'Any hint that they were a bit more than friends?'
Rebus shrugged. 'Not that I know of.'
'What about the actor, Rab Kinnoul? Maybe he and Mrs Jack.,.?'
'Maybe.'
'Convenient, isn't it?' said the Chief Superintendent, rising to pour himself another cup of black death. 'I mean, if Mr Kinnoul did ever want to dispose of a body, what better place than his own fast-flowing river, discharging into the sea, body turning up weeks later, or perhaps never at all. And he's always played killers on the TV and in films. Maybe it's all gone to his head…'
'Except,' said Lauderdale, 'that Kinnoul was in a series of meetings all day that Wednesday.'
'And Wednesday night?'
'At home with his wife.'
Watson nodded. 'We come back to Mrs Kinnoul again. Could she be lying?'
'She's certainly under his thumb,' said Rebus. 'And she's on all sorts of anti-depressants. I'd be surprised if she could tell Wednesday night at home in Queensferry from the twelfth of July in Londonderry.'
Watson smiled. 'Nicely put, John, but let's try to stick to facts.'
'What precious few there are,' said Lauderdale. 'I mean, we all know who the obvious candidate is: Mrs Jack's husband. She finds out he's been caught trousers-down in a brothel, they have a row, he may not mean to kill her but he strikes her. Next thing, she's dead.'
'He was caught trousers-up,' Rebus reminded his superior.
'Besides,' added Watson, 'Mr Jack, too, has his alibis.' He read from a sheet of paper. 'Constituency meeting in the morning. Round of golf in the afternoon – corroborated by his playing partner and checked by Detective Constable Broome. Then a dinner appointment where he made a speech to eighty or so fine upstanding members of the business community in Central Edinburgh.'
'And he drives a white Saab,' Rebus stated. 'We need to check car colours for everyone involved in the case, all Mrs Jack's friends and all Mr Jack's.'
'I've already put DS Holmes on to it,' said Lauderdale. 'And forensics say they'll have a report on the BMW ready by morning. I've another question though.' He turned to Rebus. 'Mrs Jack was, apparently, up north for anything up to a week. Did she stay all that time at Deer Lodge?'
Rebus had to give Lauderdale credit, the bugger had his thinking cap on today. Watson was nodding as though he'd been about to ask the selfsame thing, but of course he hadn't. Rebus had thought about it though.
'I don't think so,' he said. 'I do think she spent some time there, otherwise where did the Sunday papers and the green suitcase come from? But a whole week…? I doubt it. No signs of recent cooking. All the food and cartons and stuff I found were either from one party or another. There had been an attempt to clear a space on the living room floor, so one person or maybe two could sit and have a drink. But maybe that goes back to the last party, too. I suppose we could ask the guests while we're fingerprinting them…'
'Fingerprinting them?' asked Watson.
Lauderdale sounded like an exasperated parent. 'Purposes of elimination, sir. To see if any prints are left that can't be identified.'
'What would that tell us?' Watson said.
'The point is. sir,' commented Lauderdale, 'if Mrs Jack didn't stay at Deer Lodge, then who was she with and where did she stay? Was she even up north all that time?'
'Ah…' said Watson, nodding again as though understanding everything.
'She visited Andrew Macmillan on the Saturday,' added Rebus.
'Yes,' said Lauderdale, getting into his stride, 'but then she's next seen on the Wednesday by that yob at the farm. What about the days in between?'
'She was at Deer Lodge on the Sunday with her newspapers,' Rebus said. Then he realized the point Lauderdale was making. 'When she saw the story,' he continued, 'you think she may have headed south again?'
Lauderdale spread out his hands, examining the nails. 'It's a theory,' he said, merely.
'Well, we've plenty bloody theories,' said Watson, slapping one of his own much meatier hands down on the desk. 'We need something concrete. And let's not forget friend Glass. We still want to talk to him. About Dean Bridge if nothing else. Meanwhile…' he seemed to be trying to think of some path they might take, of some instructions or inspiration he might give. But he gave up and swigged back his coffee instead. 'Meanwhile,' he said at last, while Rebus and Lauderdale waited for the imparted wisdom, 'let's be careful out there.'
The old man's really showing his age now, thought Rebus, as he waited to follow Lauderdale out of the office. Hill Street Blues was a long, long time ago. In the corridor, after the door was closed behind them, Lauderdale grasped Rebus's arm. His voice was an excited hiss.
'Looks like the Chief Super's on the way out, doesn't it? Can't be long before the high heidyins see what's going on and pension him off.' He was trying to control his glee. Yes, Rebus was thinking, one or two very public foul-ups, that's all it would take. And he wondered… he wondered if Lauderdale was capable of engineering a balls-up with this in mind. Someone had tipped off the papers about Operation Creeper. Christ, it seemed such a long time ago. But wasn't Chris Kemp supposed to be doing some digging into that? He'd have to remember to ask Kemp what he'd found. So much still needed to be done…
He was shrugging his arm free of Lauderdale when Watson's door opened again, and Watson stood there staring at the two of them. Rebus wondered if they looked as guilty and conspiratorial as he himself felt. Then Watson's eyes settled on him.
'John,' he said, 'telephone call. It's Mr Jack. He says he'd be grateful if you'd go and see him. Apparently, there's something he'd like to talk to you about…'
Rebus pressed the bell at the locked gate. The voice over the intercom was Urquhart's.
'Yes?'
'Inspector Rebus to see Mr Jack.'
'Yes, Inspector, be right with you.'
Rebus peered through the bars. The white Saab was parked outside the house. He shook his head slowly. Some people never learned. A reporter had been sent from one of the line of cars to ask who Rebus was. The other reporters and photographers took shelter in the cars themselves, listening to the radio, reading newspapers. Soup or coffee was poured from flasks. They were here for the duration. And they were bored. As he waited, the wind sliced against Rebus, squeezing through a gap between jacket and shirt collar, trickling down his neck like ice water. He watched Urquhart emerge from the house, apparently trying to sort out the tangle of keys in his hand. The reconnaissance reporter still stood beside Rebus, twitching, readying himself to ask Urquhart his questions.
'I shouldn't bother, son,' advised Rebus.
Urquhart was at the gate now.
'Mr Urquhart,' blurted the reporter, 'anything to add to your previous statement?'
'No,' said Urquhart coolly, opening the gate. 'But I'll repeat it for you if you like – bugger off!'
And with that, Rebus safely through the gate, he slammed it shut and locked it, giving the bars an extra shake to make sure they were secure. The reporter, smiling sourly, was heading back to one of the cars.
'You're under siege,' Rebus observed.
Urquhart looked like he'd done without sleep for a night or two too many. 'It's diabolical,' he confided as they walked towards the house. 'Day and night they're out there. God knows what they think they're going to get.'
'A confession?' Rebus hazarded. He was rewarded with a weak smile.
'That, Inspector, they'll never get.' The smile left his face. 'But I am worried about Gregor… what all this is doing to him. He's… well, you'll see for yourself.'
'Any idea what this meeting's all about?'
'He wouldn't say. Inspector…' Urquhart had stopped. 'He's very fragile. I mean, he might say anything. I just hope you can tell truth from fantasy.' Then he started to walk again.
'Are you still diluting his whisky?'Rebus asked.
Urquhart gave him an appraising look, then nodded. 'That's not the answer, Inspector. That's not what he needs. He needs friends.'
Andrew Macmillan, too, had gone on about friends. Rebus wanted to talk to Jack about Andrew Macmillan. But
