Strip Jack by Ian Rankin Page B

their stories mixed up, I suppose, so it started to appear in the papers and magazines that Rab and Gregor went to school together, which is nonsense. Rabwent to school in Dundee. It was
me
that went to school with Gregor. And we went to university together, too.’
    So not even the cream of young Scottish reporters always got it right. Rebus accepted the china cup and saucer with a nod of thanks.
    ‘I was plain Catherine Gow then, of course. I met Rab later, when he was already working in television. He was doing a play in Edinburgh. I bumped into him in the bar after a performance.’
    She was stirring her tea absent-mindedly. ‘I’m Cath Kinnoul now, Rab Kinnoul’s wife. Hardly anyone calls me Gowk any more.’
    ‘Gowk?’ Rebus thought he’d misheard. She looked up at him.
    ‘That was my nickname. We all had nicknames. Gregor was Beggar . . .’
    ‘And Ronald Steele was Suey.’
    She stopped stirring, and looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. ‘That’s right. But how . . .?’
    ‘It’s what his shop’s called,’ Rebus explained, this being the truth.
    ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Well, anyway, about these books . . .’
    Three things struck Rebus. One was that there seemed precious few books around, for someone who was supposedly a collector. The second was that he’d rather talk some more about Gregor Jack. The third was that Cath Kinnoul was on drugs, tranquillizers of some kind. It was taking a second too long for her lips to form each word, and her eyelids had a droop to them. Valium? Moggies even?
    ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the books.’ Then he looked around him. Any actor would have known it for a cheap effect. ‘Mr Kinnoul’s not at home just now?’
    She smiled. ‘Most people just call him Rab. They think if they’ve seen him on television, they know him, and knowing him gives them the right to call him Rab. Mr Kinnoul . . . I can see you’re a policeman.’ She almost wagged a finger at him, but thought better of it and drank her tea instead. Sheheld the delicate cup by its body rather than by the awkward handle, drained it absolutely dry, and exhaled.
    ‘Thirsty this morning,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, what were you saying?’
    ‘You were telling me about Gregor Jack.’
    She looked surprised. ‘Was I?’
    Rebus nodded.
    ‘Yes, that’s right, I read about it in the papers. Horrible things they were saying. About him and Liz.’
    ‘Mrs Jack?’
    ‘Liz, yes.’
    ‘What’s she like?’
    Cath Kinnoul seemed to shiver. She got up slowly and placed her empty cup on the tray. ‘More tea?’ Rebus shook his head. She poured milk, lots of sugar, and then a trickle of tea into her cup. ‘Thirsty,’ she said, ‘this morning.’ She went to the window, holding the cup in both hands. ‘Liz is her own woman. You’ve got to admire her for that. It can’t be easy, living with a man who’s in the public eye. He hardly sees her.’
    ‘He’s away a lot, you mean?’
    ‘Well, yes. But she’s away a lot, too. She has her own life, her own friends.’
    ‘Do you know her well?’
    ‘No, no, I wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t believe what we got up to at school. Who’d have thought . . .’ She touched the window. ‘Do you like the house, Inspector?’
    This was an unexpected turn in the conversation. ‘It’s . . . er, big, isn’t it?’ Rebus answered. ‘Plenty of room.’
    ‘Seven bedrooms,’ she said. ‘Rab bought it from some rock star. I don’t think he’d have bothered if it hadn’t been a
star
’s home. What do we need seven bedrooms for? There’s only the two of us . . . Oh, here’s Rab now.’
    Rebus came to the window. A Land-Rover was bumping up the driveway. There was a heavy figure in the front, hands clenching the wheel. The Land-Rover gave a squeal as it stopped.
    ‘About these books,’ said Rebus, suddenly an efficient official. ‘You collect books, I believe?’
    ‘Rare books, yes. First editions, mostly.’ Cath Kinnoul, too, was starting