by Ian Rankin
‘AIDS?’
‘AIDS. Okay, finished up here? Beginning to look like a wasted journey, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe. There’s still the bathroom . . .’
Pond pushed open the bathroom door and ushered Rebus inside. ‘Ah-ha,’ he said, ‘looks like Mrs Heggarty was running out of time.’ He nodded towards where a towel lay in a heap on the floor. ‘Usually, that would go straight in the laundry.’ The shower curtain had been pulled across the bath. Rebus drew it back. The bath was drained, but one or two long hairs were sticking to the enamel. Rebus was thinking: We can check those. A hair’s enough for an ID. Then he noticed the two glasses, sitting together on a corner of the bath. He leaned over and sniffed. White wine. Just a trickle of it left in one glass.
Two glasses! For two people. Two people in the bath and enjoying a drink. ‘Your telephone’s downstairs, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Come on then. This room’s out of bounds until further notice. And I’m about to become a forensic scientist’s nightmare.’
Sure enough, the person Rebus ended up speaking to on the telephone did not sound pleased.
‘We’ve been working our bums off on that car and that other cottage.’
‘I appreciate that, but this could be just as important. It could be more important.’ Rebus was standing in the small dining room. He couldn’t quite tie up these furnishings to Pond’s personality. But then he saw a framed photograph of a couple young and in love, captured some time in the 1950s. Then he understood: Pond’s parents. The furniture here had once belonged to them. Pond had probably inherited it but decided it didn’t go with his fast women/slow horses lifestyle. Perfect, though, for filling the spaces in his holiday home. Pond himself, who had been sitting on a dining chair, rose to his feet. Rebus placed a hand over the receiver.
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a pee. Don’t panic, I’ll go out the back.’
‘Just don’t go upstairs, okay?’
‘Fine.’
The voice on the telephone was still complaining. Rebus shivered. He was cold. No, he was tired. Body temperature dropping. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘bugger off back to bed then, but be here first thing in the morning. I’ll give you the address. And I mean first thing. All right?’
‘You’re a generous man, Inspector.’
‘They’ll put it on my gravestone: he gave.’
Pond slept, with Rebus’s envious blessing, in the master bedroom, while Rebus himself kept vigil outside the bathroom door. Once bitten . . . He didn’t want a repetition of the Deer Lodge ‘break-in’. This evidence, if evidence it was, would stay intact. So he sat in the upstairs hallway, his back against the bathroom door, a blanket wrapped around him, and dozed. Then he slid down the door, so that he was lying in front of it on the carpet, curled into a foetus. He dreamed that he was drunk . . . that he was being driven around in a Bentley. The chauffeur was managing to drive and at the same time stick his backside out of the window. There was a party in the back of the Bentley. Holmes and Nell were there, copulating discreetly and hoping for a boy. Gill Templer was there, and attempting to undo Rebus’s zip, but he didn’t want Patience to catch them . . . Lauderdale seemed to be there, too. Watching, just watching. Someone opened the drinks cabinet, but it was full of books. Rebus picked one out and started to read it. It was the best book he’d ever read. He couldn’t put it down. It had everything . . .
In the morning, when he awoke, stiff and cold, he couldn’t recall a line or a word of the book. He rose and stretched, twisting himself back into human shape. Then he opened the bathroom door and stepped inside, and looked towards where the glasses should be.
The glasses were still there. Rebus, despite his aches, almost smiled.
He stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water trampoline on his head, his chest and his shoulders. Where was he? He was in the Oxford Terrace flat. He should be at work by now, but that could be explained away. He felt rough, but not as rough as he’d feared. Amazingly, he’d been able to sleep on the journey back, a journey taken at a more sedate pace than that of the previous night.
‘Clutch trouble,’ Pond had said, only twenty miles out of Kingussie. He’d pulled into the side of the road and had a look under the bonnet. There was a lot of engine under the bonnet. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start looking,’ he’d admitted. The trouble with these fancy cars was that capable mechanics were few and far between. In fact, he had to take the car to London for every service. So they’d ambled, an early-morning amble, having left the cottage under the stewardship of a bemused Detective Sergeant Knox and two overworked forensics people.
