Strip Jack

7 Duthil

Rebus telephoned Edinburgh to make his report and request an extra day's stay up north. Lauderdale sounded so impressed that the car had been found that Rebus forgot to tell him about the break-in at the lodge. Then, once Alec Corbie had arrived home (drunk and in charge of a vehicle -but let that pass), he'd been arrested and taken to Dufftown. Rebus seemed to be stretching the local police like they'd never been stretched before, so that Detective Sergeant Knox had to be diverted from the lodge and brought to the farm instead. He looked like an older brother of Constable Moffat, or perhaps a close cousin.

'I want forensics to go over that car,' Rebus told him. 'Priority, the lodge can wait.'

Knox rubbed his chin. 'It'll take a tow-truck.'

'A trailer would be better.'

I'll see what I can do. Where will you want it taken?'

'Anywhere secure and with a roof.'

'The police garage?'

'It'll do.'

'What exactly are we looking for?'

'Christ knows.'

Rebus went back into the kitchen, where Mrs Corbie was sitting at the table studying an array of burnt cakes. He opened his mouth to speak, but kept his silence. She was an accessory, of course. She'd lied to him to protect her son. Well, they had the son now, and he was the one that mattered. As quietly as he could, Rebus left the farmhouse and started his car, staring through the windscreen at his bonnet, where one of the chickens had left him a little gift…

He was able to avail himself of Dufftown police station for the interview with Alec Corbie.

'You're in keech up to your chin, son. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.'

Rebus and Corbie, seated across the table from one another, were smoking, DS Knox, resting against the wall behind Rebus, was not. Corbie had prepared an extremely thin veneer of macho indifference, which Rebus was quick to wipe off.

'This is a murder investigation. The victim's car has been found in your barn. It'll be dusted for prints, and if we find yours I'm going to have to charge you with murder. Anything you think you know that might help your case, you'd better talk.'

Then, seeing the effect of these words: 'You're in keech up to your chin, son. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.'

Corbie sang like his namesake: it didn't make for edifying listening, but it had an honest sound. First, though, he asked for some paracetamol.

'I've got a hell of a headache.'

'That's what daytime drinking does to you,' said Rebus, knowing it wasn't the drinking that was to blame – it was the stopping. The tablets were brought and swallowed, washed down with water. Corbie coughed a little, then lit another cigarette. Rebus had stubbed his out. He just couldn't deal with them any more.

'The car was in the lay-by,' Corbie began. 'It was there for hours, so I went and took a look. The keys were still in the ignition. I started her up and brought her back to the farm.'

'Why?'

He shrugged. 'Never refuse a gift horse.' He grinned. 'Or gift horse-power, eh?' The two detectives were not impressed. 'No, well, it was, you know, like with treasure. Finders keepers.'

'You didn't think the owner was coming back?'

He shrugged again. 'Never really thought about it. All I knew was that there were going to be some gey jealous looks if I turned up in town driving a BMW.'

'You planned to race it?' The question came from DS Knox.

'Sure.'

Knox explained to Rebus. 'They take cars out on to the back roads and race them one against one.'

Rebus remembered the phrase Moffat had used: boy racer. 'You didn't see the owner then?' he asked.

Corbie shrugged.

'What does that mean?'

'It means maybe. There was another car in the lay-by. Looked like a couple were in it, having an argument. I heard them from the yard.'

'What did you see?'

'Just that the BMW was parked, and this other car was in front of it.'

'You didn't get a look at the other car?'

'No. But I could hear the shouting, sounded like a man and a woman.'

'What were they arguing about?'

'No idea.'

'No?'

Corbie shook his head firmly.

'Okay,' said Rebus, 'and this was on…?'

'Wednesday. Wednesday morning. Maybe around lunch-time.'

Rebus nodded thoughtfully. Alibis would need re-checking… 'Where was your mother all this time?'

'In the kitchen, same as always.'

'Did you mention the argument to her?'

Corbie shook his head. 'No point.'

Rebus nodded again. Wednesday morning: Elizabeth Jack was killed that day. An argument in a lay-by…

'You're sure it was an argument?'

'I've been in enough in my time, it was an argument all right. The woman was screeching.'

'Anything else, Alec?'

