Free Strip Jack by Ian Rankin Page B

particular?’
    An MP’s wife . . . leftovers from a sex orgy . . . flour bags full of cocaine . . . ‘No,’ said Rebus, ‘nothing special. Just let me know what you find.’
    ‘Right you are. It might take a while.’
    ‘Soon as you can, eh?’ And so saying, Rebus remembered that he should be elsewhere. ‘Soon as you can.’
    Chief Superintendent Watson was as blunt as a tramp’s razor blade.
    ‘What the hell were you doing at Gregor Jack’s yesterday?’
    Rebus was almost caught off guard. Almost. ‘Who’s been telling tales?’
    ‘Never mind that. Just give me a bloody answer.’ Pause. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say no.’
    Watson’s wife had bought him the coffee-maker as a Christmas present. Maybe as a hint that he should cut down his consumption of Teacher’s whisky. Maybe so that he’d stand a chance of being sober when he returned home of an evening. All it had done so far though was make Watson hyperactive of a morning. In the afternoon, however, after a few lunchtime nips, drowsiness would take over. Best, therefore, to avoid Watson in the mornings. Best to wait until afternoon to ask him about that leave you were thinking of taking or to tell him the news of the latest bodged operation. If you were lucky, you’d get off with a ‘tut-tut’. But the mornings . . . the mornings were different.
    Rebus accepted the mug of strong coffee. Half a packet of espresso looked as though it had been tipped into the generous filter. Now, it tipped itself into Rebus’s bloodstream.
    ‘Sounds stupid, sir, but I was just passing.’
    ‘You’re right,’ said Watson, settling down behind his desk, ‘it
does
sound stupid. Even supposing you
were
just passing . . .’
    ‘Well, sir, to be honest, there was a little more to it than that.’ Watson sat back in his chair, holding the mug in both hands, and waited for the story. Doubtless he was thinking: this’ll be good. But Rebus had nothing to gain by lying. ‘I likeGregor Jack,’ he said. ‘I mean, I like him as an MP. He’s always seemed to me to be a bloody good MP. I felt a bit . . . well, I thought it was bad timing, us happening to bust that brothel the same time he was there . . .’ Bad timing? Did he really believe that was all there was to it? ‘So, when I
did
happen to be passing – I’d stayed the night at Sergeant Holmes’ new house . . . he lives in Jack’s constituency – I thought I’d stop and take a look. There were a lot of reporters about the place. I don’t know exactly why I stopped, but then I saw that Jack’s car was sitting out on the drive in full view. I reckoned that was dangerous. I mean, if a photo of it got into the papers. Everybody’d know Jack’s car, right down to its number plate. You can’t be too safe, can you? So I went in and suggested the car be moved into the garage.’
    Rebus stopped. That was all there was to it, wasn’t it? Well, it was enough to be going on with. Watson was looking thoughtful. He took another injection of coffee before speaking.
    ‘You’re not alone, John. I feel guilty myself about Operation Creeper. Not that there’s anything to feel guilty
about
, you understand, but all the same . . . and now the press are on to the story, they’ll keep on it till the poor bugger’s forced to resign.’
    Rebus doubted this. Jack hadn’t looked like a man ready or willing or about to resign.
    ‘If we can help Jack . . .’ Watson paused again, wanting to catch Rebus’s eye. He was warning Rebus that this was all unofficial, all unwritten, but that it had already been
discussed
, at some level far above Rebus himself. Perhaps, even, above Watson. Had the Chief Super been rapped over the knuckles by the high heidyins themselves? ‘If we can help him,’ he was saying, ‘I’d like him to get that help. If you see what I mean, John.’
    ‘I think so, sir.’ Sir Hugh Ferrie had powerful friends. Rebus was beginning to wonder just
how
powerful . . .
    ‘Right then.’
    ‘Just the one