And Rebus had slept. Not enough, admittedly, which was why he’d resisted the temptation to run a bath and had opted for the shower instead. Difficult to nod off in a shower; all too easy in a hot morning bath. And he had chosen Patience’s flat over his own – an easy choice, since Oxford Terrace was the right side of Edinburgh after the drive. They’d had a hellish crossing of the Forth Bridge: commuter traffic crawling citywards. Sales reps in Astras gave the Italian car the once-over, and comforted themselves with the thought that its crew looked like crooks of some kind, pimps or moneylenders . . .
He turned off the shower and towelled himself dry, changed into some clean clothes, and began the process of becoming a human being again. Shaving, brushing his teeth, then a mug of fresh-brewed coffee. Lucky pleaded at a window, and Rebus let the cat in. He even tipped some food into a bowl. The cat looked up at him, full of suspicion. This wasn’t the Rebus he knew.
‘Just be thankful while it lasts.’
What day was it? It was Tuesday. Over a fortnight since the brothel raid, nearly two weeks since Alec Corbie heard the lay-by argument and saw either two or three cars. There had been progress, most of it thanks to Rebus himself. If only he could shake his superiors’ minds free of William Glass . . .
There was a note on the mantelpiece, propped up against the clock: ‘Why don’t we try meeting some time? Dinner tonight, or else – Patience.’ No kisses: always a bad sign. No crosses meant she was cross. She had every right to be. He really had to make up his mind one way or the other. Move in or move out. Stop using the place as a public amenity, somewhere to have a shower, a shave, a shit, and, on occasions, a shag. Was he any better than Liz Jack and her mysterious companion, making use of Tom Pond’s cottage? Hell, in some ways he was worse. Dinner tonight, or else. Meaning, or else I lose Patience. He took the biro out of his pocket and turned the note over.
‘If not dinner, then just desserts.’ he wrote. Utterly ambiguous, of course, but it sounded clever. He added his name and a row of kisses.
Chris Kemp had his scoop. A front-page scoop at that. The young reporter had worked hard after the visit from John Rebus. He’d tracked down Gail Crawley, a photographer in tow. She hadn’t exactly been forthcoming, but there was a photograph of her alongside a slightly blurred picture of a teenage girl: Gail Jack, aged fourteen or so. The story itself was riddled with get-out clauses, just in case it proved to be false. The reader was left more or less to make up his or her own mind. MP’s Visit to Mystery Prostitute – His Secret Sister? But the photos were the clincher. They were definitely of the same person, same nose, same eyes and chin. Definitely. The photo of Gail Jack in her youth was a stroke of genius, and Rebus didn’t doubt that the genius behind it was Ian Urquhart. How else could Kemp have found, and so quickly found, the photograph he needed? A call to Urquhart, explaining that the story was worth his cooperation. Either Urquhart himself searched out the picture, or else he persuaded Gregor Jack to find it.
It was in the morning edition. By tomorrow, the other papers would have their own versions; they could hardly afford not to. Rebus, having recovered his car from outside Pond’s flat, idling at traffic lights had seen the paper-seller’s board: Brothel MP Exclusive. He’d crossed the lights, and parked by the roadside, then jogged back to the newspaper booth. Returned to the car and read the stor
y through twice, admiring it as a piece of work. Then he’d started the car again and continued towards his destination. I should have bought two copies, he thought to himself. He won’t have seen it yet . . .
The green Citroën BX was in its drive, the garage doors open behind it. As Rebus brought his own car to a halt, blocking the end of the driveway, the garage doors were being pulled to. Rebus got out of the car, the folded newspaper in one hand.
‘Looks like I just caught you,’ he called.
Ronald Steele turned from the garage. ‘What?’ He saw the car parked across his driveway. ‘Look, would you mind? I’m in a –’ Then he recognised Rebus. ‘Oh, it’s Inspector . . .?’
‘Rebus.’
‘Rebus, yes. Rasputin’s friend.’
Rebus turned his wrist towards Steele. ‘Healing nicely,’ he said.