Corbie seemed to relax at the use of his first name. Maybe he wouldn't be in trouble after all, so long as he told them…

'Well, the other car disappeared, but the BMW was still there. Couldn't tell if there was anyone in it, windows being tinted. But a radio was playing. Then in the afternoon -'

'So the car had been there all morning?'

'That's right. Then in the afternoon – '

'What time precisely?"

'No idea. I think there was horse-racing or something on the telly.'

'Go on.'

'Well, I looked out and there was another car had turned up. Or maybe it was the same one come back.'

'You still couldn't see?'

'I saw it better the second time. Don't know what make it was, but it was blue, light blue. I'm fairly sure of that.'

Cars would need checking… Jamie Kilpatrick's Daimler wasn't blue. Gregor Jack's Saab wasn't blue. Rab Kinnoul's Land-Rover wasn't blue.

'Anyway,' Corbie was saying, 'then there was more shouting the odds. I reckon it was coming from the BMW, because at one point the volume went right up on the radio.'

Rebus nodded appreciation of the observation.

'Then what?'

Corbie shrugged. 'It went quiet again. Next time I looked out, the other car was gone and the BMW was still there. Later on, I took a wander into the yard and through the field. Took a closer look. The passenger door was a bit open. Didn't look as though anyone was there, so I crossed the road. Keys were in the ignition…" He gave a final shrug. He had told his all.

And an interesting all it was. Two other cars? Or had the car from the morning returned in the afternoon? Who had Liz Jack been calling from the phone-box? What had she been arguing about? The volume rising on the radio… to mask an argument, or because, in the course of a struggle, the knob had been moved? His head was beginning to birl again. He suggested they have some coffee. Three plastic cups were brought, with sugar and a plate containing four digestive biscuits.

Corbie seemed relaxed in the hard-back chair, one leg slung over the other, and smoking yet another cigarette. So far Knox had eaten all the biscuits…

'Right,' said Rebus, 'now what about the microwave…?'

The microwave was easy. The microwave was more treasure, again found by the side of the road.

'You don't expect us to believe that?' Knox sneered. But Rebus could believe it.

'It's the truth,' Corbie said easily, 'whether you believe it or not, Sergeant Knox. I was out in the car this morning, and saw it lying in a ditch. I couldn't believe it. Someone had just dumped it there. Well, it looked good enough, so I thought I'd take it home.'

'But why did you hide it?'

Corbie shifted in his seat. 'I knew my mum would think I'd nicked it. Well, anyway, she'd never believe I just found it. So I decided to keep it out of her way till I could come up with a story…'

'There was a break-in last night,' Rebus said, 'at Deer Lodge. Do you know it?'

'That MP owns it, the one from the brothel.'

'You know it then. I think that microwave was stolen during the break-in.'

'Not by me it wasn't.'

'Well, we'll know soon enough. The place is being dusted for prints.'

'Lot of dusting going on,' Corbie commented. 'You lot are worse than my mum.'

'Believe it,' Rebus said, rising to his feet. 'One last thing, Alec. The car, what did you tell your mum about it?'

'Nothing much. Said I was storing it for a friend.'

Not that she'd have believed it. But if she lost her son, she lost her farm, too.

'All right, Alec.' said Rebus, 'it's time to get it all down on paper. Just what you've told us. Sergeant Knox will help you.' He paused by the door. 'Then, if we're still not happy that you've told us the truth and nothing but, maybe it'll be time to talk about drunk driving, eh?'

It was a long drive back to Mrs Wilkie's, and Rebus regretted not having taken a room in Dufftown. Still, it gave him time to think. He had made a telephone call from the station, putting back a certain appointment until tomorrow morning. So the rest of today was free. Clouds had settled low over the hills. So much for the nice weather. This was how Rebus remembered the Highlands – louring and forbidding. Terrible things had happened here in the past, massacres and forced migrations, blood feuds as vicious as any. Cases of cannibalism, too, he seemed to recall. Terrible things.

Who had killed Liz Jack? And why? The husband was always the first to fall under suspicion. Well, others could do the suspecting. Rebus, for one, didn't believe it. Why not?

Why not?

