Authors: Ian Rankin
‘What will you have to drink, Inspector?’
‘I’ll have a small whisky, if it’s no trouble.’
‘No trouble at all.’
The bar wasn’t exactly busy. A late-afternoon hiatus, as the secretary had explained. Those who played in the afternoon usually liked to get started before three, while those who came for an early evening round arrived around five thirty.
Two men in identical yellow V-neck pullovers sat at a table by the window and stared out in silence, sipping from time to time at identical bloody marys. Two more men sat at the bar, one with a flat-looking half pint of beer, the other with what looked suspiciously like a glass of milk. They were all in their forties, or slightly older; all my contemporaries, thought Rebus.
‘Bill here could tell you a few stories, Inspector,’ the club secretary said, nodding towards the barman. Bill nodded back, half in greeting, half in agreement. His own V-neck was cherry red, and did nothing to hide his bulging stomach. He didn’t look like a professional barman, but took a slow, conspicuous pride in the job. Rebus reckoned him for just another member, doing his stint of duty.
Nobody had twitched at the secretary’s mention of ‘Inspector’. These men were law-abiding; or, if not, they were certainly law-
abetting
. They believed in law and order and that criminals should be punished. They just didn’t think fiddling your tax was a criminal act. They looked . . . secure. They thought of themselves as secure. But Rebus knew
he
held the skeleton keys.
‘Water, Inspector?’ The secretary pushed a jug towards him.
‘Thank you.’ Rebus adulterated the whisky. The secretary was looking around him, as though surrounded by bodies.
‘Hector’s not here. I thought he was.’
Bill the Barman chipped in: ‘He’ll be back in a sec.’
‘Gone for the proverbial jimmy,’ added the drinker of milk, while Rebus pondered which proverb he meant.
‘Ah, here he comes.’
Rebus had imagined a large Hector, curly hair, distended gut, tangerine V-neck. But this man was small and had thinning, Brylcreemed black hair. He, too, was in his forties, and peered at the world through thick-lensed, thick-rimmed glasses. His mouth was set in a defiance at odds with his appearance, and he examined Rebus thoroughly while the introductions were made.
‘How do you do?’ he said, slipping a small, damp hand into Rebus’s paw. It was like shaking hands with a well-brought-up child. His V-neck was camel-coloured but expensive-looking. Cashmere . . .?
‘Inspector Rebus,’ the secretary said, ‘is wondering about a particular round which was either played or was not played a couple of Wednesdays ago.’
‘Yes.’
‘I told him you’re the brains of the set-up, Hector.’
‘Yes.’
The secretary seemed to be struggling. ‘We thought maybe you’d –’
But Hector now had enough information, and had digested it. ‘First thing to do,’ he said, ‘is look at the bookings. They may not tell us the whole story, but they’re the place to start. Who was playing?’
The question was directed at Rebus. ‘Two players, sir,’ he replied. ‘A Mr Ronald Steele and a Mr Gregor Jack.’
Hector glanced behind Rebus to where the two drinkers sat at the bar. The room hadn’t exactly grown quieter, but there was a palpable change of atmosphere. The drinker of milk spoke first.
‘Those two!’
Rebus turned to him. ‘Yes, sir, those two. How do you mean?’
But it was Hector’s place to answer. ‘Messrs Jack and Steele have a regular booking. Mr Jack was an MP, you know.’
‘He still is, sir, so far as I know.’
‘Not for much longer,’ muttered the milk-drinker’s companion.
‘I’m not aware that Mr Jack has committed any crime.’
‘I should think not,’ snapped Hector.
‘He’s still a royal pain in the arse,’ commented the milk-drinker.
‘How’s that, sir?’
‘Books and never shows. Him and his cronies.’ Rebus became aware that this was a long-festering sore, and that the man’s words were directed more towards the club secretary and Hector than towards him. ‘Gets away with it, too. Just because he’s an MP.’
‘Mr Jack has been warned,’ Hector said.
‘Reprimanded,’ corrected the club secretary. The milk-drinker just screwed up his face.
‘You kissed his bloody arse and you know it.’
‘Now then, Colin,’ said Bill and the Barman, ‘no need to –’
‘It’s about time
some
body said it out loud!’
‘Hear hear,’ said the beer-drinker. ‘Colin’s right.’
An argument wasn’t much use to Rebus. ‘Do I take it,’ he said, ‘that Mr Jack and Mr Steele had a regular booking, but then wouldn’t turn up?’
