Strip Jack

'And you're like a father to me,' Holmes replied, heading for the door. 'The farther I get from you, the easier my life seems to be.'

Rebus screwed a piece of paper into a ball, but the door closed before he had time to take aim. Ach, some days the job could be a laugh. Well, okay, a grin at least. If he forgot all about Gregor Jack, the load would be lighter still. Where would Jack be now? At the House of Commons? Sitting on some committee? Being fêted by businesses and lobbyists? It all seemed a long way from Rebus's office, and from his life.

William Glass… no, the name meant nothing to him. Bill Glass, Billy Glass, Willie Glass, Will Glass… nothing. Living at 48 Semple Street. Hold on… Semple Street in Granton. He went to his filing cabinet and pulled out the file. Yes, just last month. Stabbing incident in Granton. A serious wounding, but not fatal. The victim had lived at 48 Semple Street. Rebus remembered it now. Bedsits carved from a house, all of them rented. A rented bedsit. If William Glass was living at 48 Semple Street, then he was staying in a rented bedsit. Rebus reached for his telephone and called Lauderdale, to whom he told his story.

'Well, someone there vouched for him when the patrol car dropped him off. The officers were told to be sure he did live there, and apparently he does. Name's William Glass, like he said.'

'Yes, but those bedsits are short-let. Tenants get their social security cheque, hand half the cash over to the landlord, maybe more than half for all I know. What I'm saying is, it's not much of an address. He could disappear from there any time he liked.'

'Why so suspicious all of a sudden, John? I thought you were of the opinion we were wasting our time in the first place?'

Oh, but Lauderdale always knew the question to ask, the question to which, as a rule, Rebus did not have an answer.

'True, sir,' he said. 'Just thought I'd let you know.'

'I appreciate it, John. It's nice to be kept informed.' There was a slight pause there, an invitation for Rebus to join Lauderdale's 'camp'. And after the pause: 'Any progress on Professor Costello's books?'

Rebus sighed. 'No. sir.'

'Oh well. Mustn't keep you chatting then. Bye, John.'

'Goodbye, sir.' Rebus wiped his palm across his forehead. It was hot in here, like a dress rehearsal for the Calvinist hell.

The fan had been installed and turned on, and an hour or so later Doctor Curt provided the shit to toss at it.

'Murder, yes," he said. 'Almost definitely murder. I've discussed my findings with my colleagues, and we're of a mind.' And he went on to explain about froth and unclenched hands and diatoms. About problems of differentiating immersion from drowning. The deceased, a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, had imbibed a good deal of drink prior to death. But she had been dead before she'd hit the water, and the cause of death was probably a blow to the back of the head, carried out by a right-handed attacker (the blow itself having come from the right of the head).

But who was she? They had a photograph of the dead woman's face, but it wasn't exactly breakfast-time viewing. And though her description and a description of her clothes had been given out, nobody had been able to identify her. No identification on the body, no handbag or purse, nothing in her pockets…

'Better search the area again, see if we can come up with a bag or a purse. She must have had something.'

'And search the river, sir?'

'A bit late for that probably, but yes, better give it a shot.'

'The alcohol,' Dr Curt was telling anyone who would listen, had 'muddied the water, you see', after which he smiled his slow smile. 'And the fish had eaten their fill: fish fingers, fish feet, fish stomach…'

'Yes, sir. I see, sir.'

All of which Rebus mercifully avoided. He had once made the mistake of making a sicker pun than Dr Curt, and as a result found himself in the doctor's favour. One day, he knew, Holmes would make a better pun yet, and then Curt would have himself a new pupil and confidant… So, skirting around the doctor, Rebus made for Lauderdale's office.

Lauderdale himself was just getting off the phone. When he saw Rebus, he turned stony. Rebus could guess why.

'I just sent someone round to Glass's bedsit.'

'And he's gone,' Rebus added.

'Yes,' Lauderdale said, his hand still on the receiver. 'Leaving little or nothing behind him.'

'Should be easy enough to pick him up, sir.'

'Get on to it, will you, John? He must still be in the city. What is it? – an hour since he left here. Probably somewhere in the Granton area.'

'We'll get out there right away, sir,' said Rebus, glad of this excuse for a little action.

'Oh, and John…?'

'Sir?'

'No need to look so smug, okay?'