Free Strip Jack by Ian Rankin

Not his territory.
    ‘Oh,’ said Kemp, ‘he’s in that new psychiatric place, the one they’ve just built.’
    ‘You mean Duthil?’ said Patience.
    ‘That’s it. Up in the Highlands. Near Grantown, isn’t it?’
    Well, thought Rebus, curiouser and curiouser. His geography wasn’t brilliant, but he didn’t think Grantown was
too
far from Deer Lodge. ‘Is Jack still in touch with him?’
    It was Kemp’s turn to shrug. ‘No idea.’
    ‘And they were at school together?’
    ‘That’s the story. To be honest, I think Liz Jack is the more interesting character by far. Jack’s sidekicks are scrupulous in keeping her out of the way.’
    ‘Yes, why is that?’
    ‘Because she’s still the proverbial wild child. Still runs around with her old crowd. Jamie Kilpatrick, Matilda Merriman, all that sort. Parties, booze, drugs, orgies . . . God knows. The press never gets a sniff.’ He turned again to Patience. ‘If you’ll pardon the phrase. Not a sniff do we get. And anything we
do
get is blue pencilled with a fair amount of prejudice.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Well, editors are nervous at the best of times, aren’t they? And you’ve got to remember that Sir Hugh Ferrie is never slow with a libel suit where his family’s concerned.’
    ‘You mean that electronics factory?’
    ‘Case in point.’
    ‘So what about this “old crowd” of Mrs Jack’s?’
    ‘Aristos, mostly old money, some new money.’
    ‘What about the lady herself?’
    ‘Well, she certainly spurred Jack on in the early days. I think he always wanted to go into politics, and MPs can hardly afford not to be married. People start to suspect a shirt-lifting tendency. My guess is he looked for someone pretty, with money, and with a father of influence. Found her and wasn’t going to let go. And it’s been a successful marriage, so far as the public’s concerned. Liz gets wheeled out for the photo opportunities and looks just right, then she disappears again. Completely different to Gregor, you see.Fire and ice. She’s the fire, he’s the ice, usually with whisky added . . .’
    Kemp was in a talkative mood tonight. There was more, but it was speculation. Still, it was interesting to be given a different perspective, wasn’t it? Rebus considered this as he excused himself and visited the gents’. The Horsehair’s trough-like urinal was brimful of liquid, as had always, to Rebus’s knowledge, been the case. The condensation on the overhead cistern dripped unerringly on to the heads of those unwise enough to get too close, and the graffiti was mostly the work of a dyslexic bigot: REMEMBER 1960. There was some new stuff though, written in biro. ‘The Drunk as a Lord’s Prayer,’ Rebus read. ‘Our Father which are in heavy, Alloa’d be they name . . .’
    Rebus reckoned that if he didn’t have all he needed, he had all Chris Kemp was able to give. No reason to linger then. No reason at all. He came out of the gents’ briskly, and saw that a young man had stopped at the table to chat with Patience. He was moving away now, back to the main bar, while Patience smiled a farewell in his direction.
    ‘Who was that?’ Rebus asked, not sitting down.
    ‘He lives next door in Oxford Terrace,’ Patience said casually. ‘Works in Trading Standards. I’m surprised you haven’t met him.’
    Rebus murmured something, then tapped his watch with his finger.
    ‘Chris,’ he said, ‘this is all your fault. You’re too interesting by half. We were supposed to be at the restaurant twenty minutes ago. Kevin and Myra will kill us. Come on, Patience. Listen, Chris, I’ll be in touch. Meantime . . .’ he leaned closer to the reporter, lowering his voice. ‘See if you can find who tipped off the papers about the brothel raid.
That
might be the start of the story.’ He straightened up again. ‘See you soon, eh? Cheers.’
    ‘Cheerio, Chris,’ said Patience, sliding out of her seat.
    ‘Oh, right, bye then. See you.’ And Chris Kemp found himself alone,