Jack gave a curt nod. Rebus nodded, too. Embarrassing to have a sister who's a prostitute. But how much more embarrassing to have an old friend who's a murderer? And mad, to boot. Gregor Jack had worked hard to form his public image, and harder still to preserve it. Rushing around with his vacuously sincere grin and strong-enough- for-the-occasion handshake. Working hard in his constituency, working hard in public. But his private life… well, Rebus wouldn't have wanted to swap. It was a mess. And what made it so messy was that Jack had tried to hide it. He didn't have skeletons in his closet; he had a crematorium.
'Wanted me to start a campaign,' Jack was muttering. 'Couldn't do that. Why did you start this crusade, Mr Jack? To help an old friend. Which old friend is that, Mr Jack? The one who cut his wife's head off. Now, if you'll excuse me. Oh, and please remember to vote for me next time round…' And he began a drunken, wailing laugh, near-manic, near-crying. Finally actually becoming crying, tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping into the glass he still held.
'Gregor,' Rebus said quietly. He repeated the name, and again, and again, always quietly. Jack sniffed back more tears and looked blurrily towards him. 'Gregor,' said Rebus, 'did you kill your wife?'
Jack wiped his eyes on his shirt-sleeve, sniffed, wiped again. He began to shake his head.
'No,' he said. 'No, I didn't kill my wife.'
No, because William Glass killed her. He killed the woman under Dean Bridge, and he killed Elizabeth Jack.
Rebus had missed all the excitement. He had driven back into town unaware of it. He had climbed the steps up to Great London Road station without knowing. And he had entered a place of jumpy, jittery clamour. Christ, what did it mean? Was the station definitely staying open? No move to St Leonard 's? Which meant, if he remembered his bet, that he'd set up home with Patience Aitken. But no, it was nothing to do with the station staying open or being reduced to rubble. It was William Glass. A beat constable had come across him sleeping amidst the dustbins behind a supermarket in Barnton. He was in custody. He was talking. They were feeding him soup and giving him endless cups of tea and fresh cigarettes, and he was talking.
'But what's he saying?'
'He's saying he did them – both of them!'
'He's saying what?'
Rebus started calculating. Barnton… not so far from Queensferry when you thought about it. They were thinking he'd have headed north or west, but in fact he'd started crawling back into town… supposing he'd ever got as far as Queensferry in the first place.
'He's admitting both murders.'
'Who's with him?'
'Chief Inspector Lauderdale and Inspector Dick.'
Lauderdale! Christ, he'd be loving it. This would be the making of him, the final nail in the Chief Super's coffee-maker. But Rebus had other things to be doing. He wanted Jack's sister found, for a start. Gail Jack, but she wouldn't be calling herself that, would she? He went through the Operation Creeper case-notes. Gail Crawley. That was her. She'd been released, of course. And had given a London address. He found one of the officers who'd interviewed her.
'Yes, she said she was heading south. Couldn't keep her, could we? Didn't want to either. Just gave her a kick up the arse and told her not to come back up here again. Isn't it incredible? Catching Glass like that!'
'Incredible, yes,' said Rebus. He photocopied what notes there were, along with Gail Crawley's photograph, and scribbled some further notes of his own on to the copy. Then he telephoned an old friend, an old friend in London.
'Inspector Flight speaking.'
'Hello George. When's the retirement party then?'
There was laughter. 'You tell me, you were the one who persuaded me to stay on.'
'Can't afford to lose you.'
'Meaning you want a favour?'
'Official business, George, but speed is of the -'
'As usual. All right, what is it?'
'Give me your fax number and I'll send you the details. If she's at the address, I'd like you to talk to her. I've put down a couple of phone numbers. You can reach me anytime on one or the other.'
'Two numbers, eh? Got yourself in deep, have you?'
In deep… jettisoning what I don't need…
'You could say that, George.'
'What's she like?' By which he meant Patience, not Gail.
'She likes domesticity, George. Pets and nights in, candles and firelight.'
'Sounds perfect.' George Flight paused. I'll give it three months max.'
'Sod you,' said Rebus, grinning. Flight was laughing again.
'Four months then,' he said. 'But that's my final offer.'
That done, Rebus headed for the nerve centre, the one place he needed to station himself – the gents' toilets. Part of the ceiling had fallen down and had been replaced with a piece of brown cardboard on which some joker had drawn a huge eyeball. Rebus washed his hands, dried them, chatted to one of the other detectives, shared a cigarette. In a public toilet, he'd have been picked up for loitering. He was loitering, too, loitering with intent. The door opened. Bingo. It was Lauderdale, a frequent user of rest rooms when he was on an interrogation.
'All the time you're coming and going,' he'd told Rebus, 'the suspect's sweating that bit more, wondering what's up, what's happened that's new.'
'What's up?' Rebus asked now. Lauderdale smiled and went to splash water on his face, patting his temples and the back of his neck. He looked pleased with himself. More worrying, he didn't smell.
'Looks like our Chief Super may have got it right for once,' Lauderdale admitted. 'He said we should be concentrating on Glass.'
'He's confessed?'
'As good as. Looks as though he's sorting his defence out first.'
'What's that then?'
'The media,' said Lauderdale, drying himself. 'The media pushed him into doing it. I mean, killing again. He says it was expected of him.'
'Sounds to me like he's one domino shy of a set.'
'I'm not putting any words into his mouth, if that's what you're thinking. It's all on tape.'
Rebus shook his head. 'No, no, I mean, if he says he did it, then fair enough. That's fine. And by the way, it was me that shot JFK.'
Lauderdale was examining himself in the spattered mirror. He still looked triumphal, his neck rising from his shirt collar so that his head sat on it like a golf ball on its tee.
'A confession, John,' he was saying, 'it's a powerful thing is a confession.'
'Even when the guy's been sleeping rough for nights on end? Strung out on Brasso and hunted by Edinburgh's finest? Confession might be good for the soul, sir, but sometimes all it's worth is a bowl of soup and some hot tea.'
Lauderdale tidied himself, then turned towards Rebus. 'You're just a pessimist, John.'
'Think of all the questions Glass can't answer. Ask him some of them. How did Mrs Jack get to Queensferry? How come he dumped her there? Just ask him, sir. I'll be interested to read the transcript. I think you'll find the conversation's all one way.'
Exit the Inspector Rebus, leaving behind the Chief Inspector Lauderdale, brushing himself down like a statue examining itself for chips. He seems to find one, too, for he frowns suddenly, and spends longer in the washroom than intended…
'I need just a little bit more, John.'
They were lying in bed together, just the three of them: Rebus, Patience, and Lucky the cat. Rebus affected an American accent.
'I gave ya everything I got, baby.'
Patience smiled, but wasn't to be placated. She thumped her pillows and sat up, drawing her knees up to her chin. 'I mean,' she said, 'I need to know what you're going to do… what we're going to do. I can't decide whether you're moving in with me, or else moving out.'