‘You take it absolutely right,’ said Colin.
‘Let’s not exaggerate or misrepresent,’ said Hector quietly. ‘Let us deal in facts.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Rebus, ‘while we’re dealing in facts, it’s a fact that a colleague of mine, Detective Constable Broome, came out here last week to check on whether that particular round of golf had been played. I believe he dealt with
you
, seeing how the club secretary here was ill that day.’
‘Remember, Hector,’ the secretary interrupted nervously, ‘one of my migraines.’
Hector nodded curtly. ‘I remember.’
‘You weren’t exactly honest with DC Broome, were you, sir?’ said Rebus. Colin was licking his lips, enjoying the confrontation.
‘On the contrary, Inspector,’ said Hector. ‘I was
scrupulously
honest in answering the detective constable’s questions. He
just didn’t ask the right ones. In fact, he was very sloppy indeed. Took one look at the bookings and seemed satisfied. I recall he was in a hurry . . . he had to meet his wife.’
Right, thought Rebus, Broome was for a carpeting then. Even so . . .
‘Even so, sir, it was your duty –’
‘I answered his questions, Inspector. I did not lie.’
‘Well then, let’s say that you were “economical with the truth”.’
Colin snorted. Hector gave him a cold look, but his words were for Rebus. ‘He wasn’t thorough enough, Inspector. It’s as simple as that. I don’t expect my patients to help me if I’m not thorough enough in my treatment of them.
You
shouldn’t expect
me
to do your work for you.’
‘This is a serious criminal case, sir.’
‘Then why are we arguing? Ask your questions.’
The barman interrupted. ‘Hold on, before you start,
I’ve
got a question.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘What are you having?’
Bill the Barman poured the drinks. The round was on him, and he totted up the amount and scribbled it into a small notebook kept beside the till. The bloody marys from the window came over to join in. The beer-drinker was introduced to Rebus as David Cassidy – ‘No jokes, please. How were my parents supposed to know?’ – and the man called Colin was indeed drinking milk – ‘ulcer, doctor’s orders’.
Hector accepted a thin, delicate glass filled to the lip with dry sherry. He toasted ‘our general health’.
‘But not the National Health, eh, Hector?’ added Colin, going on to explain to Rebus that Hector was a dentist.
‘Private,’ Cassidy added.
‘Which,’ Hector retorted, ‘is what this club is supposed to be. Private. Members’ private business should be none of our concern.’
‘Which is why,’ Rebus speculated, ‘you’ve been acting as alibi for Jack and Steele?’
Hector merely sighed. ‘“Alibi” is rather strong, Inspector.
As club members, they are allowed to book
and
to cancel at short notice.’
‘And that’s what happened?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘But not all the time?’
‘They played occasionally.’
‘How occasionally?’
‘I’d have to check.’
‘About once a month,’ Barman Bill said. He held on to the glass-towel as if it were a talisman.
‘So,’ said Rebus, ‘three weeks out of four they’d cancel? How did they cancel?’
‘By telephone,’ said Hector. ‘Usually Mr Jack. Always very apologetic. Constituency business . . . or Mr Steele was ill . . . or, well, there were a number of reasons.’
‘Excuses you mean,’ Cassidy said.
‘Mind you,’ said Bill, ‘sometimes Gregor’d turn up anyway, wouldn’t he?’
Colin conceded that this was so. ‘I went a round with him myself one Wednesday when Steele hadn’t shown up.’
‘So,’ said Rebus, ‘Mr Jack came to the club more often than Mr Steele?’
There were nods at this. Sometimes he’d cancel, then turn up. He wouldn’t play, just sit in the bar. Never the other way round: Steele never turned up without Jack. And on the Wednesday in question, the Wednesday Rebus was interested in?
‘It bucketed down,’ Colin said. ‘Hardly any bugger went out that day, never mind those two.’
‘They cancelled then?’
Oh yes, they cancelled. And no, not even Mr Jack had turned up. Not that day, and not since.
The lull was over. Members were coming in, either for a quick one before starting out or for a quick one before heading home. They came over to the little group, shook hands, swopped stories, and the group itself started to fragment, until only Rebus and Hector were left. The dentist laid a hand on Rebus’s arm.
‘One more thing, Inspector,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘I hope you won’t think I’m being unsubtle . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘But you really should get your teeth seen to.’
‘So I’ve been told, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘So I’ve been told. Incidentally, I hope you won’t think
I’m
being unsubtle . . .?’
‘Yes, Inspector?’