Well, look at the evidence. That Wednesday morning, Jack had been at a constituency meeting, then a game of golf, and in the evening he'd attended some function… according to whom? According to Jack himself and to Helen Greig. Plus, his car was white. There could be no mistaking it for blue. Plus, someone was out to get Jack into terrible trouble. And that was the person Rebus needed to find… unless it had been Liz Jack herself. He'd thought about that, too. But then there were the anonymous phone calls… according to whom? Only Barney Byars. Helen Greig had been unable (or unwilling) to confirm their existence. Rebus realized now that he really did need to talk to Gregor Jack again. Did his wife have any lovers? Judging by what Rebus had learned of her, the question needed changing to: how many did she have? One? Two? More? Or was he guilty of judging what he did not know? After all, he knew next to nothing about Elizabeth Jack. He knew what her allies and her critics thought of her. But he knew nothing of her. Except that, judging by her tastes in friends and furnishings, she hadn't had much taste…

Thursday morning. A week since the body had been found.

He woke up early, but was in no hurry to rise, and this time he let Mrs Wilkie bring him his tea in bed. She'd had a good night, never once thinking him her long-dead husband or long-lost son, so he reckoned she deserved not to be kept out of the bedroom. Not only tea this morning, but ginger nuts, too. And the tea was hot. But the day was cool, still grey and drizzly. Well, never mind. He'd be heading back to civilization, just as soon as he'd paid his respects elsewhere.

He ate a hurried breakfast, and received a peck on the cheek from Mrs Wilkie before leaving.

'Come back again some time,' she called, waving to him from the door. 'And I hope the jam sells all right…'

The rain came on at its heaviest just as his windscreen wipers gave up. He stopped the car to study his map, then dashed outside to give the wipers a quick shake. It had happened before: they just stuck, and could be righted with a bit of force. Except this time they really had packed in. And not a garage in sight. So he drove slowly, and found after a while that the heavier the rain fell, the clearer his windscreen became. It was the slow fine rain that was the problem, blotting out all but the vaguest shapes and outlines. The heavy dollops of rain came and went so fast that they seemed to clear the windscreen rather than obscuring it.

Which was just as well, for the rain stayed heavy all the way to Duthil.

Duthil Special Hospital had been planned and built to act as a showpiece for treatment of the criminally insane. Like the other 'special hospitals' dotted around the British Isles, it was just that – a hospital. It wasn't a prison, and patients who arrived in its care were treated like patients, not prisoners. Treatment, not punishment, was its function, and with the brand new buildings came up-to-date methods and understandings.

All this the hospital's medical director, Dr Frank Forster, told Rebus in his pleasant but purposeful office. Rebus had spent a long time last night on the telephone with Patience, and she'd told him much the same thing. Fine, thought Rebus. But it was still a place of detention. The people who came here came with no time limit attached, no 'sentence' that had to be served. The main gates were operated electronically and by guards, and everywhere Rebus had gone so far the doors had been locked again behind him. But now Dr Forster was talking about recreation facilities, staff/patient ratios, the weekly disco… He was obviously proud. He was also obviously overdoing it. Rebus saw him for what he was: the front-man whose job it was to publicize the benefits of this particular special hospital, the caring attitude, the role of treatment. The likes of Broadmoor had come in for a lot of criticism in previous years. To avoid criticism, you needed good PR. And Dr Forster looked good PR. He was young for a start, a good few years younger than Rebus. And he had a healthy, scrupulous look to him, with a smile always just around the corner.

He reminded Rebus of Gregor Jack. That enthusiasm and energy, that public image. It used to be the sort of stuff Rebus associated with American presidential campaigns; now it was everywhere. Even in the asylums. The lunatics hadn't taken over; the image-men had.

'We have just over three hundred patients here,' Forster was saying, 'and we like the staff to get to know as many of them as possible. I don't just mean faces, I mean names. First names at that. This isn't Bedlam, Inspector Rebus. Those days are long past, thank God.'

'But you're a secure unit.'

'Yes.'

'You deal with the criminally insane.'

