The wife . . . Elizabeth . . . something didn’t seem right there. Something seemed very odd indeed. Background, he needed more background. He needed to be sure. The lodge address was fixed in his mind, but from what he knew of Highland police stations little good would come of phoning on a Sunday. Background . . . He thought again of Chris Kemp, the reporter. Yes, why not? Wake up, arms, wake up, chest, neck and head. Sunday was no time to be resting. For some people, Sunday was a day of work.
Patience stuck her head round the door. ‘Quiet night in this evening?’ she suggested. ‘I’ll cook us a –’
‘Quiet night be damned,’ Rebus said, rising impressively from the water. ‘Let’s go out for a drink.’
You know me, John. I don’t mind a bit of sleaze, but this place is cheapskate sleaze. Don’t you think I’m worth better?’
Rebus pecked Patience’s cheek, placed their drinks on the table, and sat down beside her. ‘I got you a double,’ he said.
‘So I see.’ She picked up the glass. ‘Not much room for the tonic, is there?’
They were seated in the back room of the Horsehair public house on Broughton Street. Through the doorway could be seen the bar itself, noisy as ever. People who wanted to have a conversation seemed to place themselves like duellists a good ten paces away from the person they wanted to talk with. The result was that a lot of shouting went on, producing much crossfire and more crossed wires. It was noisy, but it was fun. The back room was quieter. It was a U-shaped arrangement of squashy seating (around the walls) and rickety chairs. The narrow lozenge-shaped tables were fixed to the floor. Rumour had it that the squashy seating had been stuffed with horsehair in the 1920s and not restuffed since. Thus the Horsehair, whose real and prosaic name had long since been discarded.
Patience poured half a small bottle of tonic water into her gin, while Rebus supped on a pint of IPA.
‘Cheers,’ she said, without enthusiasm. Then: ‘I know damned fine that there’s got to be a reason for this. I mean, a reason why we’re here. I suppose it’s to do with your work?’
Rebus put down the glass. ‘Yes,’ he said.
She raised her eyes to the nicotine-coloured ceiling. ‘Give me strength,’ she said.
‘It won’t take long,’ Rebus said. ‘I thought afterwards we could go somewhere . . . a bit more your style.’
‘Don’t patronize me, you pig.’
Rebus stared into his drink, thinking about that statement’s various meanings. Then he caught sight of a new customer in the bar, and waved through the doorway. A young man came forwards, smiling tiredly.
‘Don’t often see you in here, Inspector Rebus,’ he said.
‘Sit down,’ said Rebus. ‘It’s my round. Patience, let me introduce you to one of Scotland’s finest young reporters, Chris Kemp.’
Rebus got up and headed for the bar. Chris Kemp pulled over a chair and, having tested it first, eased himself on to it. ‘He must want something,’ he said to Patience, nodding towards the bar. ‘He knows I’m a sucker for a bit of flattery.’
Not that it was flattery. Chris Kemp had won awards for his early work on an Aberdeen evening paper, and had then moved to Glasgow, there to be voted Young Journalist of the Year, before arriving in Edinburgh, where he had spent the past year and a half ‘stirring it’ (as he said himself). Everyone knew he’d one day head south. He knew it himself. It was inescapable. There didn’t seem to be much left for him to stir in Scotland. The only problem was his student girlfriend, who wouldn’t graduate for another year and wouldn’t think of moving south before then, if ever . . .
By the time Rebus returned from the bar, Patience had been told all of this and more. There was a film over her eyes which Chris Kemp, for all his qualities, could not see. He talked, and as he talked she was thinking: Is John Rebus worth all this? Is he worth the effort I seem to have to make? She didn’t love him: that was understood. ‘Love’ was something that had happened to her a few times in her teens and twenties and even, yes, in her thirties. Always with inconclusive or atrocious results. So that nowadays it seemed to her ‘love’ could as easily spell the end of a relationship as its beginning.
She saw it in her surgery. She saw men and women (but mostly women) made ill from love, from loving too much and not being loved enough in return. They were every bit as sick as the child with earache or the pensioner suffering angina. She had pity and words for them, but no medicines.
