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…'
'Yes?'
'Well, I remembered. It was a night a while back. Like, a couple of months. Six weeks… something like that. I hadn't been up here long. Anyway, the usual trio of pissed punters comes in. Funny how they usually come in threes…' She paused, snorted. 'If you'll pardon the expression.'
'So three men came to the brothel?'
'Just said so, didn't I? Anyway, one of them liked the look of me, so off we went upstairs. I told him my name was Gail. I can't see the point of all those stupid names everybody else uses – Candy and Mandy and Claudette and Tina and Suzy and Jasmine and Roberta. I'd just forget who I was supposed to be.'
Rebus glanced at his watch. A little over ten minutes left… She seemed to understand.
'So, anyway, I asked him if he had a name. And he laughed. He said, 'You mean you don't recognize the face?' I shook my head, and he said, 'Of course, you're a Londoner, aren't you? Well hen,' he said, 'I'm weel kent up here.' Something stupid like that. Then he says, 'I'm Gregor Jack.' Well, I just started laughing, don't ask me why. He did ask me why. So I said, 'No you're not. I know Gregor Jack.' That seemed to put him off his stroke. In the end, he buggered off back to his pals. All the usual winks and slaps on the back, and I didn't say anything…'
'What did he look like?'
'Big. Like a Highlander. One of the other girls said she thought she had seen him on the telly…'
Rab Kinnoul. Rebus described him briefly.
'Sounds about right,' she conceded.
'What about the men who were with him?'
'Didn't pay much attention. One of them was the shy type, tall and skinny like a beanpole. The other was fat and had on a leather jacket.'
'You didn't catch their names?'
'No.'
Well, it didn't matter. Rebus would bet she could pick them out from a line-up. Ronald Steele and Barney Byars. A night out on the town. Byars, Steele, and Rab Kinnoul. A curious little assembly, and another incendiary he could toss in Steele's direction.
'Finish your drink, Gail,' he said. 'Then let's get you on to that train.'
But on the way, he extracted an address from her, the same one she had given before, the one he'd had George Flight check on.
'That's where I'll be,' she said. She took a final look around her. The train was idling, filling with people. Rebus lifted her suitcase in through one of the doors. She was still staring up at the glass roof of the station. Then she lowered her gaze to Rebus. 'I should never have left London, should I? Maybe nothing would have happened if I'd stayed where I was.'
Rebus tilted his head slightly. 'You're not to blame, Gail.' But all the same, he couldn't help feeling that she had a point. If she'd stayed away from Edinburgh, if she hadn't come out with that 'I know Gregor Jack'… who could say? She stepped up on to the train, then turned back towards him.