Forster smiled again. 'You wouldn't know it to look at most of our patients. Do you know, the majority of them – over sixty per cent, I believe – have above-average IQs? I think some of them are brighter than I am!' A laugh this time, then the serious face again, the caring face. 'A lot of our patients are confused, deluded. They're depressed, or schizophrenic. But they're not, I assure you, anything like the lunatics you see in the movies. Take Andrew Macmillan, for example.' The file had been on Forster's desk all along. He now opened it. 'He's been with us since the hospital opened. Before that, he was in much less… savoury surroundings. He was making no progress at all before he came here. Now, he's becoming more talkative, and he seems about ready to participate in some of the available activities. I believe he plays a very good game of chess.'

'But is he still dangerous?'

Forster chose not to answer. 'He suffers occasional panic attacks… hyperventilation, but nothing like the frenzies he went into before.' He closed the file. 'I would say, Inspector, that Andrew Macmillan is on his way to a complete recovery. Now, why do you want to talk to him?'

So Rebus explained about The Pack, about the friendship between 'Mack' Macmillan and Gregor Jack, about Elizabeth Jack's murder and the fact that she had been staying not forty miles from Duthil.

I just wondered if she'd visited.'

'Well, we can check that for you.' Forster was flipping through the file again. 'Interesting, there's nothing in here about Mr Macmillan knowing Mr Jack, or about his having that nickname. Mack, did you say?' He reached for a pencil. I'll just make a note…" He did so, then flicked through the file again. 'Apparently, Mr Macmillan has written to several MPs in the past… and to other public figures. Mr Jack is mentioned…" He read a little more in silence, then closed the file and picked up the telephone. 'Audrey, can you bring me the records of recent visitors… say in the last month? Thanks.'

Duthil wasn't exactly a tourist attraction, and, out of sight being out of mind, there were few enough entries in the book. So it was the work of minutes to find what Rebus was looking for. The visit took place on Saturday, the day after Operation Creeper, but before the story became public knowledge.

'"Eliza Ferrie,'" he read. '"Patient visited: Andrew Macmillan. Relation to patient: friend." Signed in at three o'clock and out again at four thirty."

'Our regular visiting hours,' Forster explained. 'Patients can have visitors in the main recreation room. But I've arranged for you to see Andrew in his ward.'

'His ward?'

'Just a large room, really. Four beds to a room. But we call them wards to enforce… perhaps enhance would be a better word… to enhance the hospital atmosphere. Andrew's in the Kinnoul Ward.'

Rebus started.' Why Kinnoul?'

'Pardon?'

'Why call the ward Kinnoul?'

Forster smiled. 'After the actor. You must have heard of Rab Kinnoul? He and his wife are among the hospital's patrons.'

Rebus decided not to say anything about Cath Kinnoul being one of The Pack, about her having known Macmillan at school… It was no business of his. But the Kinnouls went up in his estimation; well, Cath did. She had not, it seemed, forgotten her one-time friend. Nobody calls me Gowk any more. And Liz Jack, too, had visited, albeit under her maiden name and with a twist to her Christian name to boot. He could understand that: the papers would have had a field day. MP's Wife's Visits to Crazed Killer. All those possessives. She couldn't have known that the papers were about to have their story anyway…

'Perhaps at the end of your visit,' Dr Forster said, 'you'd like to see some of our facilities? Pool, gym, workshops…'

'Workshops?'

'Simple mechanics. Car maintenance, that sort of thing.'

'You mean you give the patients spanners and screwdrivers?'

Forster laughed. 'And we count them in again at the end of the session.'

Rebus had thought of something. 'Did you say car maintenance? I don't suppose somebody could take a look at my windscreen wipers?'

Forster started to laugh again, but Rebus shook his head.

I'm serious,' he said.

'Then I'll see what we can do.' Forster rose to his feet. 'Ready when you are, Inspector.'

'I'm ready,' said Rebus, not at all sure that he was.

There was much passing through corridors, and the nurse who was to show Rebus to Kinnoul Ward had to unlock and relock countless doors. A heavy chain of keys swung from his waistband. Rebus attempted conversation, but the nurse replied with short measures. There was just the one incident. They were passing along a corridor when from an open doorway a hand appeared, grabbing at Rebus. A small, elderly man was trying to say something, eyes shining, mouth making tiny movements.