Time heals, she might say in an unguarded moment. Yes, heals into a callus over the wound, hard and protective. Just like she felt: hard and protective. But did John Rebus need her solidity, her protection?
‘Here we are,’ he said on his return. ‘The barman’s slow tonight, sorry.’
Chris Kemp accepted the drink with a thin smile. ‘I’ve just been telling Patience . . .’
Oh God, Rebus thought as he sat down. She looks like a bucketful of ice. I shouldn’t have brought her. But if I’d said I was popping out for the evening on my own . . . well, she’d have been the same. Get this over and done with, maybe the night can be rescued.
‘So, Chris,’ he said, interrupting the young man, ‘what’s the dirt on Gregor Jack?’
Chris Kemp seemed to think there was plenty, and the introduction of Gregor Jack into the conversation perked Patience up a bit, so that she forgot for a time that she wasn’t enjoying herself.
Rebus was interested mostly in Elizabeth Jack, but Kemp started with the MP himself, and what he had to say was interesting. Here was a different Jack, different from the public image, the received opinion, but different too from Rebus’s own ideas having met with the man. He would not, for example, have taken Jack for a drinker.
‘Terrible one for the whisky,’ Kemp was saying. ‘Probably more than half a bottle a day, more when he’s in London by all accounts.’
‘He never looks drunk.’
‘That’s because he doesn’t get drunk. But he drinks all the same.’
‘What else?’
There was more, plenty more. ‘He’s a smooth operator, but cunning. Deep down cunning. I wouldn’t trust him further than I can spit. I know someone who knew him at university. Says Gregor Jack never did anything in his life that wasn’t premeditated. And that goes for capturing Mrs Gregor Jack.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Story is, they met at university, at a party. Gregor had seen her around before, but hadn’t paid much attention. Once he knew she was rich though, that was another matter. He went at it full throttle, charmed the pants off her.’ He turned to Patience. ‘Sorry, poor choice of words.’
Patience, on her second g and t, merely bowed her head a little.
‘He’s calculating, you see. Remember, he was trained as an accountant, and he’s got an accountant’s mind all right. What are you having?’
But Rebus was rising. ‘No, Chris, let me get them.’
But Kemp wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Don’t think I’m telling you all this for the price of a couple of beers, Inspector . . .’
And when the drinks had been bought and brought to the table, it was this train of thought which seemed to occupy Kemp.
‘Why do you want to know anyway?’
Rebus shrugged.
‘Is there a story?’
‘Could be. Early days.’
They were talking now as professionals: the meaning was all in what was left unsaid.
‘But there might be a story?’
‘If there is, Chris, as far as I’m concerned it’s yours.’
Kemp gulped at his beer. ‘I was out there all day, you know. And all we got was a statement. Plain and simple. No further comment to make, et cetera. The story ties in with Jack?’
Rebus shrugged again. ‘Early days. That was interesting, what you were saying about Mrs Jack . . .’
But Kemp’s eyes were cool. ‘I get the story first?’
Rebus massaged his neck. ‘As far as I’m concerned.’
Kemp seemed to size the offer up. As Rebus himself knew, the
re was almost no offer there for the sizing. Then Kemp placed his glass on the table. He was ready to say a little more.
‘What Jack didn’t know about Liz Ferrie was that she ran with a very fast crowd. A rich fast crowd. People like her. It took Gregor quite a while before he was able to insinuate his way into the group. A working-class kid, remember. Still gangly and a bit awkward. But it happened, he had Liz hooked. Where he went, she would et cetera. And Jack had his own gang. Still does.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Old schoolfriends mostly, a few people he met at university. His circle, you could call it.’
‘One of them runs a bookshop, doesn’t he?’
Kemp nodded. ‘That’s Ronald Steele. Known to the gang as Suey. That’s why his shop’s called Suey Books.’
‘Funny nickname,’ said Patience.
‘I don’t know how he came by it,’ admitted Kemp. ‘I’d like to know, but I don’t.’
‘Who else is there?’ asked Rebus.
‘I’m not sure how many there are altogether. The interesting ones are Rab Kinnoul and Andrew Macmillan.’
‘Rab Kinnoul the actor?’
‘The very same.’
