Strip Jack (Inspector Rebus, No. 4) (Inspector Rebus Novels)
Gregor Jack has it all: young, wealthy, and charming, he's a highly respected member of Parliament, with a beautiful wife--and a closet bursting with skeletons. When he's caught in a police raid on an Edinburgh brothel, his house of cards begins to topple. Enter Detective John Rebus: he smells a set-up. When Jack's flamboyant wife Elizabeth disappears, Rebus uncovers a full-house of orgies, drunken parties, an incestuous "Pack" of deceitful chums...and ultimately Elizabeth's badly beaten body. Now Rebus is on a new quest--to find a killer who holds all the cards.
Strip Jack is a stellar entry in Ian Rankin's series, which The New York Times calls "A superior series."
Nell . . .’ More laughter. ‘If you see what I mean.’ ‘Sure,’ said Holmes, ‘on you go. I don’t feel so bad. I might watch a video or something. See you in the morning.’ ‘Mind you don’t keep me awake,’ said Rebus with a wink. In fact, meltdown at the Torness reactor couldn’t have kept him awake. His dreams were full of pastoral scenes, skin-divers, kittens, and last-minute goals. But when he opened his eyes there was a dark shadowy figure looming over him. He pushed himself up on his elbows. It
they? Like they knew exactly who or what might be walking out of the door and down the steps. Holmes was staring at him now. ‘What are you thinking?’ Rebus asked. ‘Nothing. No, nothing at all . . . yet. Not our business, is it? And besides, this is Sunday.’ ‘You’re a sly bugger, Brian Holmes.’ ‘I’ve got a good tutor, haven’t I?’ Nell came into the room carrying two plates, filled with glistening fried food. Rebus’s stomach pleaded with its owner not to do anything rash, anything he would
Inside the flat, the atmosphere managed to be both chill and stale. A coffee mug beside the telephone resembled Glasgow insofar as it, too, was a city of culture, an interesting green and white culture. But if the living room was growing mould, surely the kitchen would be worse. Rebus sat himself down in his favourite chair, stretched for the answering machine, and settled to listen to his calls. There weren’t many. Gill Templer, wondering where he was keeping himself these days . . . as if she
head was beginning to birl again. He suggested they have some coffee. Three plastic cups were brought, with sugar and a plate containing four digestive biscuits. Corbie seemed relaxed in the hard-back chair, one leg slung over the other, and smoking yet another cigarette. So far Knox had eaten all the biscuits . . . ‘Right,’ said Rebus, ‘now what about the microwave . . .?’ The microwave was easy. The microwave was more treasure, again found by the side of the road. ‘You don’t expect us to
relatives’ houses, of attics and the insides of school desks. The aisles were narrow. Hardly enough room to swing a . . . There was a thump somewhere behind him, and he feared one of the books had fallen, but when he turned he saw that it was the cat. It swerved past him and made for the desk situated to the rear of the shop, the desk with a bare lightbulb dangling above it. ‘Anything in particular you’re looking for?’ She was seated at the desk, a pile of books in front of her. She held a