'Back into your room, Homer,' said the nurse, prising the fingers from Rebus's jacket. The man scuttled back inside. Rebus waited a moment for his heart rate to ease, then asked: 'Why do you call him Homer?'

The nurse looked at him. 'Because that's his name.' They walked on in silence.

Forster had been right. There were few moans or groans or sudden curdling shrieks, and few enough signs of movement, never mind violent movement. They passed through a large room where people were watching TV. Forster had explained that actual television wasn't allowed, since it couldn't be pre-determined. Instead, there was a daily diet of specially chosen video titles. The Sound of Music seemed to be a particular favourite. The patients watched in mute fascination.

'Are they on drugs?' Rebus hazarded.

The nurse suddenly became talkative. 'As many as we can stick down their throats. Keeps them out of mischief.'

So much for the caring face…

'Nothing wrong with it,' the nurse was saying, 'giving them drugs. It's all in the MHA.'

'MHA?'

'Mental Health Act. Allows for sedation as part of the treatment process.'

Rebus got the feeling the nurse was reciting a little defence he'd prepared to deal with visitors who asked. He was a big bugger: not tall, but broad, with bulging arms.

'Do any weight training?' Rebus asked.

'Who? That lot?'

Rebus smiled. 'I meant you.'

'Oh.' A grin. 'Yeah, I push some weights. Most of these places, the patients get all the facilities and there's nothing for the staff. But we've got a pretty good gym. Yeah, pretty good. In here…'

Another door was unlocked, another corridor beckoned, but off this corridor a sign pointed through yet another door – unlocked – to the Kinnoul Ward. In there,' the guard commanded, pushing open the door. His voice became firm. 'Okay, walk to the wall.'

Rebus thought for a moment the nurse was talking to him, but he saw that the object of the command was a tall, thin man, who now rose from his bed and walked to the far wall, where he turned to face them.

'Hands against the wall,' the nurse commanded. Andrew Macmillan placed the palms of his hands against the wall behind him.

'Look,' began Rebus, 'is this really -?'

Macmillan smiled wryly. 'Don't worry,' the nurse told Rebus. 'He won't bite. Not after what we've pumped into him. You can sit there.' He was pointing to a table on which a board had been set for chess. There were two chairs. Rebus sat on the one which faced Andrew Macmillan. There were four beds, but they were all empty. The room was light, its walls painted lemon. There were three narrow barred windows, through which some rare sunshine poured. The nurse looked to be staying, and took up position behind Rebus, so that he was reminded of the scene in Dufftown interview room, with himself and Corbie and Knox.

'Good morning,' Macmillan said quietly. He was balding, and looked to have been doing so for some years. He had a long face, but it was not gaunt. Rebus would have called the face 'kindly'.

'Good morning, Mr Macmillan. My name's Inspector Rebus.'

This news seemed to excite Macmillan. He took half a step forward.

'Against the wall,' said the nurse. Macmillan paused, then retreated.

'Are you an Inspector of Hospitals?' he asked.

'No, sir, I'm a police inspector.'

'Oh.' His face dulled a little. 'I thought maybe you'd come to… they don't treat us well here, you know.' He paused. 'There, because I've told you that I'll probably be disciplined, maybe even put into solitary. Everything, any dissension, gets reported back. But I've got to keep telling people, or nothing will be done. I have some influential friends, Inspector.' Rebus thought this was for the nurse's ears more than his own. 'Friends in high places…"

Well, Dr Forster knew that now, thanks to Rebus.

'… friends I can trust. People need to be told, you see. They censor our mail. They decide what we can read. They won't even let me read Das Kapital. And they give us drugs. The mentally ill, you know, by whom I mean those who have been judged to be mentally ill, we have less rights than the most hardened mass murderer… hardened but sane mass murderer. Is that fair? Is that… humane?'

Rebus had no ready answer. Besides, he didn't want to be sidetracked.

'You had a visit from Elizabeth Jack.'

Macmillan seemed to think back, then nodded. 'So I did. But when she visits me she's Ferrie, not Jack. It's our secret.'

'What did you talk about?'

'Why are you interested?'

Rebus decided that Macmillan did not know of Liz Jack's murder. How could he know? There was no access to news in this place. Rebus's fingers toyed with the chessmen.

