Strip Jack

'Come on, Brian,' said Rebus, 'let's see how Mrs Kinnoul's getting on.'

Cath Kinnoul seemed in a state of shock. A doctor had been to the house, but had left by the time Rebus and Holmes reached the scene. They shed their sodden jackets in the hall, while Rebus had a quiet word with the WPC.

'No sign of the husband?' -

'No, sir.'

'How is she?'

'Comfortably numb.'

Rebus tried to look bedraggled and pathetic. It wasn't difficult. The WPC read his mind and smiled.

I'll make some tea, shall I?'

'Anything hot would hit the spot, believe me.'

Cath Kinnoul was sitting in one of the living room's huge armchairs. The chair itself looked like it was in the process of consuming her, while she looked about half the size and a quarter of the age she'd been when Rebus had last seen her.

'Hello again,' he said, mock-cheerily.

Inspector… Rebus?'

'That's it. And this is Sergeant Holmes. No jokes, please, he's heard them all before, haven't you, Sergeant?'

Holmes saw that they were playing the comedy duo, trying to bring some life back into Mrs Kinnoul. He nodded encouragingly. In fact, he was glancing around wistfully, hoping to find a roaring log or coal fire. But there wasn't even a roaring gas fire for him to stand in front of. Instead, there was a one-bar electric job, just about glowing with warmth, and there were two radiators. He went and stood in front of one of these, separating his trousers from his legs. He pretended to be admiring the pictures on the wall in front of him. Rab Kinnoul with a TV actor… with a TV comedian… with a gameshow host…

'My husband,' Mrs Kinnoul explained. 'He works in television.'

Rebus spoke. 'No idea what he's up to today though, Mrs Kinnoul?'

'No,' she said quietly,' no idea.'

Two witnesses who had known the deceased in life… Well, thought Rebus, you can scrub Cath Kinnoul. She'd fall apart if she knew it was Liz Jack out there, never mind having to identify the body. Even now, someone was trying to get in touch with Gregor Jack, and Jack would probably arrive at the mortuary with Ian Urquhart or Helen Greig, either of whom would do as the second nod of the head. No need to bother Cath Kinnoul

'You look soaked,' she was saying. 'Something to drink?'

'The WPC's making some tea…' But as he spoke, Rebus knew this was not what she was suggesting. 'A drop of the cratur wouldn't go amiss though, if it's not too much trouble.'

She nodded towards a sideboard. 'Right-hand cupboard,' she said. 'Please help yourself.'

Rebus thought of suggesting that she join them. But what pills had the doctor given her? And what pills had she taken of her own? He poured Glenmorangie into two long slim glasses and handed one to Holmes, who had taken up a canny position in front of a radiator.

'Mind you don't get steaming,' Rebus said in a murmur, Just then, the WPC appeared, carrying a tray of tea things She saw the alcohol and almost frowned.

'Here's tae us,' said Rebus, downing the drink in one.

At the mortuary, Gregor Jack seemed hardly to recognize Rebus at all. Jack had been holding his weekly constituency surgery, Ian Urquhart explained to Rebus in a conspiratorial whisper. This was usually held on a Friday, but there was a Private Member's Bill in the Commons this Friday, and Gregor Jack wanted to be part of the debate. So, Gregor having been in the area on Wednesday anyway, they'd decided to hold the surgery on Thursday, leaving Friday free.

Listening to all this in silence, Rebus thought: Why are you telling me? But Urquhart was clearly nervous and felt the need to talk. Well, mortuaries could have that effect. never mind the fact that your employer was about to see scandal heaped upon scandal. Never mind the fact that your job was about to be made more difficult than ever.

'How did the golf game go?' Rebus asked back.

'What golf game?'

'Yesterday.'

'Oh.' Urquhart nodded. 'You mean Gregor's game. I don't know. I haven't asked him yet.'

So Urquhart himself hadn't been involved. He paused for so long that Rebus thought a dead end had been reached. but the need to speak was too great.

'That's a regular date,' Urquhart went on. 'Gregor and Ronnie Steele. Most Wednesday afternoons.'

Ah, Suey, Mr would-be teenage suicide…

Rebus tried to make his next question sound like a joke. 'Doesn't Gregor ever do any work?'

Urquhart looked stunned. 'He's always working. That game of golf… it's about the only free time I've ever known him have.'

'But he doesn't seem to be in London very often.'

'Ah well, the constituency comes first, that's Gregor's way.'

'Look after the folk who voted you in, and they'll look after you?'

'Something like that,' Urquhart allowed. There was no more time for talk. The identification was about to take place. And if Gregor Jack looked bad before he saw the body, he looked like a half-filled rag doll afterwards.

'Oh Christ, that dress…" He seemed about to collapse, but Ian Urquhart had a firm grip on him.

'If you'll look at the face,' someone was saying. 'We need to be definite…'

They all looked at the face. Yes, thought Rebus, that's the person I saw beside the stream.

'Yes,' said Gregor Jack, his voice wavering, 'that's my… that's Liz.'

Rebus actually breathed a sigh of relief.

What nobody had expected, what nobody had really considered, was Sir Hugh Ferrie.

'Let's just say,' said Chief Superintendent Watson, 'that a certain amount of… pressure… is being applied.'

As ever. Rebus couldn't hold his tongue. 'There's nothing to apply pressure to! What are we supposed to do that we're not already doing?'

'Sir Hugh considers that we should have caught William Glass by now.'

'But we don't even know – '

'Now. we all know Sir Hugh can be a bit hot-headed. But he's got a point…'

Meaning, thought Rebus, he's got friends in high places.

'He's got a point, and we can do without the media interest that's bound to erupt. All I'm saying is that we should give the investigation an extra push whenever and wherever we can. Let's get Glass in custody, let's make sure we keep everyone informed, and let's get that autopsy report as soon as humanly possible.'

'Not so easy with a drowning.'

'John, you know Dr Curt fairly well, don't you?'

'We're on second-name terms.'

'How about giving him that extra little nudge?'

'What happens if he nudges me back, sir?'

Watson looked like a kindly uncle suddenly tiring of a precocious nephew. 'Nudge him harder. I know he's busy. I know he's got lectures to give, university work to do, God knows what else. But the longer we have to wait, the more the media are going to fill the gaps with speculation. Go have a word, John, eh? Just make sure he gets the message.'

Message? What message? Dr Curt told Rebus what he'd always told him. I can't be rushed… delicate business, deciding an actual drowning from mere immersion… professional reputation… daren't make mistakes… more haste, less speed… patience is a virtue… many a mickle makes a muckle…

All of this delivered between appointments in the doctor's Teviot Place office. The Department of Pathology's Forensic Medicine Unit, divided in loyalties between the Faculty of Medicine and the Faculty of Law, had its offices within the University Medical School in Teviot Place. Which seemed, to Rebus, natural enough. You didn't want your Commercial Law students mixing with people who keened over cadavers…