Rebus leaned close to the man, the better to hiss into his ear. ‘I’m going to try my damnedest to see you on a charge for obstruction.’ He placed his empty glass on the bar.
‘Cheers then,’ said Barman Bill. He took the glass and rinsed it in the machine, then placed it on the plastic drip-mat. When he looked up, Hector was still standing where the policeman had left him, his sherry glass rigid in his hand.
‘You told me on Friday,’ Rebus said, ‘that you were jettisoning what you didn’t need.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I take it you
did
feel you needed the alibi of your golf game?’
‘What?’
‘Your weekly round with your friend Ronald Steele.’
‘What about it?’
‘Funny isn’t it?
I’m
making the statements and
you’re
asking the questions. Should be the other way round.’
‘Should it?’
Gregor Jack looked like a war casualty who could still hear and see the battle, no matter how far from the front he was dragged. The newsmen were still outside his gates, while Ian Urquhart and Helen Greig were still inside. The sounds of a printer doing its business came from the distant back office. Urquhart was ensconced in there with Helen. Another day, another press release.
‘Do I need a solicitor?’ Jack asked now, his eyes dark and sleepless.
‘That’s entirely up to you, sir. I just want to know why you’ve lied to us about this round of golf.’
Jack swallowed. There was an empty whisky bottle on the coffee table, and three empty coffee mugs. ‘Friendship, Inspector,’ he said, ‘is . . . it’s . . .’
‘An excuse? You need more than excuses, sir. What
I
need right now are some facts.’ He thought of Hector as he said the word. ‘Facts,’ he repeated.
But Jack was still mumbling something about friendship. Rebus rose awkwardly from his ill-fitting marshmallow-chair. He stood over the MP. MP? This wasn’t an MP. This wasn’t
the
Gregor Jack. Where was the confidence, the charisma? Where the voteworthy face and that clear, honest voice? He was like one of those sauces they make on cookery programmes – reduce and reduce and reduce . . .
Rebus reached down and grabbed him by his shoulders. He actually shook him. Jack looked up in surprise. Rebus’s voice was cold and sharp like rain.
‘Where were you that Wednesday?’
‘I was . . . I . . . was . . . nowhere. Nowhere really. Everywhere.’
‘Everywhere except where you were supposed to be.’
‘I went for a drive.’
‘Where?’
‘Down the coast. I think I ended up in Eyemouth, one of those fishing villages, somewhere like that. It rained. I walked along the sea front. I walked a lot. Drove back inland. Everywhere and nowhere.’ He began to sing. ‘You’re everywhere and nowhere, baby.’ Rebus shook him again and he stopped.
‘Did anyone see you? Did you speak to anyone?’
‘I went into a pub . . . two pubs. One in Eyemouth, one somewhere else.’
‘Why? Where was. . . Suey? What was he up to?’
‘Suey.’ Jack smiled at the name. ‘Good old Suey. Friends, you see, Inspector. Where was he? He was where he always was – with some woman. I’m his cover. If anyone asks, we’re out playing golf. And sometimes we are. But the rest of the time, I’m covering for him. Not that I mind. It’s quite nice really, having that time to myself. I go off on my own, walking . . . thinking.’
‘Who’s the woman?’
‘What? I don’t know. I’m not even sure it’s just the one. . .’
‘You can’t think of any candidates?’
‘Who?’ Jack blinked. ‘You mean Liz? My Liz? No, Inspector, no.’ He smiled briefly. ‘No.’
‘All right, what about Mrs Kinnoul?’
‘Gowk?’ Now he laughed. ‘Gowk and Suey? Maybe when they were fifteen, Inspector, but not now. Have you seen Rab Kinnoul? He’s like a mountain. Suey wouldn’t dare.’
‘Well, maybe Suey will be good enough to tell me.’
‘You’ll apologize, won’t you? Tell him I
had
to tell you.’
‘I’d be grateful,’ Rebus said stonily, ‘if you’d think back on that afternoon. Try to remember where you stopped, the names of the pubs, anyone who
might
remember seeing you. Write it all down.’
‘Like a statement.’
‘Just to help you remember. It often helps when you write things down.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Meantime, I’m going to have to think about charging you with obstruction.’
‘What?’
The door opened. It was Urquhart. He came in and closed it behind him. ‘That’s that done,’ he said.
‘Good,’ Jack said casually. Urquhart, too, looked like he was just hanging on. His eyes were on Rebus, even when he was speaking to his employer.