Strip Jack

'You could do with bringing a spare suit if you've got one.'

'Right.'

'And some of your precious books, since you don't seem to approve of my taste.'

'Romances were never my thing. Patience.' In fiction as in life, he thought to himself. On the floor around him were strewn some of his 'precious books'. He picked one up, tried to remember buying it, couldn't.

'Well, bring whatever you like, John, and as much as you like. You know how much room we've got here.'

We. We've got.

'Okay, Patience. See you later.' He replaced the receiver with a sigh and took a look around him. After all these years, there were still gaps on the wall-shelves from where his wife Rhona had removed her things. Still gaps in the kitchen, too, where the tumble-drier had sat, and her precious dishwasher. Still clean rectangular spaces on the walls where her posters and prints had been hung. The flat had last been redecorated when? in '81 or '82. Ach, it still didn't look too bad though. Who was he kidding? It looked like a squat.

'What have you done with your life, John Rebus?' The answer was: Not much. Gregor Jack was younger than him, and more successful. Barney Byars was younger than him, and more successful. Who did he know who was older than him and less successful? Not a single soul, discounting the beggars in the city centre, the ones he'd spent the afternoon with – without a result, but with a certain uncomfortable sense of belonging…

What was he thinking about? 'You're becoming a morbid old bugger.' Self-pity wasn't the answer. Moving in with Patience was the answer… so why didn't it feel like one? Why did it feel like just another problem?

He rested his head against the back of the chair. I'm caught, he thought, between a cushion and a soft place. He sat there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. It was dark outside, and foggy, too, a haar drifting in across the city from the North Sea. In a haar, Edinburgh seemed to shift backwards through time. You half expected to see press-gangs on the streets of Leith, hear coaches clattering over cobblestones and cries of gardy-loo in the High Street.

If he sold the flat, he could buy himself a new car, send some money to Samantha. If he sold the flat… if he moved in with Patience…

'If shit was gold,' his father used to say, 'you'd have a tyke at yer erse.' The old bugger had never explained exactly what a tyke was…

Jesus, what made him think of that?

It was no good. He couldn't think straight, not here. Perhaps it was that his flat held too many memories, good and bad. Perhaps it was just the mood of the evening.

Or perhaps it was that the image of Gill Templer's face kept appearing unbidden (he told himself unbidden) in his mind…

5 Up the River

Burglary with violent assault: just the thing for a dreich Thursday morning. The victim was in hospital, head bandaged and face bruised. Rebus had been to talk with her, and was at the house in Jock's Lodge, overseeing the dusting for prints and the taking of statements, when word reached him from Great London Road. The call came from Brian Holmes.

'Yes, Brian?'

'There's been another drowning.'

'Drowning?'

'Another body in the river.'

'Oh Christ. Whereabouts this time?'

'Out of town, up towards Queensferry. Another woman. She was found this morning by someone out for a walk.' He paused while someone handed him something. Rebus heard a muted 'thanks' as the person moved away. 'It could be our Mr Glass, couldn't it?' Holmes said now, pausing again to slurp coffee. 'We expected him to stick around the city, but he could as easily have headed north. Queensferry's an easy walk, and mostly across open land, well away from roads where he might be spotted. If I was on the run, that's the way I'd do it…'

Yes, Rebus knew that country. Hadn't he been out there just the other day? Quiet back roads, no traffic, nobody to notice… Hang on, there was a stream – no, more a river -running past the Kinnouls' house.

'Brian…" he started.

'And that's another thing,' Holmes interrupted. 'The woman who found the body… guess who it was?'

'Cathy Gow,' Rebus said casually.

Holmes seemed puzzled, 'Who? Anyway, no, it was Rab Kinnoul's wife. You know, Rab Kinnoul… the actor. Who's this Cathy Gow…?'

It was uphill from the Kinnoul house, and along the side of the hill, too. Not too far a walk, but the country grew if anything bleaker still. Fifty yards from the fast-flowing river there was a narrow road, leading eventually to a wider road which meandered down to the coast. For someone to get here, they either had to walk past the Kinnoul house, or else walk down from the road.

'No sign of a car?' Rebus asked Holmes. Both men had zippered their jackets against the snell wind and the occasional smirr.

'Any car in particular?' Holmes asked. 'The road's tarmac. I've had a look for myself. No tyre tracks.'

'Where does it lead?'

'It peters out into a farm track, then, surprise surprise, a farm.' Holmes was moving his weight from one foot to the other, trying in vain to keep warm.