‘That’s funny, I’ve got to talk to him. Or rather, to his wife.’
‘Oh?’
Kemp was sniffing his story, but Rebus shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with Jack. Some stolen books. Mrs Kinnoul is a bit of a collector.’
‘Not Prof Costello’s missing hoard?’
‘That’s it.’
Kemp was nothing if not a newsman. ‘Any progress?’
Rebus shrugged.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Kemp, ‘it’s early days yet.’
And he laughed, and Patience laughed with him. But something had just struck Rebus.
‘Not the Andrew Macmillan, surely?’
Kemp nodded. ‘They were at school together.’
‘Christ.’ Rebus stared at the plastic-topped table. Kemp was explaining to Patience who Andrew Macmillan was.
‘A very successful something-or-other. Went off his head one day. Toddled off home and sawed off his wife’s head.’
Patience gasped. ‘I remember that,’ she said. ‘They never found the head, did they?’
Kemp shook his own firmly fixed head. ‘He’d have done his daughter in, too, but the kid ran for her life. She’s a bit dotty now herself, and no wonder.’
‘Whatever happened to him?’ Rebus wondered aloud. It had been several years ago, and in Glasgow not Edinburgh. Not his territory.
‘Oh,’ said Kemp, ‘he’s in that new psychiatric place, the one they’ve just built.’
‘You mean Duthil?’ said Patience.
‘That’s it. Up in the Highlands. Near Grantown, isn’t it?’
Well, thought Rebus, curiouser and curiouser. His geography wasn’t brilliant, but he didn’t think Grantown was too far from Deer Lodge. ‘Is Jack still in touch with him?’
It was Kemp’s turn to shrug. ‘No idea.’
‘And they were at school together?’
‘That’s the story. To be honest, I think Liz Jack is the more interesting character by far. Jack’s sidekicks are scrupulous in keeping her out of the way.’
‘Yes, why is that?’
‘Because she’s still the proverbial wild child. Still runs around with her old crowd. Jamie Kilpatrick, Matilda Merriman, all that sort. Parties, booze, drugs, orgies . . . God knows. The press never gets a sniff.’ He turned again to Patience. ‘If you’ll pardon the phrase. Not a sniff do we get. And anything we do get is blue pencilled with a fair amount of prejudice.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, editors are nervous at the best of times, aren’t they? And you’ve got to remember that Sir Hugh Ferrie is never slow with a libel suit where his family’s concerned.’
‘You mean that electronics factory?’
‘Case in point.’
‘So what about this “old crowd” of Mrs Jack’s?’
‘Aristos, mostly old money, some new money.’
‘What about the lady herself?’
‘Well, she certainly spurred Jack on in the early days. I think he always wanted to go into politics, and MPs can hardly afford not to be married. People start to suspect a shirt-lifting tendency. My guess is he looked for someone pretty, with money, and with a father of influence. Found her and wasn’t going to let go. And it’s been a successful marriage, so far as the public’s concerned. Liz gets wheeled out for the photo opportunities and looks just right, then she disappears again. Completely different to Gregor, you see. Fire and ice. She’s the fire, he’s the ice, usually with whisky added . . .’
Kemp was in a talkative mood tonight. There was more, but it was speculation. Still, it was interesting to be given a different perspective, wasn’t it? Rebus considered this as he excused himself and visited the gents’. The Horsehair’s trough-like urinal was brimful of liquid, as had always, to Rebus’s knowledge, been the case. The condensation on the overhead cistern dripped unerringly on to the heads of those unwise enough to get too close, and the graffiti was mostly the work of a dyslexic bigot: REMEMBER 1960. There was some new stuff though, written in biro. ‘The Drunk as a Lord’s Prayer,’ Rebus read. ‘Our Father which are in heavy, Alloa’d be they name . . .’
Rebus reckoned that if he didn’t have all he needed, he had all Chris Kemp was able to give. No reason to linger then. No reason at all. He came out of the gents’ briskly, and saw that a young man had stopped at the table to chat with Patience. He was moving away now, back to the main bar, while Patience smiled a farewell in his direction.
‘Who was that?’ Rebus asked, not sitting down.
