by Ian Rankin
Strut, strut, strut. He was the little red rooster. He was the cock of the north. He’d felt it all along, of course: Ronald Steele. Suey, who had once tried to commit suicide when found by a girl masturbating in his hotel room.
‘Bound to be a bit screwed up.’ Who needed a psychology degree? What Rebus needed now was a combination of orienteering skills and old-fashioned man-hunting. His instincts told him that Steele would have headed south, leaving the car behind. (What use was it, after all? The police already had its description and licence number, and he’d known they were closing in. Or rather, he’d known Rebus was closing in.)
‘Ain’t nothing but a bloodhound,’ he sang to himself. He’d just phoned the hospital where Cathy Kinnoul was now a patient. Early days, he’d been told, but she’d had a peaceful night. Rab Kinnoul, however, hadn’t been near. Maybe this was understandable. It could be that she’d go for him with a broken water jug or try to strangle him with pyjama cord. All the same, Kinnoul was as shitty as the rest of them. Gregor Jack, too, risking all for a career in politics, a career he’d planned from birth, it seemed. Marrying Liz Ferrie not for herself but for her father. Completely unable to control her, so that he just stuffed her into a compartment, dusting her off for photo-shoots and the occasional public engagement. Yes, shitty. Only one person, to Rebus’s mind, came out of this with anything like dignity intact, and that person was a burglar.
The forensics team had come up with a match for the prints on the microwave: Julian Kaymer. He’d swiped Jamie Kilpatrick’s keys and driven to Deer Lodge in the dead of night, smashing the window to gain entry.
Why? To tidy away evidence of anything too scandalous. Which meant the cocaine-stained hand-mirror and two pairs of tights tied to a four-poster. Why? Simple: to protect what he could of a friend’s reputation . . . a dead friend’s reputation. Pathetic, but noble, too, in a way. Stealing the microwave was outrageous really. PC Plod was supposed to put the whole thing down to kids, smashing their way into an empty house on the off-chance . . . and making off not with the hi-fi (always a favourite), but with the microwave. He’d driven off with it, then thrown it away, only to have it found by the magpie himself, Alec Corbie.
Yes, Steele would be in London by now. His shop operated in the sphere of cash. There would have been some hidden somewhere; perhaps quite a lot. He might be on a flight out of Heathrow or Gatwick, a train to the coast and the boat over to France.
‘Trains and boats and planes . . .’
‘Somebody sounds happy.’ It was Brian Holmes, standing in the doorway to Rebus’s office. Rebus was seated at his desk, feet resting on the desk itself, hands behind his head. ‘Mind if I come in, or do we need to reserve tickets to touch your hem?’
‘You leave my hem out of this. Sit down.’ Holmes was halfway to the chair when he tripped over a gash in the linoleum. He put his hands out to save himself, and found himself sprawled on Rebus’s desktop, an inch from one of the shoes.
‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘you may kiss them.’
Holmes managed something between a smile and a grimace. ‘This place really should be condemned.’ He slumped into the chair.
‘Mind out for the shoogly leg,’ warned Rebus. ‘Any progress on Steele?’
‘Not much.’ Holmes paused. ‘None at all, really. Why didn’t he take his car?’
‘We know it too well, remember? I thought you were responsible for putting together that list? Everybody in the world’s car make, colour and registration number. Oh no, I forgot, you delegated the work to a detective constable.’
‘What was it for anyway?’ Rebus stared at him. ‘Seriously. I’m just a sergeant, as you’ll recall. Nobody tells me anything. Lauderdale was vaguer even than usual.’
‘Mrs Jack’s BMW was parked in a lay-by,’ explained Rebus.
‘That much I knew.’
‘So was another car. An eye witness said it might be blue. It wasn’t, it was green.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Holmes, ‘I meant to ask you: what was she waiting around for?’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Jack. At that lay-by, what was she hanging around there for?’ While Rebus considered this, Holmes thought of another question. ‘What about Mr Jack’s car?’
Rebus sighed. ‘What about it?’
