‘I know it.’
‘And they told her that Messrs Steele and Jack had cancelled.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I started to put two and two together. Steele’s supposed to be playing golf every Wednesday, yet one Wednesday my colleague finds him out at the Kinnoul house, and another Wednesday there’s no sign of him on the golf course. Rab Kinnoul’s known to have a temper, Inspector. He’s known as a very possessive man. Do you think he knows that Steele’s visiting his wife when he’s not there?’
Rebus’s heart was racing. ‘You might have a point, Chris. You might have a point.’
‘But like I say, it’s hardly police business, is it?’
Hardly! It was absolutely police business. Two alibis chipped into the same bunker. Was Rebus nearer the end of the course than he’d suspected? Was he playing nine holes rather than eighteen? He got up from the sofa.
‘Chris, I’ve got to be going.’ Like spokes on a bicycle wheel, turning in his head: Liz Jack, Gregor Jack, Rab Kinnoul, Cath Kinnoul, Ronald Steele, Ian Urquhart, Helen Greig, Andrew Macmillan, Barney Byars, Louise Patterson-Scott, Julian Kaymer, Jamie Kilpatrick, William Glass. Like spokes on a bicycle wheel.
‘Inspector Rebus?’
He paused by the door. ‘What?’
Kemp pointed to the sofa. ‘Don’t forget to take your books with you.’
Rebus stared at them as though seeing them for the first time. ‘Right,’ he said, heading back towards the sofa. ‘By the way,’ he said, picking up the bundle, ‘I know why Steele’s called Suey.’ Then he winked. ‘Remind me to tell you about it some time, when this is all over . . .’
He returned to the station, intending to share some of what he knew with his superiors. But Brian Holmes stopped him outside the Chief Superintendent’s door.
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Rebus, his fist raised high, ready to knock, paused. ‘Why not?’ he asked, every bit as quietly as Holmes himself had spoken.
‘Mrs Jack’s father’s in there.’
Sir Hugh Ferrie! Rebus lowered his hand carefully, then began backing away from the door. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into a discussion with Ferrie. Why haven’t you found . . . what are you doing about . . . when will you . . .? No, life was too short, and the hours too long.
‘Thanks, Brian. I owe you one. Who else is in there?’
‘Just the Farmer and the Fart.’
‘Best leave them to it, eh?’ They moved a safe distance from the door. ‘That list of cars you made up was pretty comprehensive. Well done.’
‘Thanks. Lauderdale never told me exactly what it was –’
‘Anything else happening?’
‘What? No, quiet as the grave. Oh, Nell thinks she might be pregnant.’
‘What?’
Holmes gave a bemused smile. ‘We’re not sure yet . . .’
‘Were you . . . you know, expecting it?’
The smiled stayed. ‘Expect the unexpected, as they say.’
Rebus whistled. ‘How does she feel about it?’
‘I think she’s holding back on the feelings till we know one way or the other.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me? If it’s a boy he’ll be called Stuart and grow up to be a doctor and a Scottish international.’
Rebus laughed. ‘And if it’s a girl?’
‘Katherine, actress.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and another bit of news – Pond’s back.’
‘Tom Pond?’
‘The very one. Back from across the pond. We reached him this morning. I thought I’d go have a talk with him, unless you want to?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘He’s all yours, Brian, for what he’s worth. Right now, he’s about the only bugger I think is in the clear. Him and Macmillan and Mr Glass.’
‘Have you seen the interview transcript?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I know you and Chief Inspector Lauderdale don’t always get on, but I’ll say this for him, he’s sharp.’
‘A Glass-cutter, you might say?’
Holmes sighed. ‘I might, but you always seem to beat me to the pun.’
*
Edinburgh was surrounded by golf courses catering to every taste and presenting every possible degree of difficulty. There were links courses, where the wind was as likely to blow your ball backwards as forwards. And there were hilly courses, all slope and gully, with greens and flags positioned on this or that handkerchief-sized plateau. The Braidwater course belonged to the latter category. Players made the majority of their shots trusting either to instinct or fortune, since the flag would often be hidden from view behind a rise or the brow of a hill. A cruel course designer would have tucked sand traps just the other side of these obstacles, and indeed a cruel course designer had.