'It's to do with an investigation… to do with Mr Jack.'

'What has he done?'

Rebus shrugged. 'That's what I'm trying to find out, Mr Macmillan.'

Macmillan had turned his face towards the ray of sunshine. 'I miss the world,' he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. 'I had so many – friends.'

'Do you keep in touch with them?'

'Oh yes,' Macmillan said. 'They come and take me home with them for the weekend. We enjoy evenings out at the cinema, the theatre, drinking in bars. Oh, we have some wonderful times together.' He smiled ruefully, and tapped his head. 'But only in here.'

'Hands against the wall.'

'Why?' he spat. 'Why do I have to keep my hands against the wall? Why can't I just sit down and have a normal conversation like… a… normal… person.' The angrier he got, the lower his voice dropped. There were flecks of saliva either side of his mouth, and a vein bulged above his right eye. He took a deep breath, then another, then bowed his head slightly. 'I'm sorry, Inspector. They give me drugs, you know. God knows what they are. They have this… effect on me.'

'That's all right, Mr Macmillan,' Rebus said, but inside he was quivering. Was this madness or sanity? What happened to sanity when you chained it to a wall? Chained it, moreover, with chains that weren't real.

'You were asking,' Macmillan went on, breathless now, 'you were asking about… Eliza… Ferrie. You're right, she did come and visit. Quite a surprise. I know they have a home near here, yet they've never visited before. Lizzie… Eliza… did visit once, a long time ago. But Gregor… Well, he's a busy man, isn't he? And she's a busy woman. I hear about these things…"

From Cath Kinnoul, Rebus didn't doubt.

'Yes, she visited. A very pleasant hour we spent. We talked about the past, about… friends. Friendship. Is their marriage in trouble?'

'Why do you say that?'

Another creased smile. 'She came alone, Inspector. She told me she was on holiday alone. Yet a man was waiting for her outside. Either it was Gregor, and he didn't want to see me, or else it was one of her… friends.'

'How do you know?'

'Nursie here told me. If you don't want to sleep tonight, Inspector, get him to show you the punishment block. I bet Doc Forster didn't mention the punishment block. Maybe that's where they'll throw me for talking like this.'

'Shut it, Macmillan.'

Rebus turned to the nurse. 'Is it true?' he asked. 'Was someone waiting outside for Mrs Jack?'

'Yeah, there was somebody in the car. Some guy. I only saw him from one of the windows. He'd got out of the car to stretch his legs.'

'What did he look like?'

But the nurse was shaking his head. 'He was getting back in when I saw him. I just saw his back.'

'What kind of car was it?'

'Black 3-series, no mistake about that.'

'Oh, he's very good at noticing things, Inspector, except when it suits him.'

'Shut it, Macmillan.'

'Ask yourself this, Inspector. If this is a hospital, why are all the so-called "nurses" members of the Prison Officers' Association? This isn't a hospital, it's a warehouse, but full of headcases rather than packing cases. The twist is, the head-cases are the ones in charge!'

He was moving away from the wall now, walking on slow, doped legs, but his energy was unmistakable. Every nerve was blazing.

'Against the wall – '

'Headcases! I took her head off! God knows, I did – '

'Macmillan!' The nurse was moving too.

'But it was so long ago… a different – '

'Warning you -'

'And I want so much… so much to – '

'Right, that's it.' The nurse had him by the arms.

'-touch the earth.'

In the end, Macmillan offered little resistance, as the straps were attached to his arms and legs. The guard laid him out on the floor. 'If I leave him on the bed,' he told Rebus, 'he just rolls off and injures himself.'

'And you wouldn't want that,' said Macmillan, sounding almost peaceful now that he'd been restrained. 'No, nurse, you wouldn't want that.'

Rebus opened the door, making to leave.

'Inspector!'

He turned. 'Yes, Mr Macmillan?'

Macmillan had twisted his head so it was facing the door. 'Touch the earth for me… please.'

Rebus left the hospital on shakier legs than he'd entered it. He didn't want the tour of the pool and the gym. Instead, he'd asked the nurse to show him the punishment block, but the nurse had refused.

