Strip Jack

'What've you got there?' Rebus asked, suddenly hungry.

'You're the policeman, you tell me.' Holmes produced a sandwich from the bag and held it in front of Rebus.

'Corned chuck Rebus guessed..,

'Wrong. Pastrami on rye bread.'

'What?'

'And decaffeinated filter coffee.' Holmes prised the lid from the beaker and sniffed the contents with a contented smile. 'From that new delicatessen next to the traffic lights.'

'Doesn't Nell make you up a sandwich?'

'Women have equal rights these days.'

Rebus believed it. He thought of Inspector Gill Templer and her psychology books and her feminism. He thought of the demanding Dr Patience Aitken. He even thought of the free-living Elizabeth Jack. Strong women to a man… But then he remembered Cath Kinnoul. There were still casualties out there.

'What's it like?' he asked.

Holmes had taken a bite from the sandwich and was studying what was left. 'Okay,' he said. 'Interesting.'

Pastrami – now there was a sandwich filling that would be a long time coming to the Sutherland Bar.

Barney Byars, too, was a long time coming to the Sutherland. Rebus arrived at five minutes to six, Byars at twenty-five past. But he was well worth waiting for.

'Inspector, sorry I'm late. Some cunt was trying to knock me down five per cent on a four-grand contract, and he wanted sixty days to pay. Know what that does to a cash flow? I told him I ran a lorry firm, not fuckin' rickshaws.'

All of which was delivered in a thick Fife tongue and at a volume appreciably above that of the bar's early evening rumble of TV and conversation. Rebus was seated at one of the bar stools, but stood and suggested they take a table. Byars, however, was already making himself comfortable on the stool next to the policeman, laying his brawny arms along the bar-top and examining the array of taps. He pointed to Rebus's glass.

'That any good?'

'Not bad.'

I'll have a pint of that then.' Whether from awe, fear, or just good management of his customers, the barman was on hand to pour the requested pint.

'Another yourself, Inspector?'

'I'm okay, thanks.'

'And a whisky, too,' ordered Byars. 'A double, mind, not the usual smear-test.'

Byars handed a fifty-pound note to the barman. 'Keep the change,' he said. Then he roared with laughter. 'Only joking, son, only joking.'

The barman was new and young. He held the note as though it were likely to ignite. 'Ehh… you haven't got anything smaller on you?' His accent was effeminate west coast. Rebus wondered how long he'd last in the Sutherland.

Byars exasperated but rejecting Rebus's offer of help, dug into his pockets and found two crumpled one-pound notes and some change. He accepted his fifty back and pushed the coins towards the barman, then he winked at Rebus.

I'll tell you a secret, Inspector, if I had to choose between having five tenners or one fifty, I'd go for the one fifty every time. Want to know why? Tenners in your pocket, people think nothing of it. But whip a fifty out, and they think you're Croesus.' He turned to the barman, who was counting the coins out into the open till. 'Hey, son, got anything for eating?' The barman jerked round as though hit by a pellet.

'Ehh… I think there's some Scotch broth left over from lunch.' His vowels turned broth into 'braw-wrath'. The braw wrath of the Scots, Rebus thought to himself. Byars was shaking his head. 'A pie or a sandwich,' he demanded.

The barman proffered the last lonely sandwich in the place. It looked unnervingly like pastrami, but turned out to be, as Byars put it, 'the guid roast beef.

'One pound ten,' the barman said. Byars got out the fifty-pound note again, snorted, and produced a fiver instead. He turned back to Rebus and lifted his glass.

'Cheers.' Both men drank.

'Not bad at all,' Byars said of the beer.

Rebus gestured towards the sandwich. 'I thought you were going to dinner later on?'

'I am, but more importantly, I'm paying. This way, I won't eat as much and won't cost myself so much.' He winked again. 'Maybe I should write a book, eh? Business tips for sole traders, that sort of thing. Heh, speaking of tips, I once asked a waiter what "tips" meant. Know what he said?'

Rebus hazarded a wild guess. 'To insure prompt service?'

'No, to insure I don't piss in the soup!' Byars' voice was back to the level of megaphone diplomacy. He laughed, then took a bite of sandwich, still chortling as he chomped. He was not a tall man, five seven, or thereabouts. And he was stocky. He wore newish denims and a black leather jacket, beneath which he sported a white polo-shirt. In a bar like this, you'd take him for… well, just about anybody. Rebus could imagine him ruffling feathers in plush hotels and business bars. Image, he told himself. It's just another image: the hard man, the no-nonsense man, a man who worked hard and who expected others to work hard, too – always in his favour.

He had finished the sandwich, and was brushing crumbs from his lap. 'You're from Fife,' he said casually, sniffing the whisky.

'Yes,' Rebus admitted.

'I could tell. Gregor Jack's from Fife too, you know. You said you wanted to talk about him. Is it to do with that brothel story? I found that a bit hard to swallow.' He nodded towards the empty plate in front of him. 'Not as hard as that sandwich though.'

'No, it's not really to do with the… with Mr Jack's…no, it's more to do with Mrs Jack.' "

'Lizzie? What about her?'

'We're not sure where she is. Any ideas?'

Byars looked blank. 'Knowing Lizzie, you'd better get Interpol on the case. She's as likely to be in Istanbul as Inverness.'

'What makes you say Inverness?'

Byars looked stuck for an answer. 'It was the first place that came to mind.' Then he nodded. 'I see what you mean though. You were thinking she might be at Deer Lodge, it being up that way. Have you looked?'

Rebus nodded. 'When did you last see Mrs Jack?'

'A couple of weeks ago. Maybe three weekends ago, I can check. Funnily enough, it was at the lodge. A weekend party. The Pack mostly.' He looked up from his drink. 'I better explain that…'

'It's all right, I know who The Pack are. Three weekends ago, you say?'

'Aye, but I can check if you like.'

'A weekend party… you mean a party lasting the whole weekend?'

'Well, just a few friends… all very civilized.' A light came on behind his eyes. 'Ah-ha, I know what you're getting at. You know about Liz's parties then? No, no, this was tame stuff, dinner and a few drinks and a brisk country walk on the Sunday. Not really my mug of gin, but Liz had invited me, so…"

'You prefer her other kinds of party?'

Byars laughed. 'Of course! You're only young once, Inspector. I mean, it's all above board… isn't it?'

He seemed genuinely curious, not without reason. Why should a policeman know about 'those' parties? Who could have told him if not Gregor, and what exactly would Gregor have said?

'As far as I know, sir. So you don't know any reason why Mrs Jack might want to disappear?'

'I can think of a few.' Byars had finished both drinks, but didn't look like he was hanging around for another. He kept shifting on the stool, as if unable to get comfortable. 'That newspaper story for a start. I think I'd want to be well away from it, wouldn't you? I mean, I can see how it's bad for Gregor's image, not having his wife beside him, but at the same time…'

'Any other reasons?'

Byars was half standing now. 'A lover,' he suggested. 'Maybe he's whisked her off to Tenerife for a bit of pash under the sun.' He winked again, then his face became serious, as though he'd just remembered something. There were those phone calls,' he said.

'Phone calls?'

Now he was standing. 'Anonymous phone calls. Lizzie told me about them. Not to her, to Gregor. Bound to happen, the game he's in. Caller would phone up and say he was Sir Somebody-Somebody or Lord This 'n' That, and Gregor would be fetched to the phone. Soon as he got to it, the line would go dead. That's what she told me.'