Strip Jack

He drove straight to Ronald Steele's bungalow. The traffic was heavy coming into town, but Rebus was heading out. It wasn't yet quite eight. He didn't take Steele for an early riser. This was a grim anniversary: two weeks to the day since Liz Jack was murdered. Time to get things straight.

Steele's car was still in its garage. Rebus went to the front door and pressed the bell, attempting a jaunty rhythm of rings – a friend, or the postman… someone you'd want to open your door to.

'Come on, Suey, chop-chop.'

But there was no answer. He peered through the letter box. Nothing. He looked in through the living room window. Exactly as it had been yesterday evening. The curtains hadn't even been pulled shut. No sign of life.

'I hope you haven't done a runner,' Rebus muttered. Though maybe it would be better if he had. At least it would be an action of some kind, a sign of fear or of something to hide. He could ask the neighbours if they'd seen anything, but a wall separated Steele's bungalow from theirs. He decided against it. It might only serve to alert Steele to Rebus's interest, an interest strong enough to bring him here at breakfast time. Instead, he got back into the car and drove to Suey Books. A hundred-to-one shot this. As he'd suspected, the shop was barred and meshed and padlocked. Rasputin lay asleep in the window. Rebus made a fist and pounded it against the glass. The cat's head shot up and it let out a sharp, shocked yowl.

'Remember me?' said Rebus, grinning.

Traffic was slower now, treacle through the sieve of the road system. He slipped down on to the Cowgate to avoid the worst of it. If Steele couldn't be found, there was only one thing for it. He'd have to change Farmer Watson's mind. What's more, he'd have to do it this morning, while the old boy was bristling with caffeine. Now there was a thought… what time did that deli just off Leith Walk open…

'Well thank you, John.'

Rebus shrugged. 'We drink enough of your cofee thought it was time someone else did the change.'

Watson opened the bag and sniffed. 'Mmm freshly ground.' He started to tip the dark powder into his filter. the machine was already full of water. 'What kind did you say?'

'Breakfast blend, sir, I think. Robustica and Arabica something like that. I'm not exactly an expert…'

But Watson waved the apology aside. He put the jug in position and flipped the switch. Takes a couple he said, sitting down behind his desk. 'Right, John his hands together in front of him. 'What can I do for you?'

'Well, sir, it's about Gregor Jack.'

'Yes…?'

'You know how you told me we'd to help Mr Jack if possible? How you felt he'd perhaps been set up?' Watson merely nodded. 'Well, sir, I'm close to proving not only that he was, but who did it.'

'Oh? Go on.'

So Rebus told his story, the story of a chance meeting in a red-lit bedroom. And of three men. 'What I was wondering was… I know you said you couldn't divulge your source sir… but was it one of them?'

Watson shook his head. 'Way off, I'm afraid, John. Mmm do you smell that?' The room was filling with How could Rebus not smell it?

'Yes, sir, very nice. So it wasn't -?'

'It wasn't anyone who knows Gregor Jack. If pro-' He stuttered to a halt. 'Can't wait for that coffee,' he said rather too eagerly.

'You were about to say, sir?' But what? What? Providence? Provost? Prodigal? Problem? Provost? No, no. Not provost. Protestant? Proprietor? A name or a title.

'Nothing, John, nothing. I wonder if I've any clean cups…?'

A name or a title. Professor. Professor!

'You weren't about to mention a professor then?'

Watson's lips were sealed. But Rebus was thinking fast now.

'Professor Costello, for instance. He's a friend of yours, isn't he, sir? He doesn't know Mr Jack then?'

Watson's ears were turning red. Got you, thought Rebus. Got you. got you, got you. That coffee was worth every last penny.

'Interesting though,' mused Rebus, 'that the Professor would know about a brothel.'

Watson slapped the desk. 'Enough.' His light morning mood had vanished. His whole face was red now, except for two small white patches, one on either cheek. 'All right,' he said. 'You might as well know, it was Professor Costello who told me.'

'And how did the Professor know?'

'He said… he said he had a friend who'd visited the place one night, and now felt ashamed. Of course,' Watson lowered his voice to a hiss, 'there isn't any friend. It's the old chap himself. He just can't bring himself to admit it. Well,' his voice rising again, 'we're all tempted some time, aren't we?' Rebus thought of Gill Templer last night. Yes, tempted indeed. 'So I promised the Professor I'd have the place closed down.'

Rebus was thoughtful. 'And did you let him know when Operation Creeper was set for?'

It was Watson's turn to be thoughtful. Then he nodded. 'But he's… he's a professor… of divinity. He wouldn't have been the one to tip off the papers. And he doesn't know Gregor bloody Jack.'

'But you told him? Date and time?'

'More or less.'

'Why? Why did he need to know?"