of any category and you’ve got them hooked. I’m probably mixing metaphors there, but you get the gist.’

  ‘Oh yes, Chris, I get the gist. So what do you make of it?’

  ‘Looks like Jack was set up to take a fall. But note, his name wasn’t mentioned by the caller.’

  ‘All the same . . .’

  ‘Yes, all the same.’

  Rebus was thinking furiously. If he hadn’t been slouching on the sofa, he might have said he was thinking on his feet. Actually, he was debating with himself. About whether or not to do Gregor Jack a huge favour. Points against: he didn’t owe Jack any favours; besides, he should try to remain objective – wasn’t that what Lauderdale had been getting at? Points for: one really – he wouldn’t just be doing Jack a favour, he might also flush out the rat who’d set Jack up. He made his decision.

  ‘Chris, I want to tell you something . . .’

  Kemp caught the whiff of a story. ‘Attributable?’

  But Rebus shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Accurate then?’

  ‘Oh yes, I can guarantee it’s accurate.’

  ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  Last chance to bottle out. No, he wasn’t going to bottle out. ‘I can tell you why Gregor Jack was at that brothel.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But I want to know something first – are you holding something back?’

  Kemp shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Rebus still didn’t believe him. But then Kemp had no reason to tell Rebus anything. It wasn’t as if Rebus was going to tell him anything that he didn’t want him to know. They sat in silence for half a minute, neither friends nor enemies; more like trench soldiers on a Christmas Day kickabout. At any moment, the sirens might sound and shrapnel pierce the peace. Rebus recalled that he knew one thing Kemp wanted to know: how Ronald Steele got his nickname . . .

  ‘So,’ Kemp said, ‘why was he there?’

  ‘Because someone told him his sister was working there.’

  Kemp pursed his lips.

  ‘Working as a prostitute,’ Rebus explained. ‘Someone phoned him – anonymously – and told him. So he went along.’

  ‘That was stupid.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And was she there?’

  ‘Yes. She calls herself Gail Crawley.’

  ‘How do you spell that?’

  ‘C-r-a-w-1-e-y.’

  ‘And you’re sure of this?’

  ‘I’m sure. I’ve spoken with her. She’s still in Edinburgh, still working.’

  Kemp kept his voice level, but his eyes were gleaming. ‘You know this is a story?’

  Rebus shrugged, saying nothing.

  ‘You want me to place it?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Why?’

  Rebus stared at the empty mug in his hands. Why? Because once it was public knowledge, the caller would have failed, at least in his or her own terms. And, having failed, maybe they’d feel compelled to try something else. If they did, Rebus would be ready . . .

  Kemp was nodding. ‘Okay, thanks. I’ll think it over.’

  Rebus nodded too. He was already regretting the decision to tell Kemp. The man was a reporter, and one with a reputation to make. There was no way of knowing what he’d do with the story. It could be twisted to make Jack sound like Samaritan or slime . . .
/>   ‘Meantime,’ Kemp was saying, rising from his chair, ‘I better take a bath if I’m going to make that meeting . . .

  ‘Right.’ Rebus rose, too, and placed his mug in the sink. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘Thanks for the milk.’

  The bathroom was on the way to the front door. Rebus made show of looking at his watch. ‘Go get into your bath,’ he said. ‘I’ll let myself out.’

  ‘Bye then.’

  ‘See you, Chris.’ He walked to the door, checking that his weight on the floorboards did not make them creak, then glanced round and saw that Kemp had disappeared into the bathroom. Water started splashing. Gently, Rebus turned the snib and locked it at the off position. Then he opened the door and slammed it noisily behind him. He stood in the stairwell, pulling the door by its handle so that it couldn’t swing back open. There was a spy-hole, but he kept himself tucked in against the wall. Anyway, if Kemp came to the door he’d notice the snib was off . . . A minute passed. Nobody came to the door. More fortuitously, perhaps, nobody came into the stairwell. He didn’t fancy explaining what he was doing standing there holding on to a door handle. . .

