Ian Rankin - Strip Jack

Rebus nodded. 'You're being very honest, Mr Steele.'

Steele shrugged. 'I don't want Gregor getting into trouble because of me.'

'And you were with this woman on the Wednesday afternoon in question? The afternoon Mrs Jack died?'

Steele nodded solemnly.

'And will she back you up?'

Steele smiled grimly. 'Not a hope in hell.'

'The husband again?'

The husband,' Steele acknowledged.

'But he's bound to find out sooner or later, isn't he?' Rebus said. 'So many people seem to know already about you and Mrs Kinnoul.'

Steele twitched, as though a small electric shock had been administered to his shoulder blades. He stared down at the floor, willing it to become a pit he might jump into. Then he sat back.

'How did you…?'

'A guess, Mr Steele.'

'A bloody inspired guess. But you say other people…?'

'Other people are guessing too. You persuaded Mrs Kinnoul to take up an interest in rare books. It makes a good cover, after all, doesn't it? I mean, if you're ever found there with her. I even notice that she's modelled her library on your own room here.'

'It's not what you think, Inspector.'

'I don't think anything, sir.'

'Cathy just needs someone to listen to her. Rab never has time. The only time he has is for himself. Gowk was the cleverest of the lot of us.'

'Yes, so Mr Pond was telling me.'

'Tom? He's back from the States then?'

Rebus nodded. 'I was with him just this morning… at his cottage.'

Rebus waited for a reaction, but Steele's mind was still fixed on Cath Kinnoul. 'It breaks my heart to see her… to see what she's…'

'She's a friend,' Rebus stated.

'Yes, she is.'

'Well then, she's sure to back up your story; a friend in need and all that…?'

Steele was shaking his head. 'You don't understand, Inspector. Rab Kinnoul is… he can be… a violent man. Mental violence and physical violence. He terrifies her.'

Rebus sighed. 'Then we've only your own word for your whereabouts?'

Steele shrugged. He looked as though he might cry – tears of frustration rather than anything else. He took a deep breath. 'You think I killed Liz?'

'Did you?'

Steele shook his head. 'No.'

'Well then, you've nothing to worry about, have you, sir?'

Steele managed that grim smile again. 'Not a worry in the world,' he said.

Rebus rose to his feet. 'That's the spirit, Mr Steele.' But Ronald Steele looked like there was just about enough spirit left in him to fill a teaspoon. 'All the same, you're not making it easy for yourself…"

'Have you spoken to Gregor?' Steele asked.

Rebus nodded.

'Does he know about Cathy and me?'

'I couldn't say.' They were both heading for the front door now. 'Would it make any difference if he did?'

'Christ knows. No, maybe not.'

The day was turning sunny. Rebus waited while Steele closed and double locked the door.

'Just one more thing…?'

'Yes, Inspector?'

'Would you mind if I took a look in the boot of your car?'

'What?' Steele stared at Rebus, but saw that the policeman was not about to explain. He sighed. 'Why not?' he said.

Steele unlocked the boot and Rebus peered inside, peered at a pair of mud-crusted Wellingtons. There was muck on the floor, too.

'Tell you what, sir,' said Rebus, closing the boot. 'Maybe it'd be best if you came down to the station just now. Sooner we get everything cleared up the better, eh?'

Steele stood up very straight. Two women were walking past, gossiping. 'Am I under arrest, Inspector?'

'I just want to make sure we get your side of things, Mr Steele. That's all.'

But Rebus was wondering: Were there any forensics people left spare? Or had he tied each and every one of them up already? If so, Steele's car might have to wait. If not, well, here was another little job for them. It really was turning into Guinness Book of Records stuff, wasn't it? How many forensic scientists can one detective squeeze into a case?

'What case?'

'I've just told you, sir.'

Lauderdale looked unimpressed. 'You haven't told me anything about the murder of Mrs Jack. You've told me about mysterious lovers, alibis for assignations, a whole barrel-load of mixed-up yuppies but not a blind thing about murder.' He pointed to the floor. 'I've got someone downstairs who swears he committed both murders.'

'Yes sir,' Rebus said calmly, 'and you've also got a psychiatrist who says Glass could just as easily admit the murders of Gandhi or Rudolf Hess.'

'How do you know that?'

'What?'

'About the psychiatric report?'

'Call it an inspired guess, sir.'

Lauderdale began to look a little dispirited. He licked his lips thoughtfully. 'All right,' he said at last. 'Go through it one more time for me.'

So Rebus went through it one more time. It was like a giant collage to him now: different textures but the same theme. But it was also like a kind of artist's trick: the closer he moved towards it, the further away it seemed. He was just finishing, and Lauderdale was still looking sceptical, when the telephone rang. Lauderdale picked it up, listened and sighed.

'It's for you,' he said, holding the receiver towards Rebus.

'Yes?' Rebus said.

'Woman for you,' explained the switchboard operator. 'Says it's urgent.'

'Put her through.' He waited till the connection was made. 'Rebus here,' he said.

He could hear background noise, announcements. A railway station. Then: 'About bleedin' time. I'm at Waverley. My train goes in forty-five minutes. Get here before it leaves and I'll tell you something.' The line went dead. Short and sour, but intriguing for all that. Rebus checked his watch.

'I've got to go to Waverley Station,' he told Lauderdale. 'Why don't you talk to Steele yourself meantime, sir? See what you make of him?'

'Thank you,' said Lauderdale. 'Maybe I will…"

She was sitting on a bench in the concourse, conspicuous in sunglasses which were supposed to disguise her identity.

'That bastard,' she said, 'putting the papers on to me like that.' She was talking of her brother, Gregor Jack. Rebus didn't say anything. 'One yesterday,' she went on, 'then this morning, half a dozen of the bastards. Picture plastered all over the front pages…'

'Maybe it wasn't your brother,' Rebus said.

'What? Who else could it be?' Behind the dark lenses, Rebus could still make out Gail Crawley's tired eyes. She was dressed as though in a hurry – tight jeans, high heels, baggy t-shirt. Her luggage seemed to consist of a large suitcase and two carrier bags. In one hand she clutched her ticket to London, in the other she held a cigarette.

'Maybe,' Rebus suggested, 'it was the person who knew who you were, the person who told Gregor where to find you.'

She shivered. 'That's what I wanted to tell you about. God knows why. I don't owe the bastard any favours…'

Nor do I, thought Rebus, yet I always seem to be doing them for him.

'What about a drink?' she suggested.

'Sure,' said Rebus. He picked up her suitcase, while she clip-clopped along carrying the bags. Her shoes made a lot of noise, and attracted glances from some of the men lolling about. Rebus was quite relieved to reach the safety of the bar, where he bought a half of export for himself and a Bacardi and Coke for her. They found a corner not too near the gaming machine or the frazzled loudspeaker of the jukebox.

'Cheers,' she said, trying to drink and inhale at much the same time. She spluttered and swore, then stubbed out the cigarette, only seconds later to light another.

'Good health,' said Rebus, sipping his own drink. 'So, what was it you wanted to get off your chest?'

She snorted. 'I like that: get off your chest.' This time she remembered to swallow her mouthful of rum before drawing on the cigarette. 'Only,' she said, 'what you were saying, about how somebody might have known who I was…'