'Look,' he'd said, 'you might not like what goes on here, I might not like some of what goes on, but you've seen how it is. They're supposed to be "patients", but you can't turn your back on them, you can't leave them alone. They'll swallow lightbulbs, they'll be shitting pens and pencils and crayons, they'll try to put their head through the television. I mean, they might not, but you just can't ever be sure… ever. Try to keep an open mind, Inspector. I know it's not easy, but try.'

And Rebus had wished the young man luck with his weight training before making his exit. Into the courtyard. He stooped by a flowerbed and plunged his fingers deep into it, rubbing the soil between forefinger and thumb. It felt good. It felt good to be outside. Funny the things he took for granted, like earth and fresh air and free movement.

He looked up at the hospital windows, but couldn't be sure which, if any, belonged to Macmillan's ward. There were no faces staring at him, no signs of life at all. He rose to his feet, went to his car and got in, staring out through the windscreen. The brief sunshine had vanished. There was drizzle again, obscuring the view. Rebus pressed the button… and the windscreen wipers came on, came on and stayed on, their blades moving smoothly. He smiled, hands resting on the steering wheel, and asked himself a question.

'What happens to sanity when you chain it to a wall?'

He took a detour on his way back south, coming off the dual carriageway at Kinross. He passed Loch Leven (scene of many a family picnic when Rebus had been a kid), took a right at the next junction, and headed towards the tired mining villages of Fife. He knew this territory well. He'd been born and brought up here. He knew the grey housing schemes and the corner shops and the utilitarian pubs. The people cautious with strangers, and almost as cautious with friends and neighbours. Street-corner dialogues like bareknuckle fights. His parents had taken his brother and him away from it at weekends, travelling to Kirkcaldy for shopping on the Saturday, and Loch Leven for those long Sunday picnics, sitting cramped in the back of the car with salmon-paste sandwiches and orange juice, flasks of tea smelling of hot plastic.

And for summer holidays there had been a caravan in St Andrews, or bed and breakfast in Blackpool, where Michael would always get into trouble and have to be hauled out by his older brother.

'And a lot of bloody thanks I got for it.'

Rebus kept driving.

Byars Haulage was sited halfway up a steep hill in one of the villages. Across the road was a school. The kids were on their way home, swinging satchels at each other and swearing choicely. Some things never changed. The yard of Byars Haulage contained a neat row of artics, a couple of nondescript cars, and a Porsche Carrera. None of the cars was blue. The offices were actually Portakabins. He went to the one marked 'Main Office' (below which someone had crayoned 'The Boss') and knocked.

Inside a secretary looked up from her word-processor. The room was stifling, a calor-gas heater roaring away by the side of the desk. There was another door behind the secretary. Rebus could hear Byars talking fast and loud and uproariously behind the door. Since no one answered him back, Rebus reckoned it was a phone call.

'Well tell Shite-for-brains to get off his arse and get over here.' (Pause.) 'Sick? Sick? Sick means he's shagging that missus of his. Can't blame him, mind…'

'Yes?' the secretary said to Rebus. 'Can I help you?'

'Well never mind what he says,' came Byars' voice, 'I've got a load here that's got to be in Liverpool yesterday.'

'I'd like to see Mr Byars, please,' said Rebus.

'If you'll take a seat, I'll see whether Mr Byars is available. What's the name, please?'

'Rebus, Detective Inspector Rebus.'

At that moment, the door of Byars' office opened and Byars himself came out. He was holding a portable phone in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He handed the paper to his secretary.

'That's right, wee man, and there's a load coming up from London the day after.' Byars' voice was louder than ever. Rebus noticed that, unseen by her, Byars was staring at his secretary's legs. He wondered if this whole performance was for her benefit…

But now Byars had spotted Rebus. It took Byars a second to place him, then he nodded a greeting in Rebus's direction. 'Aye, you give him big licks, wee man,' he said into the telephone. 'If he's got a sick-note, fine, if not tell him I'm looking out his cards, okay?' He terminated the call and shot out a hand.

'Inspector Rebus, what the hell brings you to this blighted neck of the bings?'