People who didn’t know the course often started their round with high hopes of a spot of exercise and fresh air, but finished with high blood pressure and the dire need of a couple of drams. The club house comprised two contrasting sections. There was the original building, old and solid and grey, but to which had been added an oversized extension of breeze block and pebbledash. The old building housed committee rooms, offices and the like, but the bar was in the new building. The club secretary led Rebus into the bar, where he thought one of the committee members might be found.
The bar itself was on the first floor. One wall was all window, looking out over the eighteenth green and beyond to the rolling course itself. On another wall were framed photos, rolls of honour, mock-parchment scrolls and a pair of very old putters looking like emaciated crossbones. The club’s trophies – the small trophies – were arrayed on a shelf above the bar. The larger, the more ancient, the more valuable trophies were kept in the committee room in the old building. Rebus knew this because some of them had been stolen three years before, and he’d been one of the investigating officers. They had been recovered, too, though utterly by accident, found lying in an open suitcase by officers called out to a domestic.
The club secretary remembered Rebus though. ‘Can’t recall the name,’ he’d said, ‘but I know the face.’ He showed Rebus the new alarm system and the toughened glass case the trophies were kept in. Rebus hadn’t the heart to tell him that even an amateur burglar could still be in and out of the place in two minutes flat.
‘What will you have to drink, Inspector?’
‘I’ll have a small whisky, if it’s no trouble.’
‘No trouble at all.’
The bar wasn’t exactly busy. A late-afternoon hiatus, as the secretary had explained. Those who played in the afternoon usually liked to get started before three, while those who came for an early evening round arrived around five thirty.
Two men in identical yellow V-neck pullovers sat at a table by the window and stared out in silence, sipping from time to time at identical bloody marys. Two more men sat at the bar, one with a flat-looking half pint of beer, the other with what looked suspiciously like a glass of milk. They were all in their forties, or slightly older; all my contemporaries, thought Rebus.
‘Bill here could tell you a few stories, Inspector,’ the club secretary said, nodding towards the barman. Bill nodded back, half in greeting, half in agreement. His own V-neck was cherry red, and did nothing to hide his bulging stomach. He didn’t look like a professional barman, but took a slow, conspicuous pride in the job. Rebus reckoned him for just another member, doing his stint of duty.
Nobody had twitched at the secretary’s mention of ‘Inspector’. These men were law-abiding; or, if not, they were certainly law-abetting. They believed in law and order and that criminals should be punished. They just didn’t think fiddling your tax was a criminal act. They looked . . . secure. They thought of themselves as secure. But Rebus knew he held the skeleton keys.
‘Water, Inspector?’ The secretary pushed a jug towards him.
‘Thank you.’ Rebus adulterated the whisky. Th
e secretary was looking around him, as though surrounded by bodies.
‘Hector’s not here. I thought he was.’
Bill the Barman chipped in: ‘He’ll be back in a sec.’
‘Gone for the proverbial jimmy,’ added the drinker of milk, while Rebus pondered which proverb he meant.
‘Ah, here he comes.’
Rebus had imagined a large Hector, curly hair, distended gut, tangerine V-neck. But this man was small and had thinning, Brylcreemed black hair. He, too, was in his forties, and peered at the world through thick-lensed, thick-rimmed glasses. His mouth was set in a defiance at odds with his appearance, and he examined Rebus thoroughly while the introductions were made.
‘How do you do?’ he said, slipping a small, damp hand into Rebus’s paw. It was like shaking hands with a well-brought-up child. His V-neck was camel-coloured but expensive-looking. Cashmere . . .?
‘Inspector Rebus,’ the secretary said, ‘is wondering about a particular round which was either played or was not played a couple of Wednesdays ago.’
‘Yes.’
‘I told him you’re the brains of the set-up, Hector.’
‘Yes.’