‘Look, Inspector . . .’ Steele glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Was it anything important? Only I’m meeting a customer and I’ve already overslept.’
‘Nothing too important, sir,’ Rebus said breezily. ‘It’s just that we’ve found out your alibi for the Wednesday Mrs Jack died is a pack of lies. Wondered if you’d anything to say to that?’
Steele’s face, already long, grew longer. ‘Oh.’ He looked down at the toes of his well-scuffed shoes. ‘I thought it was bound to come out.’ He tried a smile. ‘Not much you can keep hidden from a murder inquiry, eh?’
‘Not much you should keep hidden, sir.’
‘Do you want me to come down to the station?’
‘Maybe later, sir. Just so we can get everything on record. But for the moment your living room would do.’
‘Right.’ Steele started to walk slowly back towards the bungalow.
‘Nice area this,’ commented Rebus.
‘What? Oh, yes, yes it is.’
‘Lived here long?’ Rebus wasn’t interested in Steele’s answers. His only interest was in keeping the man talking. The more he talked, the less time he had in which to think, and the less time he had to think, the better the chances of him coming out with the truth.
‘Three years. Before that I had a flat in the Grassmarket.’
‘They used to hang people down there, did you know that?’
‘Did they? Hard to imagine it these days.’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’
They were indoors now. Steele pointed to the hall phone. ‘Do you mind if I call the customer? Make my apologies?’
‘Whatever you like, sir. I’ll wait in the living room, if that’s all right.’
‘Through there.’
‘Fine.’
Rebus went into the room but left the door wide open. He heard Steele dialling. It was an old bakelite telephone, the kind with a little drawer in the bottom containing a notepad. People used to want rid of them; now they wanted them back, and were willing to pay. The conversation was short and innocent. An apology and a rescheduling of the meeting. Rebus opened his morning paper wide in front of him and made show of reading the inside pages. The receiver clattered back into its cradle.
‘That’s that,’ said Steele, entering the room. Rebus read on for a moment, then lowered the paper and began to fold it.
‘Good,’ he said. Steele, as he had hoped, was staring at the paper.
‘What’s that about Gregor?’ he said.
‘Hm? Oh, you mean you haven’t seen it yet?’ Rebus handed over the paper. Steele, still standing, devoured the story. ‘What do you reckon, sir?’
He shrugged. ‘Christ knows. I suppose it makes sense. I mean, none of us could think what Gregor was doing in a place like that. I can’t think of a much better reason. The photos certainly look similar . . . I don’t remember Gail at all. Well, I mean, she was always around, but I never paid much attention. She never mixed with us.’ He folded the paper. ‘So Gregor’s off the hook then?’
Rebus shrugged. Steele made to hand the paper back. ‘No, no, you can keep it if you like. Now, Mr Steele, about this non-existent golfing fixture . . .’
Steele sat down. It was a pleasant, book-lined room. In fact, it reminded Rebus strongly of another room, a room he’d been in recently . . .
‘Gregor would do anything for his friends,’ Steele said candidly, ‘including the odd telling of a lie. We made up the golf game. Well, that’s not strictly true. At first, there was a weekly game. But then I started seeing a . . . a lady. On Wednesdays. I explained it to Gregor. He didn’t see why we shouldn’t just go on telling everyone we were playing golf.’ He looked up at Rebus for the first time. ‘A jealous husband is involved, Inspector, and an alibi was always welcome.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You’re being very honest, Mr Steele.’
Steele shrugged. ‘I don’t want Gregor getting into trouble because of me.’
‘And you were with this woman on the Wednesday afternoon in question? The afternoon Mrs Jack died?’
Steele nodded solemnly.
‘And will she back you up?’
Steele smiled grimly. ‘Not a hope in hell.’
‘The husband again?’
‘The husband,’ Steele acknowledged.
‘But he’s bound to find out sooner or later, isn’t he?’ Rebus said. ‘So many people seem to know already about you and Mrs Kinnoul.’
Steele twitched, as though a small electric shock had been administered to his shoulder blades. He stared down at the floor, willing it to become a pit he might jump into. Then he sat back.
