Strip Jack

'Oh.' Rebus stared out of the windscreen, then at the passenger seat and the floor. 'Yes, well designed, comfortable. Plenty of room, eh?' And he turned in his seat, twisting his whole body round to examine the rear seat… the rear floor. 'Heaps of room,' he commented. 'Lovely.'

'Maybe Gregor would let you take her for a spin?'

Rebus looked up keenly. 'Do you think so? I mean, when this has all blown over, of course.' He started to get out of the car. Urquhart snorted.

'Blown over? This sort of thing doesn't "blow over", not when you're an MP. The broth -… those allegations in the newspapers, they were bad enough, but now murder? No.' He shook his head. 'This won't just blow over, Inspector. It's not a raincloud, it's a mud bath, and mud sticks.'

Rebus closed the door. 'Nice solid clunk, top, when you shut it, isn't there? How well did you know Mrs Jack?'

'Pretty well. I used to see her most days.'

'But I believe Mr and Mrs Jack led fairly separate lives?'

'I wouldn't go that far. They were married.'

'And in love?'

Urquhart thought for a moment. 'I'd say so, yes.'

'Despite everything?" Rebus was walking around the car now, as though deciding whether or not to buy it.

'I'm not sure I understand.'

'Oh, you know, different sorts of friends, different lifestyles, separate holidays'

'Gregor is an MP, Inspector. He can't always get away at the drop of a hat.'

'Whereas,' Rebus said, 'Mrs Jack was… what would you say? Spontaneous? Flighty, maybe even? The sort who'd say, let's just up and go?'

'Actually, yes, that's fairly accurate.'

Rebus nodded and tapped the boot. 'What about luggage room?'

Urquhart himself actually came forward and opened the boot.

'Goodness,' said Rebus, 'yes, there's plenty of room. Quite deep, isn't it?'

It was also immaculately clean. No mud or scuff marks, no crumbs of earth. It looked as though it had never been used. Inside were a small reserve petrol tank, a red warning triangle, and a half-set of golf clubs.

'He's keen on golf, isn't he?'

'Oh yes.'

Rebus closed the boot shut. 'I've never seen the attraction myself. The ball's too small and the pitch is too big. Shall we go in?'

Gregor Jack looked like he'd been to hell and back on an LRT bus. He'd probably combed his hair yesterday or the day before, and last changed his clothes then, too. He was shaven, but there were small patches of dark stubble the razor had missed. He didn't bother rising when Rebus entered the room. He just nodded a greeting and gestured with his glass to a vacant chair, one of the infamous marshmallow chairs. Rebus approached with care.

There was whisky in Jack's crystal tumbler, and a bottle of the stuff – three quarters empty – on the rug beside him. The room smelt unaired and unpolished. Jack took a gulp of liquid, then used the edge of the glass to scratch at his raw red finger.

'I want to talk to you, Inspector Rebus.'

Rebus sat down, sinking, sinking… 'Yes, sir?'

'I want to say a few things about me… and maybe about Liz, too, in a roundabout way.'

It was another prepared speech, another well-considered opening. There were just the two of them in the room. Urquhart had said he'd make a pot of coffee. Rebus, still jumpy from his meeting with Watson, had begged for tea. Helen Greig, it seemed, was at home, her mother having been taken ill – 'again', as Urquhart put it, before marching off kitchenwards. Faithful women: Helen Greig and Cath Kinnoul. Doggedly faithful. And Elizabeth Jack? Doggie-style faithful maybe… Christ, that was a terrible thing to think! And especially of the dead, especially of a woman he'd never met! A woman who liked to be tied to bedposts for a spot of…

'It's nothing to do with… well, I don't know, maybe it is.' Jack paused for thought. 'You see, Inspector, I can't help feeling that if Liz saw those stories about me, and if they upset her, then maybe she did something… or stayed away… and maybe…' He leapt to his feet and wandered over towards the window, looking out at nothing. 'What I'm trying to say is, what if I'm responsible?'

'Responsible, sir?'

'For Liz's… murder. If we'd been together, if we'd been here together, it might never have happened. It wouldn't have happened. Do you see what I mean?'

'No good blaming yourself, sir – '

Jack whirled towards him. 'But that's just it, I do blame myself.'

'Why don't you sit down, Mr Jack -'

'Gregor, please.'

'All right… Gregor. Now why don't you sit down and calm down.'

Jack did as he was told. Bereavement affected different people in different ways, the weak becoming strong and the strong becoming weak. Ronald Steele hurled books around, Gregor Jack became… pathetic. He was scratching at the finger again. 'But it's all so ironic,' he spat.

'How's that?' Rebus wished the tea would hurry up. Maybe Jack would pull himself together in Urquhart's presence.

'That brothel,' Jack said, fixing Rebus's eyes with his own. 'That's what started it all. And the reason I was there…'

Rebus sat forward. 'Why were you there, Gregor?'