Strip Jack by Ian Rankin

thing, sir. Who gave you the info about the brothel?’
    Watson was shaking his head even before Rebus had finished the question. ‘Can’t tell you that, John. I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if Jack was set up. Well, if he was, it had nothing to do with my informant. I can promise you that. No, if Jack
was
set up, the question that needs answering is why
he
was there in the first place, not why
we
were there.’
    ‘But the papers knew, too. I mean, they knew about Operation Creeper.’
    Watson was nodding now. ‘Again, nothing to do with my informant. But yes, I’ve been thinking about that. It had to be one of us, hadn’t it? Someone on the team.’
    ‘So nobody else knew when it was planned for?’
    Watson seemed to hold his breath for a moment, then shook his head. He was lying, of course. Rebus could see that. No point probing further, not yet at any rate. There would be a reason behind the lie, and that reason would come out in good time. Right now, and for no reason he could put his finger on, Rebus was more worried about
Mrs
Jack. Worried? Well, maybe not quite worried. Maybe not even
concerned
. Call it . . . call it
interested
. Yes, that was it. He was interested in her.
    ‘Any progress on those missing books?’
    What missing books? Oh,
those
missing books. He shrugged. ‘We’ve talked to all the booksellers. The list is doing the rounds. We might even get a mention in the trade magazines. I shouldn’t think any bookseller is going to touch them. Meantime . . . well, there are the private collectors still to be interviewed. One of them’s the wife of Rab Kinnoul.’
    ‘The actor?’
    ‘The very same. Lives out towards South Queensferry. His wife collects first editions.’
    ‘Better try to get out there yourself, John. Don’t want to send a constable out to see Rab Kinnoul.’
    ‘Right, sir.’ It was the answer he’d wanted. He drained his mug. His nerves were already sizzling like bacon in a pan. ‘Anything else?’
    But Watson had finished with him, and was rising toreplenish his own mug. ‘This stuff’s addictive,’ he was saying as Rebus left the office. ‘But by God, it makes me feel full of beans.’
    Rebus didn’t know whether to laugh or cry . . .
    Rab Kinnoul was a professional hit man.
    He had made his name initially through a series of roles on television: the Scottish immigrant in a London sitcom, the young village doctor in a farming serial, with the occasional guest spot on more substantial fare such as
The Sweeney
(playing a Glasgow runaway) or the drama series
Knife Ledge
, where he played a hired killer.
    It was this last part which swung things for Kinnoul. Noticed by a London-based casting director, he was approached and screen-tested for the part of the assassin in a low-budget British thriller, which went on to do surprising business, picking up good notices in the USA as well as in Europe. The film’s director was soon persuaded to move to Hollywood, and he in turn persuaded his producers that Rab Kinnoul would be ideal for the part of the gangster in an Elmore Leonard adaptation.
    So, Kinnoul went to Hollywood, played minor roles in a series of major and minor murder flicks, and was again a success. He possessed a face and eyes into which could be read anything, simply anything. If you thought he should be evil, he
was
evil; if you thought he should be psychotic, he
was
psychotic. He was cast in these roles and he fitted them, but if things had taken a different turning in his career he might just as easily have ended up as the romantic lead, the sympathetic friend, the hero of the piece.
    Now he’d settled back in Scotland. There was talk that he was reading scripts, was about to set up his own film company, was retiring. Rebus couldn’t quite imagine retiring at thirty-nine. At fifty, maybe, but not at thirty-nine. What would you do all day? Driving towards Kinnoul’s home just outside South Queensferry, the answer came to him. You could spend