‘How did you . . .?’
‘A guess, Mr Steele.’
‘A bloody inspired guess. But you say other people . . .?’
‘Other people are guessing too. You persuaded Mrs Kinnoul to take up an interest in rare books. It makes a good cover, after all, doesn’t it? I mean, if you’re ever found there with her. I even notice that she’s modelled her library on your own room here.’
‘It’s not what you think, Inspector.’
‘I don’t think anything, sir.’
‘Cathy just needs someone to listen to her. Rab never has time. The only time he has is for himself. Gowk was the cleverest of the lot of us.’
‘Yes, so Mr Pond was telling me.’
‘Tom? He’s back from the States then?’
Rebus nodded. ‘I was with him just this morning . . . at his cottage.’
Rebus waited for a reaction, but Steele’s mind was still fixed on Cath Kinnoul. ‘It breaks my heart to see her . . . to see what she’s . . .’
‘She’s a friend,’ Rebus stated.
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Well then, she’s sure to back up your story; a friend in need and all that . . .?’
Steele was shaking his head. ‘You don’t understand, Inspector. Rab Kinnoul is . . . he can be . . . a violent man. Mental violence and physical violence. He terrifies her.’
Rebus sighed. ‘Then we’ve only your own word for your whereabouts?’
Steele shrugged. He looked as though he might cry – tears of frustration rather than anything else. He took a deep breath. ‘You think I killed Liz?’
‘Did you?’
Steele shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Well then, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you, sir?’
Steele managed that grim smile again. ‘Not a worry in the world,’ he said.
Rebus rose to his feet. ‘That’s the spirit, Mr Steele.’ But Ronald Steele looked like there was just about enough spirit left in him to fill a teaspoon. ‘All the same, you’re not making it easy for yourself . . .’
‘Have you spoken to Gregor?’ Steele asked.
Rebus nodded.
‘Does he know about Cathy and me?’
‘I couldn’t say.’ They were both heading for the front door now. ‘Would it make any difference if he did?’
‘Christ knows. No, maybe not.’
The day was turning sunny. Rebus waited while Steele closed and double locked the door.
‘Just one more thing . . .?’
‘Yes, Inspector?’
‘
Would you mind if I took a look in the boot of your car?’
‘What?’ Steele stared at Rebus, but saw that the policeman was not about to explain. He sighed. ‘Why not?’ he said.
Steele unlocked the boot and Rebus peered inside, peered at a pair of mud-crusted wellingtons. There was muck on the floor, too.
‘Tell you what, sir,’ said Rebus, closing the boot. ‘Maybe it’d be best if you came down to the station just now. Sooner we get everything cleared up the better, eh?’
Steele stood up very straight. Two women were walking past, gossiping. ‘Am I under arrest, Inspector?’
‘I just want to make sure we get your side of things, Mr Steele. That’s all.’
But Rebus was wondering: Were there any forensics people left spare? Or had he tied each and every one of them up already? If so, Steele’s car might have to wait. If not, well, here was another little job for them. It really was turning into Guinness Book of Records stuff, wasn’t it? How many forensic scientists can one detective squeeze into a case?
‘What case?’
‘I’ve just told you, sir.’
Lauderdale looked unimpressed. ‘You haven’t told me anything about the murder of Mrs Jack. You’ve told me about mysterious lovers, alibis for assignations, a whole barrel-load of mixed-up yuppies but not a blind thing about murder.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘I’ve got someone downstairs who swears he committed both murders.’
‘Yes sir,’ Rebus said calmly, ‘and you’ve also got a psychiatrist who says Glass could just as easily admit the murders of Gandhi or Rudolf Hess.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘What?’
‘About the psychiatric report?’
‘Call it an inspired guess, sir.’
Lauderdale began to look a little dispirited. He licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Go through it one more time for me.’
So Rebus went through it one more time. It was like a giant collage to him now: different textures but the same theme. But it was also like a kind of artist’s trick: the closer he moved towards it, the further away it seemed. He was just finishing, and Lauderdale was still looking sceptical, when the telephone rang. Lauderdale picked it up, listened and sighed.
