Gregor Jack was panting hoarsely, almost moaning from effort. He wasn't watching where he was going; all he knew was that he had to keep moving.
'Gregor.'
The figure wheezed, the head jerking up. It came to a stop. Gregor Jack rose to his full height, arching his head to the sky. He lifted his tired arms and rested his hands on his waist, for all the world like a runner at the end of his race. One hand went instinctively to his hair, tidying it back into place. Then he bent forwards and put his hands on his knees, and the hair flopped forwards again. But his breathing was becoming steadier. Eventually he straightened up again. Rebus saw that he was smiling, showing his perfect teeth. He began shaking his head and chuckling. Rebus had heard the sound before from people who'd lost: lost everything from their freedom to a big bet or a game of five-a-side. They were laughing at circumstance.
Gregor's laughter collapsed into a cough. He slapped at his chest, then looked at Rebus and smiled again.
Then sprang.
Rebus's instinct was to dodge, but Jack was moving away from him. And both of them knew precisely where he was headed. As his foot touched the last inch of earth, he leapt out into the air, jumping feet first. A couple of seconds later came the sound of his body hitting the water. Rebus toed his way to the edge of the rock and looked down, but the cloud was closing in again overhead. The moonlight was lost. There was nothing to see.
Making their way back to Deer Lodge, there was no need for Knox's torch. The flames lit up the surrounding countryside. Glowing ash landed on the trees as they made their way through the woods. Rebus ran his fingers over the back of his head. The skin was stinging. But he got the feeling shock might have set in: the pain wasn't quite so bad as before. His ankles stung too – thistles, probably. He'd run through what had turned out to be a field full of them. There was no one near the house. Moffat and Steele were waiting by Knox's car.
'How good a swimmer is he?' Rebus asked Steele.
'Beggar?' Steele was massaging his untethered arms. 'Can't swim a stroke. We all learned at school, but his mum used to give him a note excusing him.'
'Why?'
Steele shrugged. 'She was scared he'd catch verrucas. How's the head, Inspector?'
'I won't need a haircut for a while.'
'What about Jack?' Moffat asked.
'He won't be needing one either.'
They searched for Gregor Jack's body the following morning. Not that Rebus was there to participate. He was in hospital and feeling dirty and unshaven – except for his head.
'If you have a problem with baldness,' one senior doctor told him, 'you could always wear a toupee till it grows back. Or a hat. Your scalp will be sensitive, too, so try to keep out of the sun.'
'Sun? What sun?'
But there was sun, during his time off work there was plenty of it. He stayed indoors, stayed underground, reading book after book, emerging for brief forays to the Royal Infirmary to have his dressings changed.
'I could do that for you,' Patience had told him.
'Never mix business and pleasure,' was Rebus's enigmatic response. In fact, there was a nurse up at the infirmary who had taken a shine to him, and he to her… Ach, it wouldn't go anywhere; it was just a bit of flirting. He wouldn't hurt Patience for the world.
Holmes visited, always with a dozen cans of something gassy. 'Hiya, baldie,' was the perennial greeting, even when the skinhead had become a suedehead, the suedehead longer still.
'What's the news?' asked Rebus.
Apart from the fact that Gregor Jack's body had still not been recovered, the big news was that the Farmer was off the booze after having been 'visited by the Lord' at some revivalist Baptist meeting.
'It's communion wine only from now on,' said Holmes. 'Mind you – ' pointing to Rebus's head, 'for a while there I thought maybe you were going to go Buddhist on us.'
I might yet,' said Rebus. 'I might yet.'
The media clung to the Jack story, clung to the idea that he might still be alive. Rebus wondered about that, too. More, he still wondered why Jack had killed Elizabeth. Ronald Steele could shed no light on the problem. Apparently, Jack had spoken hardly a word to him all the time he'd held him captive… Well, that was Steele's story. Whatever had been said, it wasn't going any further.
All of which left Rebus with scenarios, with guesswork. He played out the scene time after time in his head – Jack arriving at the lay-by, and arguing with Elizabeth. Maybe she'd told him she wanted a divorce. Maybe the argument was over the brothel story. Or maybe there'd been something else. All Steele would say was that when he'd left her, she'd been waiting for her husband.
'I thought about hanging around and confronting him'
'But?'
Steele shrugged. 'Cowardice. It's not doing something "wrong" that's the problem, Inspector, it's getting caught. Wouldn't you agree?'
'But if you had stayed…?'
Steele nodded. 'I know. Maybe Liz would have told Gregor to bugger off and have stuck with me instead. Maybe they'd both still be alive.'
If Steele hadn't fled from the lay-by… if Gail Jack hadn't come north in the first place… What then? Rebus was in no doubt: it would have worked out some other way, not necessarily any less painful a way. Fire and ice and skeletons in the closet. He wished he could have met Elizabeth Jack, just once, even though he had the feeling they wouldn't have got on…
There was one more news story. It started as another rumour, but the rumour turned out to be a leak, and the leak was followed by notification: Great London Road was to undergo a programme of repair and refurbishment.
Which means, thought Rebus, I move in with Patience. To all intents, he already had.
'You don't have to sell your flat,' she told him. 'You could always rent it.'
'Rent it?'
'To students. Your street's half full of them as it is.' This was true. You saw the migration in the morning, down towards The Meadows carrying their satchels and ring-binders and supermarket carriers; back in the late afternoon (or late night) laden with books and ideas. The notion appealed. If he rented out his flat, he could pay Patience something towards living here with her.
'You're on,' he said.
He was back at work one full day when Great London Road Police Station caught fire. The building was razed to the ground.
Ian Rankin
Bestselling crime-writer Ian Rankin was born in Fife, Scotland, in 1960. He was educated at Edinburgh University. On graduating he worked for the civil service, later working as a researcher and journalist.
His first published book was The Flood (1986). Knots and Crosses (1987) was the first in a series of novels featuring Inspector John Rebus and set in contemporary Scotland. Other novels in the series include Hide and Seek (1991), Strip Jack (1992), A Good Hanging (1992), The Black Book (1993), Mortal Causes (1994), Black and Blue (1997) (winner of the Crime Writers' Association Macallan Gold Dagger for Fiction), Let It Bleed (1995), The Hanging Garden (1997), Tooth and Nail (1998), Dead Souls (1999), Set in Darkness (2000), The Falls (2001), Resurrection Men (2002), A Question of Blood (2003), and Fleshmarket Close (2004). The Naming of the Dead (2006), was the winner of the 2007 British Book Awards Crime Thriller of the Year. His latest book in this series is Exit Music (2007). Several of these novels have been adapted for television, starring John Hannah as Rebus. Three of Rankin's novels were written under the pseudonym Jack Harvey: Witch Hunt (1993), Bleeding Hearts (1994) and Blood Hunt (1995).