Strip Jack

'We've checked Deer Lodge, Mr Jack.'

Another pause. Then: 'Oh?'

'She doesn't seem to be there. No sign of life.'

There was sweat beneath the collar of Rebus's shirt. He could blame it on the heating of course. But he knew the heating wasn't all to blame. Where was this leading? What was he wandering into?

'Oh.' A statement this time, a deflated sound. 'I see.'

'Mr Jack, is there anything you'd like to tell me?'

'Yes, Inspector, there is, I suppose."

Carefully: 'Would you like me to come over?'

'Yes.'

'All right, I'll be there as soon as I can. Just sit tight, all right?'

No answer.

'All right, Mr Jack?'

'Yes.'

But Gregor Jack didn't sound it.

Of course, Rebus's car wouldn't start. The sound it made was more and more like an emphysema patient's last hacking laugh. Herka-herka-her-ka-ka. Herka-herka-her.

'Having trouble?' This was yelled from across the car park by Brian Holmes, waving and about to get into his own car. Rebus slammed his car door shut and walked briskly over to where Holmes was just – with a first-time turn of the ignition – starting his Metro.

'Off home?'

'Yes.' A nod towards Rebus's doomed car. 'Doesn't sound as if you are. Want a lift?'

'As it happens, Brian, yes. And you can come along for the ride if you like.'

'I don't get it.'

Rebus was trying to open the passenger-side door, without success. Holmes hesitated a moment before unlocking it.

It's my turn to cook tonight,' he said. 'Nell'll be up to high doh if I'm late…'

Rebus settled into the passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt down across his chest.

I'll tell you all about it on the way.'

'The way where?'

'Not far from where you live. You won't be late, honest. I'll get a car to bring me back into town. But I'd quite like your attendance.'

Holmes wasn't slow; careful – yes, but never slow. 'You mean the male member,' he said. 'What's he done this time?'

'I shudder to think, Brian. Believe me, I shudder to think.'

There were no pressmen patrolling the gates, and the gates themselves were unlocked. The car had been put away in the garage, leaving the driveway clear. They left Holmes' car sitting on the main road outside. 'Quite a place,' Holmes commented.

'Wait till you see inside. It's like a film set, Ingmar Bergman or something.'

Holmes shook his head. 'I still can't believe it,' he said. 'You, coming out here yesterday, barging your way in -'

'Hardly barging, Brian. Now listen, I'm going to have a word with Jack. You sniff around, see if anything smells rotten.'

'You mean literally rotten?'

I'm not expecting to find decomposing bodies in the flower beds, if that's what you're thinking. No, just keep your eyes open and your ears keen.'

'And my nose wet?'

'If you haven't got a handkerchief on you, yes.'

They separated, Rebus to the front door, Holmes around to the side of the house, towards the garage. Rebus rang the doorbell. It was nearly six. No doubt Helen Greig would be on her way home…

But it was Helen Greig who answered the door.

'Hello,' she said. 'Come in. Gregor's in the living room. You know the way.'

'Indeed I do. Keeping you busy, is he?' He laid a finger on. the face of his wristwatch.

'Oh yes,' she said smiling, 'he's a real slavemaster.'

An unkind image came to Rebus then, of Jack in leather gear and Helen Greig on a leash… He blinked it away. 'Does he seem all right?'

'Who? Gregor?' She gave a quiet laugh. 'He seems fine, under the circumstances. Why?'

'Just wondering, that's all.'

She thought for a moment, seemed about to say something, then remembered her place. 'Can I get you anything?'

'No, thanks.'

'Right, see you later then.' And off she went, back past the curving staircase, back to her office to the rear of the house. Damn, he hadn't told Holmes about her. If Holmes peered in through the office window… Oh well. If he heard a scream, he'd know what had happened. He opened the living room door.

Gregor Jack was alone. Alone and listening to his hi-fi. The volume was low, but Rebus recognized the Rolling Stones. It was the album he'd been listening to earlier, Let It Bleed.

Jack rose from his leather sofa, a glass of whisky in one hand. 'Inspector, you didn't take long. You've caught me indulging in my secret vice. Well, we all have one secret vice, don't we?'

Rebus thought again of the scene at the brothel. And Jack seemed to read his mind, for he gave an embarrassed smile. Rebus shook the proffered hand. He noticed that a plaster had been stuck on the left hand's offending finger. One secret vice, and one tiny flaw…

Jack saw him noticing. 'Eczema,' he explained, and seemed about to say more.

'Yes, you said.'

'Did I?'

'Yesterday.'

'You'll have to forgive me, Inspector. I don't usually repeat myself. But what with yesterday and everything…'

'Understood.' Past Jack, Rebus noticed a card standing on the mantelpiece. It hadn't been there yesterday.

Jack realized he had a glass in his hand. 'Can I offer you a drink?'

'You can, sir, and I accept.'

'Whisky all right? I don't think there's much else

'Whatever you're having, Mr Jack.' And for some reason he added: 'I like the Rolling Stones myself, their earlier stuff.'

'Agreed,' said Jack. The music scene these days, it's all rubbish, isn't it?' He'd gone over to the wall to the left of the fireplace, where glass shelves held a series of bottles and glasses. As he poured, Rebus walked over to the table where yesterday Urquhart had been fussing with some papers. There were letters, waiting to be signed (all with the House of Commons portcullis at the head), and some notes relating to parliamentary business.

'This job,' Jack was saying, approaching with Rebus's drink, 'really is what you make of it. There are some MPs who do the minimum necessary, and believe me that's still plenty. Cheers.'

'Cheers.' They both drank.

'Then there are those,' said Jack, 'who go for the maximum. They do their constituency work, and they become involved in the parliamentary process, the wider world. They debate, they write, they attend

'And which camp do you belong to, sir?' He talks too much, Rebus was thinking, and yet he says so little…

'Straight down the middle,' said Jack, steering a course with his flattened hand. 'Here, sit down.'

'Thank you, sir.' They both sat, Rebus on the chair, Jack on the sofa. Rebus had noticed straight away that the whisky was watered, and he wondered by whom? And did Jack know about it? 'Now then,' said Rebus, 'you said on the phone that there was something -'

Jack used a remote control to switch off the music. He aimed the remote at the wall, it seemed to Rebus. There was no hi-fi system in sight. 'I want to get things straight about my wife, Inspector,' he said. 'About Liz. I am worried about her, I admit it. I didn't want to say anything before…'

'Why not, sir?' So far, the speech sounded well prepared. But then he'd had over an hour in which to prepare it. Soon enough, it would run out. Rebus could be patient. He wondered where Urquhart was…

'Publicity, Inspector. Ian calls Liz my liability. I happen to think he's going a bit far, but Liz is… well, not quite temperamental…"

'You think she saw the newspapers?'

'Almost certainly. She always buys the tabloids. It's the gossip she likes.'

'But she hasn't been in touch?'

'No, no, she hasn't.'

'And that's a bit strange, wouldn't you say?' Jack creased his face. 'Yes and no, Inspector. I mean, I don't know what to think. She's capable of just laughing the whole thing off. But then again…"

'You think she might harm herself, sir?'

'Harm herself?' Jack was slow to understand. 'You mean suicide? No, I don't think so, no, not that. But if she felt embarrassed, she might simply disappear. Or something could have happened to her, an accident… God knows what. If she got angry enough… it's just possible…' He bowed his head again, elbows resting on his knees.