Byars laughed. 'Of course! You're only young once, Inspector. I mean, it's all above board… isn't it?'
He seemed genuinely curious, not without reason. Why should a policeman know about 'those' parties? Who could have told him if not Gregor, and what exactly would Gregor have said?
'As far as I know, sir. So you don't know any reason why Mrs Jack might want to disappear?'
'I can think of a few.' Byars had finished both drinks, but didn't look like he was hanging around for another. He kept shifting on the stool, as if unable to get comfortable. 'That newspaper story for a start. I think I'd want to be well away from it, wouldn't you? I mean, I can see how it's bad for Gregor's image, not having his wife beside him, but at the same time…'
'Any other reasons?'
Byars was half standing now. 'A lover,' he suggested. 'Maybe he's whisked her off to Tenerife for a bit of pash under the sun.' He winked again, then his face became serious, as though he'd just remembered something. There were those phone calls,' he said.
'Phone calls?'
Now he was standing. 'Anonymous phone calls. Lizzie told me about them. Not to her, to Gregor. Bound to happen, the game he's in. Caller would phone up and say he was Sir Somebody-Somebody or Lord This 'n' That, and Gregor would be fetched to the phone. Soon as he got to it, the line would go dead. That's what she told me.'
'Did these calls worry her?'
'Oh yes, you could see she was upset. She tried to hide it, but you could see. Gregor just laughed it off, of course. Can't afford to let something like that rattle him. She might even have mentioned letters. Something about Gregor getting these letters, but tearing them up before anyone could see them. But you'd have to ask Lizzie about that.' He paused. 'Or Gregor, of course.'
'Of course.'
'Right…' Byars stuck out his hand. 'You've got my number if you need me, Inspector.'
'Yes.' Rebus shook hands. 'Thanks for your help, Mr Byars.'
'Any time, Inspector. Oh, and if you ever need a lift to London, I've got lorries make that trip four times a week. Won't cost you a penny, and you can still claim the journey on expenses.'
He gave another wink, smiled generally around the bar, and marched back out as noticeably as he'd marched in. The barman came to clear away plate and glass. Rebus saw that the tie the young man was wearing was a clip-on, standard issue in the Sutherland. If a punter tried to grab you, the tie came away in his hand…
'Was he talking about me?'
Rebus blinked. 'Eh? What makes you think that?'
'I thought I heard him mention my name.'
Rebus poured the dregs from his glass into his mouth and swallowed. Don't say the kid was called Gregor… Lizzie maybe… 'What name is that then?'
'Lawrie.'
Rebus was more than halfway there before he realized he was headed not for Stockbridge comforts and Patience Aitken, but for Marchmont and his own neglected flat. So be it. Inside the flat, the atmosphere managed to be both chill and stale. A coffee mug beside the telephone resembled Glasgow insofar as it, too, was a city of culture, an interesting green and white culture.
But if the living room was growing mould, surely the kitchen would be worse. Rebus sat himself down in his favourite chair, stretched for the answering machine, and settled to listen to his calls. There weren't many. Gill Templer, wondering where he was keeping himself these days… as if she didn't know. His daughter Samantha, phoning from her new flat in London, giving him her address and telephone number. Then a couple of calls where the speaker had decided not to say anything.
'Be like that then.' Rebus turned off the machine, drew a notebook from his pocket, and, reading the number from it, telephoned Gregor Jack. He wanted to know why Jack hadn't said anything about his own anonymous calls. Strip Jack… beggar my neighbour… Well, if someone were out to beggar Gregor Jack, Jack himself didn't seem overly concerned. He didn't exactly seem resigned, but he did seem unbothered. Unless he was playing a game with Rebus… And what about Rab Kinnoul, on-screen assassin? What was he up to all the time he was away from his wife? And Ronald Steele, too, a 'hard man to catch'. Were they all up to something? It wasn't that Rebus distrusted the human race… wasn't just that he was brought up a Pessimisterian. He was sure there was something happening here; he just didn't know what it was.
There was nobody home. Or nobody was answering. Or the apparatus had been unplugged. Or…
'Hello?'
Rebus glanced at his watch. Just after quarter past seven. 'Miss Greig?' he said. 'Inspector Rebus here. He does keep you working late, doesn't he?'
'You seem to work fairly late hours yourself, Inspector. What is it this time?'
Impatience in her voice… Perhaps Urquhart had warned her against being friendly. Perhaps it had been discovered that she'd given Rebus the address of Deer Lodge…
'A word with Mr Jack, if possible.'
'Not possible, I'm afraid.' She didn't sound afraid; she sounded if anything a bit smug. 'He's speaking at a function this evening.'
'Oh. How did his meeting go this morning?'
'Meeting?'
'I thought he had some meeting in his constituency…?'
'Oh, that. I think it went very well.'
'So he's not for the chop then?'
She attempted a laugh. 'North and South Esk would be mad to get rid of him.'
'All the same he must be relieved.'
'I wouldn't know. He was on the golf course all afternoon.'
'Nice.'
'I think an MP is allowed one afternoon off a week, don't you, Inspector?'
'Oh yes, absolutely. That's what I meant.' Rebus paused. He had nothing to say, really; he was just hoping that if he kept her talking Helen Greig herself might tell him something, something he didn't know… 'Oh,' he said, 'about those telephone calls…'
'What calls?'
'The ones Mr Jack was getting. The anonymous ones.'
'I don't know what you're talking about. Sorry, I've got to go now. My mum's expecting me home at quarter to eight.'
'Right you are then, Miss Gr – ' But she had already put the phone down.
Golf? This afternoon? Jack must be keen. The rain had been falling steadily in Edinburgh since midday. He looked out of his unwashed window. It wasn't falling now, but the streets were glistening. The flat felt suddenly empty, and colder than ever. Rebus picked up the phone and made one more call. To Patience Aitken. To say he was on his way. She asked him where he was.
'I'm at home.'
'Oh? Picking up some more of your stuff?'
'That's right.'
'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.
