Strip Jack by Ian Rankin Page A

all day every day painting the exterior of your house; supposing, that is, it was the size of Rab Kinnoul’shouse. Like the Forth Rail Bridge, by the time you’d finished painting it, the first bit would be dirty again.
    Which was to say that it was a very large house, even from a distance. It sat on a hillside, its surroundings fairly bleak. Long grass and a few blasted trees. A river ran nearby, discharging into the Firth of Forth. Since there was no sign of a fence separating house from surroundings, Rebus reckoned Kinnoul must own the lot.
    The house was modern, if the 1960s could still be considered ‘modern’, styled like a bungalow but about five times the scale. It reminded Rebus mostly of those Swiss chalets you saw on postcards, except that the chalets were always finished in wood, whereas this house was finished in harling.
    ‘I’ve seen better council houses,’ he whispered to himself as he parked on the pebbled driveway. Getting out of the car he did, however, begin to see one of the house’s attractions. The view. Both spectacular Forth Bridges not too far away at all, the firth itself sparkling and calm, and the sun shining on green and pleasant Fife across the water. You couldn’t see Rosyth, but over to the east could just about be made out the seaside town of Kirkcaldy, where Gregor Jack and, presumably, Rab Kinnoul, had been schooled.
    ‘No,’ said Mrs Kinnoul – Cath Kinnoul – as she walked, a little later, into the sitting room. ‘People are always making that mistake.’
    She had come to the door while Rebus was still staring.
    ‘Admiring the view?’
    He grinned back at her. ‘Is that Kirkcaldy over there?’
    ‘I think so, yes.’
    Rebus turned and started up the steps towards the front door. There were rockeries and neat borders to either side of them. Mrs Kinnoul looked the type to enjoy gardening. She wore homely clothes and a homely smile. Her hair had been permed into waves, but pulled back and held with a clasp at the back. There was something of the 1950s about her. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting – some Hollywood blonde, perhaps – but certainly he’d not been expecting this.
    ‘I’m Cath Kinnoul.’ She held out a hand. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
    He’d phoned, of course, to warn of his visit, to make sure someone would be at home. ‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ he said.
    ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Well, come in.’
    Of course, the whole thing could have been done by telephone. The following rare books have been stolen . . . has anyone approached you . . .? If anyone should, please contact us immediately. But like any other policeman, Rebus liked to
see
who and what he was dealing with. People often gave something away when you were there in person. They were flustered, edgy. Not that Cath Kinnoul looked flustered. She came into the sitting room with a tray of tea things. Rebus had been staring out of the picture window, drinking in the scene.
    ‘Your husband went to school in Kirkcaldy, didn’t he?’
    And then she’d said: ‘No, people are always making that mistake. I think because of Gregor Jack. You know, the MP.’ She placed the tray on a coffee table. Rebus had turned from the window and was studying the room. There were framed photographs of Rab Kinnoul on the walls, stills from his movies. There were also photos of actors and actresses Rebus supposed he should know. The photos were signed. The room seemed to be dominated by a thirty-eight-inch television, atop which sat a video recorder. To either side of the TV, piled high on the floor, were videotapes.
    ‘Sit down, Inspector. Sugar?’
    ‘Just milk, please. You were saying about your husband and Gregor Jack . . .?’
    ‘Oh yes. Well, I suppose because they’re both in the media, on television I mean, people tend to think they must know one another.’
    ‘And don’t they?’
    She laughed. ‘Oh yes, yes, they know one another. But only through me. People get