  After two minutes, he crouched down and opened the letter box, peering in. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. The water was still running, but he could hear Kemp humming, then a-ha-hee-ha-ing as he got into the bath. The water continued to run, giving the noise-cover he needed. He opened the door quietly, slipped back indoors, and closed it, jamming it shut with a hardback book from the top of one of the stacks. The remaining books looked as though they might topple, but they steadied again. Rebus exhaled and crept along the corridor, past the door. Taps pouring . . . Kemp still humming. This part was easy; getting back out would be the hard part, if he had nothing to show for the deception.

  He crossed the living room and studied the desk. The files gave nothing away. No sign of the ‘big story’ Kemp was working on. The computer disks were marked numerically – no clues there. Nothing interesting in the open drawer of the filing cabinet. He turned back to the desk. No scribbled sheets of notes had been tucked beneath other, blank sheets. He flipped through the pile of LPs beside the stereo, but no sheets had been hidden there either. Under the sofa . . . no. Cupboards . . . drawers . . . no. Bugger it. He went to the great iron range. Tucked away at the back, behind three or four pot plants, sat an ugly-looking trophy, Kemp’s Young Journalist of the Year Prize. Along the front of the range sat the row of ornamental boxes. He opened one. It contained a CND badge and a pair of ANC earrings. In another box was a ‘Free Nelson Mandela’ badge and a ring which looked to be carved out of ivory. The girlfriend’s stuff, obviously. And in the third box . . . a tiny cellophane package of dope. He smiled. Hardly enough to run someone in for, half a quarter at most. Was this what Kemp had been so eager to conceal? Well, Rebus supposed a conviction wouldn’t do the ‘campaigning journalist’ tag much good. Difficult to chastise public figures for their small vices when you’d been done for possession.

  Bugger it. And on top of everything, he’d now to get out of the flat without being seen or heard. The taps had stopped running. No noise to cover his retreat . . . He crouched by the range and considered. The bold as brass approach might be best. Just go marching past saying something about having left behind your keys . . . Aye, sure, Kemp would fall for that. Might as well put five bar on Cowdenbeath for the league and cup double.

  He found that, as he thought, he was staring at the range’s small oven, or rather at the closed door of that oven. A spider-plant sat above it, with two of its fronds trapped in the door. Dear me, he couldn’t have that, could he? So he pulled open the door, releasing the leaves. Sitting in the oven itself were some books. Old hardbacks. He lifted one and examined its spine.

  John Knox on predestination. Well, wasn’t that a coincidence.

  The bathroom door flew in.

  ‘Christ’s sake!’ Chris Kemp, who had been lying with his head floating on the surface of the water, now shot up. Rebus marched over to the toilet, lowered its lid, and made himself comfortable.

  ‘Carry on, Chris. Don’t mind me. Just thought I might borrow a few of your books.’ He slapped the pile he was holding. They were resting on his knees, all seven of them. ‘I like a good read.’

  Kemp actually blushed. ‘Where’s your search warrant?’

  Rebus looked stunned. ‘Search warrant? Why should I need a search warrant? I’m just borrowing a few books, that’s all. Thought I might show them to my old friend Professor Costello. You know Professor Costello, don’t you? Only this stuff’s right up his street. No reason why you should mind me borrowing them . . . is there? If you like, I’ll go get that search warrant and –’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Language, son,’ Rebus reprimanded. ‘Don’t forget, you’re a journalist. You’re the protector of our language. Don’t go cheapening it. You just cheapen yourself.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to do you a favour?’

  ‘What? You mean the story about Jack and his sister?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour. I know keen young reporters who’d give their eye teeth for –’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Now Rebus sat forward. ‘Where did you get them, Chris?’

  ‘The books?’ Kemp ran his hands down his sleek hair. ‘They’re my girlfriend’s. As far as I know, she borrowed them from her university library . . .’