‘Well, I didn’t get a good look at it that night you dragged me out there . . . I mean, it was in the garage, and there were lights to the front and back of the house, but not to the side. But you did say to have a snoop. The side door to the garage was open, so I wandered in. Too dark really, and I couldn’t find the light switch. . .’
‘Jesus Christ, Brian, get on with it!’
‘Well, I was only going to ask: what about the car in Jack’s garage? It was blue. At least, I think it was blue.’
This time, Rebus rubbed his temples. ‘It’s white,’ he explained, slowly. ‘It’s a white Saab.’
But Holmes was shaking his head. ‘Blue,’ he said. ‘It could never have been white, it was blue. And it was an Escort, definitely an Escort.’
Rebus stopped rubbing his temples. ‘What?’
‘There was some stuff on the passenger seat, too. I peered in through the side window. All that bumpf they give you with hire cars. That sort of thing. Yes, the more I think back on it, the clearer it comes. A blue Ford Escort. And whatever else was in that garage, there certainly wasn’t room to swing a Saab . . .’
No rooster now, no strutting cock, no bloodhound. But rather cowed, sheepish, with his tail between his legs . . . Rebus took Holmes and his story to Watson first, and Watson called for Lauderdale.
‘I thought,’ Lauderdale said to Rebus, ‘you told us Mr Jack’s car was white?’
‘It is white, sir.’
‘You’re sure it was a hire car?’ Watson asked Holmes. Holmes thought again before nodding. This was serious. He was where he wanted to be, in the thick of things, but he was realizing, too, that here one mistake – one slightest error – could send him to limbo.
‘We can check,’ said Rebus.
‘How?’
‘Phone Gregor Jack’s house and ask.’
‘And warn him off?’
‘We don’t have to talk to Jack. Ian Urquhart or Helen Greig would know.’
‘They could still tip him off.’
‘Maybe. Of course, there’s another possibility. The car Brian saw could have been Urquhart’s or even Miss Greig’s.’
‘Miss Greig doesn’t drive,’ said Holmes. ‘And Urquhart’s car’s nothing like the one I saw. Remember, they’ve all been checked.’
‘Well, whatever,’ said Watson, ‘let’s tread carefully, eh? Get on to the hire firms first.’
‘What about Steele?’ Rebus asked.
‘Until we know what we’re dealing with, we still want to talk to him.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lauderdale. He seemed aware that Watson was back in control, at least for now.
‘Well,’ said Watson, ‘what are you all waiting for? Jump to it!’
They jumped.
There weren’t that many hire firms in Edinburgh, and the third call brought a result. Yes, Mr Jack had hired a car for a few days. Yes, a blue Ford Escort. Did he give any reason for the hire? Yes, his own car was going in for a service.
And, thought Rebus, he needed a change of cars so he could escape the attentions of the press. Christ, hadn’t Rebus put the idea into his head himself? Your car’s out there . . . being photographed . . . everyone’ll know what it looks like. So Jack had hired another car for a few days, just to help him get around incognito.
Rebus stared at the office wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He would have banged his head against the wall if he could have been sure it wouldn’t fall down . . .
It had been a devil of a job, the man from the hire firm said. The client had wanted his car-phone transferred from his own car to the hire car.
Of course: how else could Liz Jack have contacted him? He had been on the move all day, hadn’t he?
Had the hire car been cleaned since its return? Naturally, a full valet service. What about the boot? The boot? The boot, had it been cleaned too? A bit of a wipe maybe . . . Where was the car now? On hire again, a London businessman. A forty-eight-hour hire only, and due back by six o’clock. It was now a quarter to five. Two CID men would be waiting to drive it from the car-hire offices to the police pound. Were there any forensics people available at Fettes HQ . . .?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Not the same car returning to the lay-by, but another car. Holmes had asked the question: what had Liz Jack been waiting for? She’d been waiting for her husband. She must have telephoned him from the box in the lay-by. She’d just had the argument with Steele. Too upset to drive herself home maybe. So he’d told her to wait there and he’d pick her up. He had a free afternoon anyway. He’d pick her up in the blue Escort. But when he’d arrived there had been another argument. About what? It could have been anything. What would it take to smash the ice that was Gregor Jack? The original newspaper story? The police finding evidence of his wife’s lifestyle? Shame and embarrassment? The thought of further public scrutiny, of losing his precious constituency?
