Strip Jack

But Jack was still mumbling something about friendship. Rebus rose awkwardly from his ill-fitting marshmallow-chair. He stood over the MP. MP? This wasn't an MP, This wasn't the Gregor Jack. Where was the confidence, the charisma? Where the voteworthy face and that clear, honest voice? He was like one of those sauces they make on cookery programmes – reduce and reduce and reduce…

Rebus reached down and grabbed him by his shoulders. He actually shook him. Jack looked up in surprise. Rebus's voice was cold and sharp like rain.

'Where were you that Wednesday?',

'I was… I… was… nowhere. Nowhere really. Everywhere.'

'Everywhere except where you were supposed to be.'

'I went for a drive.'

'Where?'

'Down the coast. I think I ended up in Eyemouth, one of those fishing villages, somewhere like that. It rained. I walked along the sea front. I walked a lot. Drove back inland. Everywhere and nowhere.' He began to sing. 'You're everywhere and nowhere, baby.' Rebus shook him again and he stopped.

'Did anyone see you? Did you speak to anyone?'

'I went into a pub… two pubs. One in Eyemouth, one somewhere else.'

'Why? Where was… Suey? What was he up to?'

'Suey.' Jack smiled at the name. 'Good old Suey. Friends, you see, Inspector. Where was he? He was where he always was – with some woman. I'm his cover. If anyone asks, we're out playing golf. And sometimes we are. But the rest of the time, I'm covering for him. Not that I mind. It's quite nice really, having that time to myself. I go off on my own, walking… thinking.'

'Who's the woman?'

'What? I don't know. I'm not even sure it's just the one…'

'You can't think of any candidates?'

'Who?' Jack blinked. 'You mean Liz? My Liz? No, Inspector, no.' He smiled briefly. 'No.'

'All right, what about Mrs Kinnoul?'

'Gowk?' Now he laughed. 'Gowk and Suey? Maybe when they were fifteen, Inspector, but not now. Have you seen Rab Kinnoul? He's like a mountain. Suey wouldn't dare.'

'Well, maybe Suey will be good enough to tell me.'

'You'll apologize, won't you? Tell him I had to tell you.'

'I'd be grateful,' Rebus said stonily, 'if you'd think back on that afternoon. Try to remember where you stopped, the names of the pubs, anyone who might remember seeing you. Write it all down.'

'Like a statement.'

'Just to help you remember. It often helps when you write things down.'

'That's true.'

'Meantime, I'm going to have to think about charging you with obstruction.'

'What?'

The door opened. It was Urquhart. He came in and closed it behind him. 'That's that done,' he said.

'Good, Jack said casually. Urquhart, too, looked like he was just hanging on. His eyes were on Rebus, even when he was speaking to his employer.

'I told Helen to run off a hundred copies.'

'As many as that? Well, whatever you think, Ian.'

Now Urquhart looked towards Gregor Jack. He wants to shake him, too, Rebus thought. But he won't.

'You've got to be strong, Gregor. You've got to look strong.'

'You're right, Ian. Yes, look strong.'

Like wet tissue paper, Rebus thought. Like an infestation of woodworm. Like an old person's bones.

Ronald Steele was a hard man to catch. Rebus even went to his home, a bungalow on the edge of Morningside. No sign of life. Rebus went on trying the rest of the day. At the fourth ring of Steele's telephone, an answering machine came into play. At eight o'clock, he stopped trying. What he didn't want was Gregor Jack warning Steele that their story had come apart at its badly stitched seams. Given the means, he'd have kept Steele's answering machine busy all night. But instead his own telephone rang. He was in the Marchmont flat, slumped in his own chair, with nothing to eat or drink, and nothing to take his mind off the case.

He knew who it would be. It would be Patience. She would just be wondering if and when he intended making an appearance. She would just have been worried, that was all. They'd spent a rare weekend together: shopping on Saturday afternoon, a film at night. A drive to Cramond on Sunday, wine and backgammon on Sunday night. Rare… He picked up the receiver.

'Rebus.'

'Jesus, you're a hard man to catch.' It was a male voice. It was not Patience. It was Holmes.

'Hello, Brian.'

'I've been trying you for hours. Always engaged or else not answering. You should get an answering machine.'

'I've got an answering machine. I just sometimes forget to plug it in. What do you want anyway? Don't tell me, you're telephone-selling as a sideline? How's Nell?'

'As well as can be not expecting.'

'She's negative then?'

'I'm positive she is.'

'Maybe next time, eh?'

'Listen, thanks for the interest, but that's not why I'm calling. I thought you'd want to know, I had a very interesting chat with Mr Pond.'

A.k.a. Tampon, thought Rebus. 'Oh yes?' he said.

'You're not going to believe it…" said Brian Holmes. For once, he was right.

10 Brothel Creepers

The way Tom Pond explained it to Rebus, architects were either doomed to failure or else doomed to success. He had no doubt at all that he came into the latter category.