didn't dare spit it out, but had to go on chewing, trying hard not to swallow… He swallowed. 'So along I went, and she was there. The caller had been telling the truth. I was trying to talk to her when the police came in. But it was a trap, too. The newsmen were there…'
Rebus was remembering the woman in the bed, the way she kicked her legs in the air, the way she'd lifted her t-shirt for the photographers to see…
'Why didn't you say anything at the time, Gregor?'
Jack laughed shrilly. 'It was bad enough as it was. Would it have been any better if I'd let everyone know my sister's a tart?'
'Well then, why tell me now?'
His voice was calm. 'It looks to me, Inspector, like I'm in deep water. I'm just jettisoning what I don't need.'
'You must know then, sir… you must have known all along, that someone is setting you up to take a very big fall.'
Jack smiled. 'Oh yes.'
'Any idea who? I mean, any enemies?'
The smile again. 'I'm an MP, Inspector. The wonder is that I have any friends.'
'Ah yes, The Pack. Could one of them…?'
'Inspector, I've racked my brain and I'm no nearer finding out.' He looked up at Rebus. 'Honest.'
'You didn't recognize the caller's voice?'
'It was heavily muffled. Gruff. A man probably, but to be honest it could have been a woman.'
'Okay then, what about your sister? Tell me about her.'
It was soon told. She'd left home young, and never been heard of. Vague rumours of London and marriage had drifted north over the years, but that was all. Then the phone call…
'How could the caller know? How might they have found out?'
'Now that's a mystery, because I've never told anybody about Gail.'
'But your schoolfriends would know of her?'
'Slightly, I suppose. I doubt any of them remember her. She was two years below us at school.'
'You think maybe she came back up here looking for revenge?'
Jack spread his palms. 'Revenge for what?'
'Well, jealousy then.'
'Why didn't she just get in touch?'
It was a point. Rebus made a mental note to get in touch with her, supposing she was still around. 'You haven't heard from her since?'
'Not before, not since.'
'Why did you want to see her, Gregor?'
'One, I really was interested.' He broke off.
'And two?'
'Two… I don't know, maybe to talk her out of what she was doing.'
'For her own good, or for yours?'
Jack smiled. 'You're right, of course, bad for the image having a sister on the game.'
'There are worse forms of prostitution than whoring.'
Jack nodded, impressed. 'Very deep, Inspector. Can I use that in one of my speeches? Not that I'll be making many of those from now on. Whichever way you look at it, my career's down the Swanny.'
'Never give up, sir. Think of Robert the Bruce.'
'And the spider, you mean? I hate spiders. So does Liz.' He halted. 'Did Liz.'
Rebus wanted to keep the conversation moving. The amount of whisky Jack had drunk, he might tip over any minute. 'Can I ask you about that last party up at Deer Lodge?'
'What about it?'
'For a start, who was present?'
Having to use his memory seemed to sober Jack up. Not that he could add much to what Barney Byars had already told Rebus. It was a boozy, sit-around-and-chat evening, followed by a morning hike up some nearby mountain, lunch – at the Heather Hoose – and then home. Jack's only regret was inviting Helen Greig to go.
I'm not sure she saw any of us in a decent light. Barney Byars was doing elephant impressions, you know, where you pull out your trouser pockets and-'
'Yes, I know.'
'Well, Helen took it in good enough part, but all the same…'
'Nice girl, isn't she?'
'The sort my mum would have wanted me to marry.'
Mine too, thought Rebus. The whisky wasn't just loosening Jack's tongue, it was also loosening his accent. The polish was fading fast, leaving the raw wood of towns like Kirkcaldy, Leven, Methil.
'This party was a couple of weeks ago, wasn't it?'
'Three weeks ago. We were back here five days when Liz decided she needed a holiday. Packed a case and off she went. Never saw her again…' He raised a fist and punched the soft leather of the sofa, making hardly a sound and no discernible mark. 'Why are they doing this to me? I'm the best MP this constituency's ever had. Don't take my word for it. Go out and talk to them. Go to a mining village or a farm or a factory or a fucking afternoon tea party. They tell me the same thing: well done, Gregor, keep up the good work.' He was on his feet again now, feet holding their ground but the rest of the body in motion. 'Keep up the good work, the hard work. Hard work! It bloody is hard work, I can tell you.' His voice was rising steadily. 'Worked my balls off for them! Now somebody's trying to piss on my whole life from a very high place. Why me? Why me? Liz and me… Liz…'
Urquhart tapped twice before putting his head round the door. 'Everything all right?'
Jack put on a grotesque mask of a smile. 'Everything's fine, Ian. Listening behind the door, are you? Good, wouldn't want you to miss a word, would we?'
Urquhart glanced at Rebus. Rebus nodded: everything's okay in here, really it is. Urquhart retreated and closed the door. Gregor Jack collapsed into the sofa. I'm making such a mess of everything,' he said, rubbing his face with his hand, 'Ian's such a good friend…'
Ah yes, friends.
'I believe,' said Rebus, 'that you haven't just been receiving anonymous calls.' '
'What?'
'Someone said something about letters, too.'
'Oh… oh yes, letters. Crank letters.'
'Do you still have them?'
Jack shook his head. 'Not worth keeping.'
'Did you let anyone see them?'
'Not worth reading.'
'What exactly was in them, Mr Jack?'
'Gregor,' Jack reminded him. 'Please, call me Gregor. What was in them? Rubbish. Garbled nonsense. Ravings…'
'I don't think so.'
'What?'
'Someone told me you'd refuse to let anyone open them. He thought they might be love letters.'
Jack hooted.' Love letters!'
'I don't think they were either. But it strikes me, how could Ian Urquhart or anyone else know which letters they were to hand to you unopened? The handwriting? Difficult to tell though, isn't it? No, it had to be the postmark. It had to be what was on the envelope. I'll tell you where those letters came from, Mr Jack. They came from Duthil. They came from your old friend Andrew Macmillan. And they weren't raving, were they? They weren't garbled or nonsense or rubbish. They were asking you to do something about the system in the special hospitals. Isn't that right?'
Jack sat and studied his glass, mouth set petulantly, a kid who's been caught out.
'Isn't that right?'
