Strip Jack Read Free Page B

constituency.’
    The MP raised his eyes more in sorrow than in anger.
    ‘This is a mistake,’ he said. ‘A terrible mistake.’
    ‘Just doing a bit of canvassing, eh, sir?’
    The woman had begun to laugh, head still resting on her hand. The red lamplight seemed to fill her gaping mouth. Gregor Jack looked for a moment as though he might be about to throw a punch in her general direction. Instead he tried a slap with his open hand, but succeeded only in catching her arm, so that her head fell back on to the pillow. She was still laughing, almost girl-like. She lifted her legs high into the air, the bedcovers falling away. Her hands thumped the mattress with glee. Jack had risen to his feet and was scratching nervously at one finger.
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ Rebus said again. Then: ‘Come on, let’s get you downstairs.’
    Not the Farmer. The Farmer might go to pieces. Lauderdale then. Rebus approached with as much humility as he could muster.
    ‘Sir, we’ve got a bit of a problem.’
    ‘I know. It must have been that bugger Watson. Wantedhis moment of glory captured. He’s always been keen on publicity, you should know that.’ Was that a sneer on Lauderdale’s face? With his gaunt figure and bloodless face, he reminded Rebus of a painting he’d once seen of some Calvinists or Seceders . . . some grim bunch like that. Ready to burn anyone who came to hand. Rebus kept his distance, all the time shaking his head.
    ‘I’m not sure I –’
    ‘The bloody papers are here,’ hissed Lauderdale. ‘Quick off the mark, eh? Even for our friends in the press. Bloody Watson must have tipped them off. He’s out there now. I tried to stop him.’
    Rebus went to one of the windows and peeped out. Sure enough, there were three or four reporters gathered at the bottom of the steps up to the front door. Watson had finished his spiel and was answering a couple of questions, at the same time retreating slowly back up the steps.
    ‘Oh dear,’ Rebus said, admiring his own sense of understatement. ‘That only makes it worse.’
    ‘Makes what worse?’
    So Rebus told him. And was rewarded with the biggest smile he’d ever seen flit across Lauderdale’s face.
    ‘Well, well, who’s been a naughty boy then? But I still don’t see the problem.’
    Rebus shrugged. ‘Well, sir, it’s just that it doesn’t do anyone any good.’ Outside, the vans were arriving. Two to take the women to the station, two to take the men. The men would be asked a few questions, names and addresses taken, then released. The women . . . well, that was another thing entirely. There would be charges. Rebus’s colleague Gill Templer would call it another sign of the phallocentric society, something like that. She’d never been the same since she’d got her hands on those psychology books . . .
    ‘Nonsense,’ Lauderdale was saying. ‘He’s only got himself to blame. What do you want us to do? Sneak him out the back door with a blanket over his head?’
    ‘No, sir, it’s just –’
    ‘He gets treated the same as the rest of them, Inspector. You know the score.’
    ‘Yes, sir, but –’
    ‘But what?’
    But what? Well, that was the question. What? Why was Rebus feeling so uncomfortable? The answer was complicatedly simple: because it
was
Gregor Jack. Most MPs, Rebus wouldn’t have given the time of day. But Gregor Jack was . . . well, he was
Gregor Jack
.
    ‘Vans are here, Inspector. Let’s round ’em up and ship ’em out.’
    Lauderdale’s hand on his back was cold and firm.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Rebus.
    So it was out into the cool dark night, lit by orange sodium lights, the glare of headlamps, and the dimmer light from open doors and twitching windows. The natives were restless. Some had come out on to their doorsteps, wrapped in paisley dressing gowns or wearing hastily found clothes, not quite hanging right.
    Police, natives, and of course the reporters. Flash-guns. Christ, there were photographers too, of course. No camera crews, no