'Well,' said Rebus, 'I was passing, and – '

'Passing my arse! Plenty of people pass through, but nobody stops unless they want something. Even then, I'd advise them to keep on going. But you come from round here, don't you? Into the office then, I can spare you five minutes.' He turned to the secretary and rested a hand on her shoulder. 'Sheena, hen, get on to tadger-breath in Liverpool and tell him tomorrow morning definite.'

'Will do, Mr Byars. Will I make a cup of coffee?'

'No, don't bother, Sheena. I know what the polis like to drink.' He gave Rebus a wink. 'In you go, Inspector. In you go.'

Byars' office was like the back room of a dirty bookshop, its walls apparently held together by nude calendars and centrefolds. The calendars all seemed to be gifts donated by garages and suppliers. Byars saw Rebus looking.

'Goes with the image,' he said. 'A hairy-arsed truck driver with tattoos on his neck comes in here, he thinks he knows the sort of man he's dealing with.'

'And what if a woman comes in?'

Byars clucked. 'She'd think she knew, too. I'm not saying she'd be all wrong either.' Byars didn't keep his whisky in the filing cabinet. He kept it inside a Wellington boot. From the other boot he produced two glasses, which he sniffed. 'Fresh as the morning dew,' he said, pouring the drinks.

'Thanks,' said Rebus. 'Nice car.'

'Eh? Oh, outside you mean? Aye, it's no' bad. Nary a dent in it either. You should see the insurance payments though. Talk about steep. They make this brae look like a billiard table. Good health.' He sank the measure in one gulp, then noisily exhaled.

Rebus, having taken a sip, examined the glass, then the bottle. Byars chuckled.

'Think I'd give Glenlivet to the ba'-heids I get in here? I'm a businessman, not the Samaritans. They look at the bottle, think they know what they're getting, and they're impressed. Image again, like the scuddy pics on the wall. But it's really just cheap stuff I pour into the bottle. Not many folk notice.'

Rebus thought this was meant as a compliment. Image, that's what Byars was, all surface and appearance. Was he so different from MPs and actors? Or policemen come to that. All of them hiding their ulterior motives behind a set of gimmicks.

'So what is it you want to see me about?'

That was easily explained. He wanted to ask Byars a little more about the party at Deer Lodge, seemingly the last party to be held there.

'Not many of us there,' Byars told him. 'A few cried off pretty late. I don't think Tom Pond was there, though he was expected. That's right, he was off to the States by then. Suey was there.'

'Ronald Steele?'

'That's the man. And Liz and Gregor, of course. And me. Cathy Kinnoul was there, but her husband wasn't. Let's see… who else? Oh, a couple who worked for Gregor. Urquhart…"

'Ian Urquhart?'

'Yes, and some young girl…"

'Helen Greig?'

Byars laughed. 'Why bother to ask if you already know? I think that was about it.'

'You said a couple who worked for Gregor. Did you get the impression that they were a couple?'

'Christ, no. I think everybody but Urquhart tried to get the girl into the sack.'

'Did anyone succeed?'

'Not that I noticed, but after a couple of bottles of champagne I tend not to notice very much. It wasn't like one of Liz's parties. You know, not wild. I mean, everybody had plenty to drink, but that was all.'

'All?'

'Well, you know… Liz's crowd was wild.' Byars stared towards one of the calendars, seemingly reminiscing. 'A real wild bunch and no mistake…'

Rebus could imagine Barney Byars lapping it up, mixing with Patterson-Scott, Kilpatrick and the rest. And he could imagine them… tolerating Byars, a bit of nouveau rough. No doubt Byars was the life and soul of the party, a laugh a minute. Only they were laughing at him rather than with him…

'How was the lodge when you arrived?' Rebus asked.

Byars wrinkled his nose. 'Disgusting. It hadn't been cleaned since the last party a fortnight before. One of Liz's parties, not one of Gregor's. Gregor was going spare. Liz or somebody was supposed to have had it cleaned. It looked like a bloody sixties squat or something.' He smiled. 'Actually, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, you being a member of the constabulary and all, but I didn't bother staying the night. Drove back about four in the morning. Absolutely guttered, but there was nobody about on the roads for me to be a menace to. Wait till you hear this though. I thought my feet were cold when I stopped the car. Got out to open the garage… and I didn't have any shoes on! Just the one sock and no fucking shoes! Christ knows how come I didn't notice…'