Strip Jack

'Working as a prostitute,' Rebus explained. 'Someone phoned him – anonymously – and told him. So he went along.'

That was stupid.'

'Agreed.'

'And was she there?'

'Yes. She calls herself Gail Crawley.'

'How do you spell that?'

'C-r-a-w-1-e-y.'

'And you're sure of this?'

I'm sure. I've spoken with her. She's still in Edinburgh, still working.'

Kemp kept his voice level, but his eyes were gleaming. 'You know this is a story?'

Rebus shrugged, saying nothing.

'You want me to place it?'

Another shrug.

'Why?'

Rebus stared at the empty mug in his hands. Why? Because once it was public knowledge, the caller would have failed, at least in his or her own terms. And, having failed, maybe they'd feel compelled to try something else. If they did, Rebus would be ready…

Kemp was nodding. 'Okay, thanks. I'll think it over.'

Rebus nodded too. He was already regretting the decision to tell Kemp. The man was a reporter, and one with a reputation to make. There was no way of knowing what he'd do with the story. It could be twisted to make Jack sound like Samaritan or slime…

'Meantime,' Kemp was saying, rising from his chair, 'I better take a bath if I'm going to make that meeting…

'Right.' Rebus rose, too, and placed his mug in the sink. 'Thanks for the coffee.'

'Thanks for the milk.'

The bathroom was on the way to the front door. Rebus made show of looking at his watch. 'Go get into your bath,' he said. I'll let myself out.'

'Bye then.'

'See you, Chris.' He walked to the door, checking that his weight on the floorboards did not make them creak, then glanced round and saw that Kemp had disappeared into the bathroom. Water started splashing. Gently, Rebus turned the snib and locked it at the off position. Then he opened the door and slammed it noisily behind him. He stood in the stairwell, pulling the door by its handle so that it couldn't swing back open. There was a spy-hole, but he kept himself tucked in against the wall. Anyway, if Kemp came to the door he'd notice the snib was off… A minute passed. Nobody came to the door. More fortuitously, perhaps, nobody came into the stairwell. He didn't fancy explaining what he was doing standing there holding on to a door handle…

After two minutes, he crouched down and opened the letter box, peering in. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. The water was still running, but he could hear Kemp humming, then a-ha-hee-ha-ing as he got into the bath. The water continued to run, giving the noise-cover he needed. He opened the door quietly, slipped back indoors, and closed it, jamming it shut with a hardback book from the top of one of the stacks. The remaining books looked as though they might topple, but they steadied again. Rebus exhaled and crept along the corridor, past the door. Taps pouring… Kemp still humming. This part was easy; getting back out would be the hard part, if he had nothing to show for the deception.

He crossed the living room and studied the desk. The files gave nothing away. No sign of the 'big story' Kemp was working on. The computer disks were marked numerically no clues there. Nothing interesting in the open drawer of the filing cabinet. He turned back to the desk. No scribbled sheets of notes had been tucked beneath other, blank sheets. He flipped through the pile of LPs beside the stereo, but no sheets had been hidden there either. Under the sofa… no. Cupboards… drawers… no. Bugger it. He went to the great iron range. Tucked away at the back, behind three or four pot plants, sat an ugly-looking trophy, Kemp's Young Journalist of the Year Prize. Along the front of the range sat the row of ornamental boxes. He opened one. It contained a CND badge and a pair of ANC earrings. In another box was a 'Free Nelson Mandela' badge and a ring which looked to be carved out of ivory. The girlfriend's stuff, obviously. And in the third box… a tiny cellophane package of dope. He smiled. Hardly enough to run someone in for, half a quarter at most. Was this what Kemp had been so eager to conceal? Well, Rebus supposed a conviction wouldn't do the 'campaigning journalist' tag much good. Difficult to chastise public figures for their small vices when you'd been done for possession.

Bugger it. And on top of everything, he'd now to get out of the flat without being seen or heard. The taps had stopped running. No noise to cover his retreat… He crouched by the range and considered. The bold as brass approach might be best. Just go marching past saying something about having left behind your keys… Aye, sure, Kemp would fall for that. Might as well put five bar on Cowdenbeath for the league and cup double.

He found that, as he thought, he was staring at the range's small oven, or rather at the closed door of that oven. A spider-plant sat above it, with two of its fronds trapped in the door. Dear me, he couldn't have that, could he? So he pulled open the door, releasing the leaves. Sitting in the oven itself were some books. Old hardbacks. He lifted one and examined its spine.

John Knox on predestination. Well, wasn't that a coincidence.

The bathroom door flew in.

'Christ's sake!' Chris Kemp, who had been lying with his head floating on the surface of the water, now shot up. Rebus marched over to the toilet, lowered its lid, and made himself comfortable.

'Carry on, Chris. Don't mind me. Just thought I might borrow a few of your books.' He slapped the pile he was holding. They were resting on his knees, all seven of them. 'I like a good read.'

Kemp actually blushed. 'Where's your search warrant?'

Rebus looked stunned. 'Search warrant? Why should I need a search warrant? I'm just borrowing a few books, that's all. Thought I might show them to my old friend Professor Costello. You know Professor Costello, don't you?

Only this stuffs right up his street. No reason why you should mind me borrowing them… is there? If you like, I'll go get that search warrant and -'

'Fuck off.'

'Language, son,' Rebus reprimanded. 'Don't forget, you're a journalist. You're the protector of our language. Don't go cheapening it. You just cheapen yourself.'

'I thought you wanted me to do you a favour?'

'What? You mean the story about Jack and his sister?' Rebus shrugged. 'I thought I was doing you a favour. I know keen young reporters who'd give their eye teeth for -'

'What do you want?'

Now Rebus sat forward. 'Where did you get them, Chris?'

'The books?' Kemp ran his hands down his sleek hair. 'They're my girlfriend's. As far as I know, she borrowed them from her university library…"

Rebus nodded. 'It's a fair story. I doubt it would get you off the hook, but it's a fair story. For a start, it won't explain why you hid them when you knew I was on my way up to see you.'

'Hid them? I don't know what you're talking about.'

Rebus chuckled. 'Fine, Chris, fine. There I was, thinking I could do you a favour. Another favour, I should say…'

'What favour?'

Rebus slapped the books again 'Seeing these get back to their rightful owner without anyone needing to know where they've been in the interim.'

Kemp considered this. 'In exchange for what?'

'Whatever it is you're keeping from me. I know you know something, or you think you do. I just want to help you do your duty.'

'My duty?'

'Helping the police. It is your duty, Chris.'

'Like it's your duty to go creeping around people's flats without their permission.'

Rebus didn't bother replying. He didn't need to reply; he just needed to bide his time. Now that he had the books, he had the reporter in his pocket, too. Safe and snug for future use…

Kemp sighed. 'The water's getting cold. Mind if I get out?'

'Any time you like. I'll go wait next door.'

Kemp came into the living room wearing a blue towelling robe and using a matching towel to rub at his hair.

'Tell me about your girlfriend," Rebus said. Kemp filled the kettle again. He had used the minute's solitary time to do a little thinking, and he was ready now to talk.