The secretary seemed to be struggling. ‘We thought maybe you’d –’
But Hector now had enough information, and had digested it. ‘First thing to do,’ he said, ‘is look at the bookings. They may not tell us the whole story, but they’re the place to start. Who was playing?’
The question was directed at Rebus. ‘Two players, sir,’ he replied. ‘A Mr Ronald Steele and a Mr Gregor Jack.’
Hector glanced behind Rebus to where the two drinkers sat at the bar. The room hadn’t exactly grown quieter, but there was a palpable change of atmosphere. The drinker of milk spoke first.
‘Those two!’
Rebus turned to him. ‘Yes, sir, those two. How do you mean?’
But it was Hector’s place to answer. ‘Messrs Jack and Steele have a regular booking. Mr Jack was an MP, you know.’
‘He still is, sir, so far as I know.’
‘Not for much longer,’ muttered the milk-drinker’s companion.
‘I’m not aware that Mr Jack has committed any crime.’
‘I should think not,’ snapped Hector.
‘He’s still a royal pain in the arse,’ commented the milk-drinker.
‘How’s that, sir?’
‘Books and never shows. Him and his cronies.’ Rebus became aware that this was a long-festering sore, and that the man’s words were directed more towards the club secretary and Hector than towards him. ‘Gets away with it, too. Just because he’s an MP.’
‘Mr Jack has been warned,’ Hector said.
‘Reprimanded,’ corrected the club secretary. The milk-drinker just screwed up his face.
‘You kissed his bloody arse and you know it.’
‘Now then, Colin,’ said Bill and the Barman, ‘no need to –’
‘It’s about time somebody said it out loud!’
‘Hear hear,’ said the beer-drinker. ‘Colin’s right.’
An argument wasn’t much use to Rebus. ‘Do I take it,’ he said, ‘that Mr Jack and Mr Steele had a regular booking, but then wouldn’t turn up?’
‘You take it absolutely right,’ said Colin.
‘Let’s not exaggerate or misrepresent,’ said Hector quietly. ‘Let us deal in facts.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Rebus, ‘while we’re dealing in facts, it’s a fact that a colleague of mine, Detective Constable Broome, came out here last week to check on whether that particular round of golf had been played. I believe he dealt with you, seeing how the club secretary here was ill that day.’
‘Remember, Hector,’ the secretary interrupted nervously, ‘one of my migraines.’
Hector nodded curtly. ‘I remember.’
‘You weren’t exactly honest with DC Broome, were you, sir?’ said Rebus. Colin was licking his lips, enjoying the confrontation.
‘On the contrary, Inspector,’ said Hector. ‘I was scrupulously honest in answering the detective constable’s questions. He just didn’t ask the right ones. In fact, he was very sloppy indeed. Took one look at the bookings and seemed satisfied. I recall he was in a hurry . . . he had to meet his wife.’
Right, thought Rebus, Broome was for a carpeting then. Even so . . .
‘Even so, sir, it was your duty –’
‘I answered his questions, Inspector. I did not lie.’
‘Well then, let’s say that you were “economical with the truth”.’
Colin snorted. Hector gave him a cold look, but his words were for Rebus. ‘He wasn’t thorough enough, Inspector. It’s as simple as that. I don’t expect my patients to help me if I’m not thorough enough in my treatment of them. You shouldn’t expect me to do your work for you.’
‘This is a serious criminal case, sir.’
‘Then why are we arguing? Ask your questions.’
The barman interrupted. ‘Hold on, before you start, I’ve got a question.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘What are you having?’
Bill the Barman poured the drinks. The round was on him, and he totted up the amount and scribbled it into a small notebook kept beside the till. The bloody marys from the window came over to join in. The beer-drinker was introduced to Rebus as David Cassidy – ‘No jokes, please. How were my parents supposed to know?’ – and the man called Colin was indeed drinking milk – ‘ulcer, doctor’s orders’.
Hector accepted a thin, delicate glass filled to the lip with dry sherry. He toasted ‘our general health’.
‘But not the National Health, eh, Hector?’ added Colin, going on to explain to Rebus that Hector was a dentist.
‘Private,’ Cassidy added.