  Rebus nodded. ‘It’s a fair story. I doubt it would get you off the hook, but it’s a fair story. For a start, it won’t explain why you hid them when you knew I was on my way up to see you.’

  ‘Hid them? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Rebus chuckled. ‘Fine, Chris, fine. There I was, thinking I could do you a favour. Another favour, I should say. . .’

  ‘What favour?’

  Rebus slapped the books again ‘Seeing these get back to their rightful owner without anyone needing to know where they’ve been in the interim.’

  Kemp considered this. ‘In exchange for what?’

  ‘Whatever it is you’re keeping from me. I know you know something, or you think you do. I just want to help you do your duty.’

  ‘My duty?’

  ‘Helping the police. It is your duty, Chris.’

  ‘Like it’s your duty to go creeping around people’s flats without their permission.’

  Rebus didn’t bother replying. He didn’t need to reply; he just needed to bide his time. Now that he had the books, he had the reporter in his pocket, too. Safe and snug for future use . . .

  Kemp sighed. ‘The water’s getting cold. Mind if I get out?’

  ‘Any time you like. I’ll go wait next door.’

  Kemp came into the living room wearing a blue towelling robe and using a matching towel to rub at his hair.

  ‘Tell me about your girlfriend,’ Rebus said. Kemp filled the kettle again. He had used the minute’s solitary time to do a little thinking, and he was ready now to talk.

  ‘Vanessa?’ he said. ‘She’s a student.’

  ‘A divinity student? With access to Professor Costello’s room?’

  ‘Everybody’s got access to Prof Costello’s room. He told you that himself.’

  ‘But not everyone knows a rare book when they see it . . .’

  ‘Vanessa also works part time in Suey Books.’

  ‘Ah.’ Rebus nodded. Pencilling in her prices. Earrings and a bicycle . . .

  ‘Old Costello’s a customer, so Vanessa knows him fairly well,’ Kemp added.

  ‘Well enough to steal from him, at any rate.’

  Chris Kemp sighed. ‘Don’t ask me why she did it. Was she planning to sell them? I don’t know. Did she want to keep them for herself? I don’t know. I’ve asked her, believe me. Maybe she just had a . . . a brainstorm.’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’

  ‘Whatever, she reckoned Costello might not even miss them. Books are books to him. Maybe she thought he’d be as happy with the latest paperback editions . .
.’

  ‘But she, presumably, wouldn’t be?’

  ‘Look, just take them back, okay? Or keep them for yourself. Anything.’

  The kettle clicked off. Rebus refused the offer of more coffee. ‘So,’ he said, as Kemp made himself a mug, ‘what have you got to tell me, Chris?’

  ‘It’s just something Vanessa told me about her employer.’

  ‘Ronald Steele?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s having an affair with Mrs Rab Kinnoul.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Not your business, you see, Inspector. Nothing to do with law and order.’

  ‘But a juicy story nevertheless, eh?’ Rebus found it hard to talk. His head was birling again. New possibilities, new configurations. ‘So how did she come to this conclusion?’

  ‘It started a while back. Our entertainment correspondent on the paper had gone to interview Mr Kinnoul. But there’d been a cock-up over the dates. He turned up on a Wednesday afternoon when it should have been Thursday. Anyway, Kinnoul wasn’t there, but Mrs Kinnoul was, and she had a friend with her, a friend introduced as Ronald Steele.’

  ‘One friend visits another . . . I don’t see –’

  ‘But then Vanessa told me something. A couple of Wednesdays back, there was an emergency at the shop. Well, not exactly an emergency. Some old dear wanted to sell some of her deceased husband’s books. She brought a list to the shop. Vanessa could see there were a few gems in there, but she needed to talk to the boss first. He doesn’t trust her when it comes to the buying. Now, Wednesday afternoons are sacrosanct . . .’

  ‘The weekly round of golf –’

  ‘With Gregor Jack. Yes, precisely. But Vanessa thought, he’ll kill me if this lot get away. So she rang the golf club, out at Braidwater.’