Free Strip Jack by Ian Rankin Page A

wondering if it was something that he’d said.
    Outside, Patience turned to Rebus. ‘Kevin and Myra?’ she said.
    ‘Our oldest friends,’ explained Rebus. ‘And as good a get-out clause as anything. Besides, I
did
promise you dinner. You can tell me all about our next-door neighbour.’
    He took her arm in his and they walked back to the car – her car. Patience had never seen John Rebus jealous before, so it was hard to tell, but she could have sworn he was jealous now. Well well, wonders would never cease . . .

3
Treacherous Steps
    Springtime in Edinburgh. A freezing wind, and near-horizontal rain. Ah, the Edinburgh wind, that joke of a wind, that black farce of a wind. Making everyone walk like mime artists, making eyes water and then drying the tears to a crust on red-nipped cheeks. And throughout it all, that slightly sour yeasty smell in the air, the smell of not-so-distant breweries. There had been a frost overnight. Even the prowling, fur-coated Lucky had yowled at the bedroom window, demanding entry. The birds had been chirping as Rebus let him in. He checked his watch: two thirty. Why the hell were the birds singing so early? When he next awoke, at six, they’d stopped. Maybe they were trying to avoid the rush hour . . .
    This sub-zero morning, it had taken him a full five minutes to start his clown of a car. Maybe it was time to get one of those red noses for the radiator grille. And the frost had swollen the cracks in the steps up to Great London Road police station, swollen and then fissured, so that Rebus stepped warily over wafers of stone.
    Treacherous steps. Nothing would be done about them. The rumours were still rife anyway; rumours that Great London Road was shagged out, wabbit, past its sell-by. Rumours that it would be shut down. A prime site, after all. Prime land for another hotel or office block. And the staff? Split up, so the rumours went. With most of them being transferred to St Leonard’s, the Divisional HQ (Central). Much closer to Rebus’s flat in Marchmont; but much further fromOxford Terrace and Dr Patience Aitken. Rebus had made himself a little pact, a sort of contract in his head: if, within the next month or two, the rumours became fact, then it was a message from on high, a message that he should not move in with Patience. But if Great London Road remained a going concern, or if they were moved to Fettes HQ (five minutes from Oxford Terrace) . . . what then? What then? The fine print on the contract was still being decided.
    ‘Morning, John.’
    ‘Hello, Arthur. Any messages?’
    The duty desk sergeant shook his head. Rebus rubbed his hands over his ears and face, thawing them out, and climbed the stairs towards his room, where treacherous linoleum replaced treacherous stone. And then there was the treacherous telephone . . .
    ‘Rebus here.’
    ‘John?’ It was the voice of Chief Superintendent Watson. ‘Can you spare a minute?’
    Rebus made noisy show of rustling some papers on his desk, hoping Watson would think he’d been in the office for hours, hard at work.
    ‘Well, sir . . .’
    ‘Don’t piss about, John. I tried you five minutes ago.’
    Rebus stopped shuffling papers. ‘I’ll be right along, sir.’
    ‘That’s right, you will.’ And with that the phone went dead. Rebus shrugged off his weatherproof jacket, the one which always let water in at the shoulders. He felt the shoulders of his suit-jacket. Sure enough, they were damp, matching his enthusiasm for a Monday-morning meeting with the Farmer. He took a deep breath and spread his hands in front of him like an old-time song and dance man.
    ‘It’s showtime,’ he told himself. Only five working days till the weekend. Then he made a quick phone call to Dufftown Police Station and asked them to check on Deer Lodge.
    ‘Is that d-e-a-r?’ asked the voice.
    ‘D-double e-r,’ corrected Rebus, thinking: But it probably
was
dear enough when they bought it.
    ‘Anything we’re looking for in