‘Which,’ Hector retorted, ‘is what this club is supposed to be. Private. Members’ private business should be none of our concern.’
‘Which is why,’ Rebus speculated, ‘you’ve been acting as alibi for Jack and Steele?’
Hector merely sighed. ‘“Alibi” is rather strong, Inspector. As club members, they are allowed to book and to cancel at short notice.’
‘And that’s what happened?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘But not all the time?’
‘They played occasionally.’
‘How occasionally?’
‘I’d have to check.’
‘About once a month,’ Barman Bill said. He held on to the glass-towel as if it were a talisman.
‘So,’ said Rebus, ‘three weeks out of four they’d cancel? How did they cancel?’
‘By telephone,’ said Hector. ‘Usually Mr Jack. Always very apologetic. Constituency business . . . or Mr Steele was ill . . . or, well, there were a number of reasons.’
‘Excuses you mean,’ Cassidy said.
‘Mind you,’ said Bill, ‘sometimes Gregor’d turn up anyway, wouldn’t he?’
Colin conceded that this was so. ‘I went a round with him myself one Wednesday when Steele hadn’t shown up.’
‘So,’ said Rebus, ‘Mr Jack came to the club more often than Mr Steele?’
There were nods at this. Sometimes he’d cancel, then turn up. He wouldn’t play, just sit in the bar. Never the other way round: Steele never turned up without Jack. And on the Wednesday in question, the Wednesday Rebus was interested in?
‘It bucketed down,’ Colin said. ‘Hardly any bugger went out that day, never mind those two.’
‘They cancelled then?’
Oh yes, they cancelled. And no, not even Mr Jack had turned up. Not that day, and not since.
The lull was over. Members were coming in, either for a quick one before starting out or for a quick one before heading home. They came over to the little group, shook hands, swopped stories, and the group itself started to fragment, until only Rebus and Hector were left. The dentist laid a hand on Rebus’s arm.
‘One more thing, Inspector,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘I hope you won’t think I’m being un
subtle . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘But you really should get your teeth seen to.’
‘So I’ve been told, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘So I’ve been told. Incidentally, I hope you won’t think I’m being unsubtle . . .?’
‘Yes, Inspector?’
Rebus leaned close to the man, the better to hiss into his ear. ‘I’m going to try my damnedest to see you on a charge for obstruction.’ He placed his empty glass on the bar.
‘Cheers then,’ said Barman Bill. He took the glass and rinsed it in the machine, then placed it on the plastic drip-mat. When he looked up, Hector was still standing where the policeman had left him, his sherry glass rigid in his hand.
‘You told me on Friday,’ Rebus said, ‘that you were jettisoning what you didn’t need.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I take it you did feel you needed the alibi of your golf game?’
‘What?’
‘Your weekly round with your friend Ronald Steele.’
‘What about it?’
‘Funny isn’t it? I’m making the statements and you’re asking the questions. Should be the other way round.’
‘Should it?’
Gregor Jack looked like a war casualty who could still hear and see the battle, no matter how far from the front he was dragged. The newsmen were still outside his gates, while Ian Urquhart and Helen Greig were still inside. The sounds of a printer doing its business came from the distant back office. Urquhart was ensconced in there with Helen. Another day, another press release.
‘Do I need a solicitor?’ Jack asked now, his eyes dark and sleepless.
‘That’s entirely up to you, sir. I just want to know why you’ve lied to us about this round of golf.’
Jack swallowed. There was an empty whisky bottle on the coffee table, and three empty coffee mugs. ‘Friendship, Inspector,’ he said, ‘is . . . it’s . . .’
‘An excuse? You need more than excuses, sir. What I need right now are some facts.’ He thought of Hector as he said the word. ‘Facts,’ he repeated.
But Jack was still mumbling something about friendship. Rebus rose awkwardly from his ill-fitting marshmallow-chair. He stood over the MP. MP? This wasn’t an MP. This wasn’t the Gregor Jack. Where was the confidence, the charisma? Where the voteworthy face and that clear, honest voice? He was like one of those sauces they make on cookery programmes – reduce and reduce and reduce . . .