There was enough there to be going on with.
‘Okay,’ said Lauderdale, ‘so we’ve got the car. Let’s see if Jack’s at home.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘You phone, John.’
Rebus phoned. Helen Greig answered.
‘Hello, Miss Greig. It’s Inspector Rebus.’
‘He’s not here,’ she blurted out. ‘I haven’t seen him all day, or yesterday come to that.’
‘But he’s not in London?’
‘We don’t know where he is. He was with you yesterday morning, wasn’t he?’
‘He came into the station, yes.’
‘Ian’s going up the wall.’
‘What about the Saab?’
‘It’s not here either. Hold on . . .’ She placed her hand over the mouthpiece, but not very effectively. ‘It’s that Inspector Rebus,’ he heard her say. Then a frantic hiss: ‘Don’t tell him anything!’ And Helen again: ‘Too late, Ian.’ Followed by a sort of snarl. She removed her hand.
‘Miss Greig,’ said Rebus, ‘how has Gregor seemed?’
‘Same as you might expect of a man whose wife’s been murdered.’
‘And how’s that?’
‘Depressed. He’s been sitting around in the living room, just staring into space, not saying much. Like he was thinking. Funny, the only time I got a conversation out of him was when he asked me about last year’s holiday.’
‘The one you went on with your mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remind me, where did you go again?’
‘Down the coast,’ she said. ‘Eyemouth, round there.’
Yes, of course. Jack had uttered the name of the first town that had come to mind. Then he’d pumped Helen for details so he could prop up his rickety story . . .
He put down the receiver.
‘Well?’asked Watson.
‘His car’s gone, and Gregor Jack with it. All that stuff he told us about Eyemouth . . . eye wash more like . . . he got it all from his secretary. She went there on holiday last year.’
The room was stuffy, the late afternoon outside preparing itself for thunder. Watson spoke first.
‘What a mess.’
‘Yes,’ said Lauderdale.
Holmes nodded. He was a relieved man; more than that, inwardly he was rejoicing: the hire car had turned out to be fact. He’d proved his worth.
‘What now?’
‘I’m just thinking,’ said Rebus, ‘about that lay-by. Liz Jack has an argument with Steele. She tells him she’s going back to her husband. Steele buggers off. What’s the next he hears of her?’
‘That she’s dead,’ answered Holmes.
Rebus nodded. Throwing all those books around the shop in his grief and his anger . . . ‘Not only dead, but murdered. And the last he saw of her, she was waiting for Gregor.’
‘So,’ said Watson, ‘he must know Jack did it? Is that what you’re suggesting?’
‘You think,’ Lauderdale said, ‘Steele’s run off to protect Gregor Jack?’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort,’ said Rebus. ‘But if Gregor Jack is the murderer, then Ronald Steele has known for some time that he is. Why hasn’t he done anything? Think about it: how could he come to the police? He was in way too deep himself. It would mean explaining everything, and explaining it would make him if anything a bigger suspect than Gregor Jack himself!’
‘So what would he do?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘He might try persuading Jack to come forward.’
‘But that would mean admitting to Jack that –’
‘Exactly, that he was Elizabeth Jack’s lover. What would you do in Jack’s position?’
Holmes dared to supply the answer. ‘I’d kill him. I’d kill Ronald Steele.’
Rebus sat all that evening in Patience’s living room, an arm around her as they both watched a video. A romantic comedy; only there wasn’t much romance and precious little comedy. You knew from reel one that the secretary would go off with the bucktoothed student and not with her bloodsucking boss. But you kept on watching anyway. Not that he was taking much of it in. He was thinking about Gregor Jack, about the person he’d seemed to be and the person he really was. You peeled away layer after layer, stripped the man to the bone and beyond . . . and never found the truth. Strip Jack Naked: a card game, also known as Beggar my Neighbour. Patience was a card game, too. He stroked her neck, her hair, her forehead.
