.
But it was Helen Greig who answered the door.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Come in. Gregor’s in the living room. You know the way.’
‘Indeed I do. Keeping you busy, is he?’ He laid a finger on the face of his wristwatch.
‘Oh yes,’ she said smiling, ‘he’s a real slavemaster.’
An unkind image came to Rebus then, of Jack in leather gear and Helen Greig on a leash . . . He blinked it away. ‘Does he seem all right?’
‘Who? Gregor?’ She gave a quiet laugh. ‘He seems fine, under the circumstances. Why?’
‘Just wondering, that’s all.’
She thought for a moment, seemed about to say something, then remembered her place. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Right, see you later then.’ And off she went, back past the curving staircase, back to her office to the rear of the house. Damn, he hadn’t told Holmes about her. If Holmes peered in through the office window . . . Oh well. If he heard a scream, he’d know what had happened. He opened the living room door.
Gregor Jack was alone. Alone and listening to his hi-fi. The volume was low, but Rebus recognized the Rolling Stones. It was the album he’d been listening to earlier,
Let It Bleed
.
Jack rose from his leather sofa, a glass of whisky in one hand. ‘Inspector, you didn’t take long. You’ve caught me indulging in my secret vice. Well, we all have
one
secret vice, don’t we?’
Rebus thought again of the scene at the brothel. And Jack seemed to read his mind, for he gave an embarrassed smile. Rebus shook the proffered hand. He noticed that a plaster had been stuck on the left hand’s offending finger. One secret vice, and one tiny flaw . . .
Jack saw him noticing. ‘Eczema,’ he explained, and seemed about to say more.
‘Yes, you said.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘You’ll have to forgive me, Inspector. I don’t usually repeat myself. But what with yesterday and everything . . .’
‘Understood.’ Past Jack, Rebus noticed a card standing on the mantelpiece. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Jack realized he had a glass in his hand. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘You can, sir, and I accept.’
‘Whisky all right? I don’t think there’s much else . . .’
‘Whatever you’re having, Mr Jack.’ And for some reason he added: ‘I like the Rolling Stones myself, their earlier stuff.’
‘Agreed,’ said Jack. ‘The music scene these days, it’s all rubbish, isn’t it?’ He’d gone over to the wall to the left of the fireplace, where glass shelves held a series of bottles and glasses. As he poured, Rebus walked over to the table where yesterday Urquhart had been fussing with some papers. There were letters, waiting to be signed (all with the House of Commons portcullis at the head), and some notes relating to parliamentary business.
‘This job,’ Jack was saying, approaching with Rebus’s drink, ‘really is what you make of it. There are some MPswho do the minimum necessary, and believe me that’s still plenty. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ They both drank.
‘Then there are those,’ said Jack, ‘who go for the maximum. They do their constituency work, and they become involved in the parliamentary process, the wider world. They debate, they write, they attend . . .’
‘And which camp do you belong to, sir?’ He talks too much, Rebus was thinking, and yet he says so little . . .
‘Straight down the middle,’ said Jack, steering a course with his flattened hand. ‘Here, sit down.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ They both sat, Rebus on the chair, Jack on the sofa. Rebus had noticed straight away that the whisky was watered, and he wondered by whom? And did Jack know about it? ‘Now then,’ said Rebus, ‘you said on the phone that there was something –’
Jack used a remote control to switch off the music. He aimed the remote at the wall, it seemed to Rebus. There was no hi-fi system in sight. ‘I want to get things straight about my wife, Inspector,’ he said. ‘About
But it was Helen Greig who answered the door.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Come in. Gregor’s in the living room. You know the way.’
‘Indeed I do. Keeping you busy, is he?’ He laid a finger on the face of his wristwatch.
‘Oh yes,’ she said smiling, ‘he’s a real slavemaster.’
An unkind image came to Rebus then, of Jack in leather gear and Helen Greig on a leash . . . He blinked it away. ‘Does he seem all right?’
‘Who? Gregor?’ She gave a quiet laugh. ‘He seems fine, under the circumstances. Why?’
‘Just wondering, that’s all.’
She thought for a moment, seemed about to say something, then remembered her place. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Right, see you later then.’ And off she went, back past the curving staircase, back to her office to the rear of the house. Damn, he hadn’t told Holmes about her. If Holmes peered in through the office window . . . Oh well. If he heard a scream, he’d know what had happened. He opened the living room door.
Gregor Jack was alone. Alone and listening to his hi-fi. The volume was low, but Rebus recognized the Rolling Stones. It was the album he’d been listening to earlier,
Let It Bleed
.
Jack rose from his leather sofa, a glass of whisky in one hand. ‘Inspector, you didn’t take long. You’ve caught me indulging in my secret vice. Well, we all have
one
secret vice, don’t we?’
Rebus thought again of the scene at the brothel. And Jack seemed to read his mind, for he gave an embarrassed smile. Rebus shook the proffered hand. He noticed that a plaster had been stuck on the left hand’s offending finger. One secret vice, and one tiny flaw . . .
Jack saw him noticing. ‘Eczema,’ he explained, and seemed about to say more.
‘Yes, you said.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘You’ll have to forgive me, Inspector. I don’t usually repeat myself. But what with yesterday and everything . . .’
‘Understood.’ Past Jack, Rebus noticed a card standing on the mantelpiece. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
Jack realized he had a glass in his hand. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘You can, sir, and I accept.’
‘Whisky all right? I don’t think there’s much else . . .’
‘Whatever you’re having, Mr Jack.’ And for some reason he added: ‘I like the Rolling Stones myself, their earlier stuff.’
‘Agreed,’ said Jack. ‘The music scene these days, it’s all rubbish, isn’t it?’ He’d gone over to the wall to the left of the fireplace, where glass shelves held a series of bottles and glasses. As he poured, Rebus walked over to the table where yesterday Urquhart had been fussing with some papers. There were letters, waiting to be signed (all with the House of Commons portcullis at the head), and some notes relating to parliamentary business.
‘This job,’ Jack was saying, approaching with Rebus’s drink, ‘really is what you make of it. There are some MPswho do the minimum necessary, and believe me that’s still plenty. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ They both drank.
‘Then there are those,’ said Jack, ‘who go for the maximum. They do their constituency work, and they become involved in the parliamentary process, the wider world. They debate, they write, they attend . . .’
‘And which camp do you belong to, sir?’ He talks too much, Rebus was thinking, and yet he says so little . . .
‘Straight down the middle,’ said Jack, steering a course with his flattened hand. ‘Here, sit down.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ They both sat, Rebus on the chair, Jack on the sofa. Rebus had noticed straight away that the whisky was watered, and he wondered by whom? And did Jack know about it? ‘Now then,’ said Rebus, ‘you said on the phone that there was something –’
Jack used a remote control to switch off the music. He aimed the remote at the wall, it seemed to Rebus. There was no hi-fi system in sight. ‘I want to get things straight about my wife, Inspector,’ he said. ‘About
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