‘He lives next door in Oxford Terrace,’ Patience said casually. ‘Works in Trading Standards. I’m surprised you haven’t met him.’
Rebus murmured something, then tapped his watch with his finger.
‘Chris,’ he said, ‘this is all your fault. You’re too interesting by half. We were supposed to be at the restaurant twenty minutes ago. Kevin and Myra will kill us. Come on, Patience. Listen, Chris, I’ll be in touch. Meantime . . .’ he leaned closer to the reporter, lowering his voice. ‘See if you can find who tipped off the papers about the brothel raid. That might be the start of the story.’ He straightened up again. ‘See you soon, eh? Cheers.’
‘Cheerio, Chris,’ said Patience, sliding out of her seat.
‘Oh, right, bye then. See you.’ And Chris Kemp found himself alone, wondering if it was something that he’d said.
Outside, Patience turned to Rebus. ‘Kevin and Myra?’ she said.
‘Our oldest friends,’ explained Rebus. ‘And as good a get-out clause as anything. Besides, I did promise you dinner. You can tell me all about our next-door neighbour.’
He took her arm in his and they walked back to the car – her car. Patience had never seen John Rebus jealous before, so it was hard to tell, but she could have sworn he was jealous now. Well well, wonders would never cease . . .
3
Treacherous Steps
Springtime in Edinburgh. A freezing wind, and near-horizontal rain. Ah, the Edinburgh wind, that joke of a wind, that black farce of a wind. Making everyone walk like mime artists, making eyes water and then drying the tears to a crust on red-nipped cheeks. And throughout it all, that slightly sour yeasty smell in the air, the smell of not-so-distant breweries. There had been a frost overnight. Even the prowling, fur-coated Lucky had yowled at the bedroom window, demanding entry. The birds had been chirping as Rebus let him in. He checked his watch: two thirty. Why the hell were the birds singing so early? When he next awoke, at six, they’d stopped. Maybe they were trying to avoid the rush hour . . .
This sub-zero morning, it had taken him a full five minutes to start his clown of a car. Maybe it was time to get one of those red noses for the radiator grille. And the frost had swollen the cracks in the steps up to Great London Road police station, swollen and then fissured, so that Rebus stepped warily over wafers of ston
e.
Treacherous steps. Nothing would be done about them. The rumours were still rife anyway; rumours that Great London Road was shagged out, wabbit, past its sell-by. Rumours that it would be shut down. A prime site, after all. Prime land for another hotel or office block. And the staff? Split up, so the rumours went. With most of them being transferred to St Leonard’s, the Divisional HQ (Central). Much closer to Rebus’s flat in Marchmont; but much further from Oxford Terrace and Dr Patience Aitken. Rebus had made himself a little pact, a sort of contract in his head: if, within the next month or two, the rumours became fact, then it was a message from on high, a message that he should not move in with Patience. But if Great London Road remained a going concern, or if they were moved to Fettes HQ (five minutes from Oxford Terrace) . . . what then? What then? The fine print on the contract was still being decided.
‘Morning, John.’
‘Hello, Arthur. Any messages?’
The duty desk sergeant shook his head. Rebus rubbed his hands over his ears and face, thawing them out, and climbed the stairs towards his room, where treacherous linoleum replaced treacherous stone. And then there was the treacherous telephone . . .
‘Rebus here.’
‘John?’ It was the voice of Chief Superintendent Watson. ‘Can you spare a minute?’
Rebus made noisy show of rustling some papers on his desk, hoping Watson would think he’d been in the office for hours, hard at work.
‘Well, sir . . .’
‘Don’t piss about, John. I tried you five minutes ago.’
Rebus stopped shuffling papers. ‘I’ll be right along, sir.’
‘That’s right, you will.’ And with that the phone went dead. Rebus shrugged off his weatherproof jacket, the one which always let water in at the shoulders. He felt the shoulders of his suit-jacket. Sure enough, they were damp, matching his enthusiasm for a Monday-morning meeting with the Farmer. He took a deep breath and spread his hands in front of him like an old-time song and dance man.
‘It’s showtime,’ he told himself. Only five working days till the weekend. Then he made a quick phone call to Dufftown Police Station and asked them to check on Deer Lodge.