‘That’s nice.’
Patience was a game easily won.
The film rolled past him. Another foil had entered the picture, a big-hearted con man. Rebus had yet to meet a con man in real life who was anything but the most predatory shark. What was the phrase? – they’d steal your false teeth and drink the water out of the glass. Well, maybe this con man was in with a chance. The secretary was interested, but she was loyal to her boss too, and he was doing everything short of whipping his sausage out and slapping it on her desk . . .
‘A penny for them.’
‘They’re not worth it, Patience.’ They’d find Steele, they’d find Jack. Why couldn’t he relax? He kept thinking of a set of clothes and a note, left on a beach. Stonehouse. Lucan had done it, hadn’t he, disappeared without trace? It wasn’t easy, but all the same . . .
The next thing he knew, Patience was shaking him by the shoulder.
‘Wake up, John. Time for bed.’
He’d been asleep for an hour. ‘The con man or the student?’ he asked.
‘Neither,’ she said. ‘The boss changed his ways and gave her a partnership in the firm. Now come on, partner . . .’ She held her hands out to help him up on to his feet. ‘After all, tomorrow is another day . . .’
Another day, another dolour. Thursday. Two weeks since they’d found Elizabeth Jack’s body. Now all they could do was wait . . . and hope no more bodies turned up. Rebus picked up his office phone. It was Lauderdale.
‘The Chief Super’s bitten the bullet,’ he told Rebus. ‘We’re holding a press conference, putting out wanteds on both of them, Steele and Jack.’
‘Does Sir Hugh know yet?’
‘I wouldn’t want to be the one who tells him. He marches in here with his son-in-law, not knowing the bugger killed his daughter? No, I wouldn’t want to be the one who tells him.’
‘Am I supposed to be there?’
‘Of course, and bring Holmes, too. After all, he’s the one who spotted the car . . .’
The line went dead. Rebus stared at the receiver. Alsatian bites man after all . . .
*
Spotted it and told Nell about it all last night. Repeating the story, adding missed details, hardly able to sit down. Until she’d screeched at him to stop or else she’d go off her head. That calmed him down a little, but not much.
‘You see, Nell, if they’d told me earlier, if they’d let me in on the whole story of the car colours, of why they
were needed, well, we’d have nailed him all the sooner, wouldn’t we? I don’t want to, but really I blame John. It was him who . . .’
‘I thought you said it was Lauderdale who gave you the job in the first place?’
‘Yes, true, but even so John should have –’
‘Shut up! For God’s sake, just shut up!’
‘Mind you, you’re right, Laud –’
‘Shut up!’
He shut up.
And now here he was at the press conference, and there was Inspector Gill Templer, who had such a rapport with the press, handing out sheets of paper – the official release – and generally making sure that everyone knew what was going on. And Rebus, of course, looking the same as ever. Which was to say, tired and suspicious. Watson and Lauderdale hadn’t made their entrance yet, but would do so soon.
‘Well, Brian,’ said Rebus quietly, ‘reckon they’ll promote you to Inspector for this?’
‘No.’
‘What then? You look like a kid who’s about to get the school prize.’
‘Come on, be fair. We all know you did most of the work.’
‘Yes, but you stopped me haring after the wrong man.’
‘So?’
‘So now I owe you a favour.’ Rebus grinned. ‘I hate owing favours.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ came Gill Templer’s voice, ‘if you’ll find yourselves a seat we can start . . .’
A moment later Watson and Lauderdale entered the room. Watson was first to speak.
‘I think you all know why we’ve called this conference.’ He paused. ‘We’re looking for two men we think may be able to help us with a certain inquiry, a murder inquiry. The names are Ronald Adam Steele and Gregor Gordon Jack . . .’
The local evening paper had it in by its lunchtime edition. The radio stations were broadcasting the names in their hourly news slots. The early evening TV news carried the story. The usual questions were being asked, to which the usual ‘no comment’s were being appended. But the phone call itself came only at half past six. The call was from Dr Frank Forster.
