Hide And Seek

Friday

Someone was knocking on his door. An authoritarian knock, using the old brass knocker that he never cleaned. Rebus opened his eyes. The sun was streaming into his living room, a record’s run-out track crackling. Another night spent in the chair, fully clothed. He’d be as well selling the mattress in the bedroom. Would anyone buy a mattress without a bed-frame?

Knockity knock knock again. Still patient. Still waiting for him to answer. His eyes were gummy, and he pushed his shirt back into his trousers as he walked from the living room to the door. He felt not too bad, considering. Not stiff, no tightness in the neck. A wash and a shave, and he might even feel human.

He opened the door, just as Holmes was about to knock again.

‘Brian.’ Rebus sounded genuinely pleased.

‘Morning. Mind if I come in?’

‘Not at all. Is Nell okay?’

‘I phoned this morning. They say she had a good night.’

They were walking in the direction of the kitchen, Rebus leading. Holmes had imagined the flat would smell of beer and cigarettes, a typical bachelor pad. In fact, it was tidier than he’d expected, furnished with a modicum of taste. There were a lot of books. Rebus had never struck him as a reader. Mind you, not all the books looked as though they’d been read: bought with a rainy, dead weekend in mind. The weekend that never came.

Rebus pointed vaguely in the direction of kettle and cupboards.

‘Make us some coffee, will you? I’ll just take a quick shower.’

‘Right.’ Holmes thought that his news could probably wait. At least until Rebus was fully awake. He sought in vain for instant coffee, but found, in one cupboard, a vacuum pack of ground coffee, several months past its sell-by date. He opened it and spooned some into the teapot while the kettle was boiling. Sounds of running water came from the bathroom, and above these the tinny sound of a transistor radio. Voices. Some talk show, Holmes supposed.

While Rebus was in the bathroom, he took the opportunity to wander through the flat. The living room was huge, with a high corniced ceiling. Holmes felt a pang of jealousy. He’d never be able to buy a place like this. He was looking around Easter Road and Gorgie, near the football grounds of Hibs and Hearts respectively. He could afford a flat in both these parts of the city, a decent-sized flat, too, three bedrooms. But the rooms were small, the areas mean. He was no snob. Hell, yes he was. He wanted to live in the New Town, in Dean Village, here in Marchmont, where students philosophised in pretty coffee shops.

He wasn’t overcareful with the stylus when he lifted the arm off the record. The record itself was by some jazz combo. It looked old, and he sought in vain for its sleeve. The noises from the bathroom had stopped. He walked stealthily back to the kitchen and found a tea strainer in the cutlery drawer. So he was able to keep the grounds out of the coffee he now poured into two mugs. Rebus came in, wrapped in a bath-towel, rubbing at his head with another, smaller towel. He needed to lose weight, or to exercise what weight he had. His chest was beginning to hang, pale like a carcass.

He picked up a mug and sipped.

‘Mmm. The real McCoy.’

‘I found it in the cupboard. No milk though.’

‘Never mind. This is fine. You say you found it in the cupboard? We might make a detective of you yet. I’ll just put on some togs.’ And he was off again, for only two minutes this time. The clothes he came back wearing were clean, but unironed. Holmes noticed that though there was plumbing in the kitchen for a washing machine, there was no machine. Rebus seemed to read his mind.

‘My wife took it when she moved out. Took a lot of stuff. That’s why the place looks so bare.’

‘It doesn’t look bare. It looks planned.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Let’s go into the living room.’

Rebus motioned for Holmes to sit, then sat down himself. The chair was still warm from his night’s sleep. ‘I see you’ve already been in here.’

Holmes looked surprised. Caught. He remembered that he’d lifted the stylus off the record.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘That’s what I like to see,’ Rebus said. ‘Yes, we’ll make a detective of you yet, Brian.’

Holmes wasn’t sure whether Rebus was being flattering or condescending. He let it go.

‘Something I thought you might like to know,’ he began.

‘I already know,’ said Rebus. ‘Sorry to spoil the surprise, but I was at the station late last night, and somebody told me.’

‘Last night?’ Holmes was confused. ‘But they only found the body this morning.’

‘The body? You mean he’s dead?’

‘Yes. Suicide.’

‘Jesus, poor Gill.’

‘Gill?’

‘Gill Templer. She was going out with him.’

‘Inspector Templer?’ Holmes was shocked. ‘I thought she was living with that disc jockey?’

Now Rebus was confused. ‘Isn’t that who we’re talking about?’

‘No,’ said Holmes. The surprise was still intact. He felt real relief.

‘So who are we talking about?’ asked Rebus with a growing sense of dread. ‘Who’s committed suicide?’

‘James Carew.’

‘Carew?’

‘Yes. Found him in his flat this morning. Overdose apparently.’

‘Overdose of what?’

‘I don’t know. Some kind of pills.’

Rebus was stunned. He recalled the look on Carew’s face that night atop Calton Hill.

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wanted a word with him.’

‘I was wondering …’ said Holmes.

‘What?’

‘I don’t suppose you ever got round to asking him about getting me a flat?’

‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘I never got the chance.’

‘I was only joking,’ Holmes said, realising that Rebus had taken his comment literally. ‘Was he a friend? I mean, I know you met him for lunch, but I didn’t realise — ’

‘Did he leave a note?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well who would know?’

Holmes thought for a second. ‘I think Inspector McCall was at the scene.’

‘Right, come on.’ Rebus was up on his feet.

‘What about your coffee?’

‘Sod the coffee. I want to see Tony McCall.’

‘What was all that about Calum McCallum?’ said Holmes, rising now.

‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ Holmes shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

And then Rebus was on the move, grabbing jacket, getting out his keys to lock the front door. Holmes wondered what the secret was. What had Calum McCallum done? God, he hated people who hung on to secrets.

Rebus read the note as he stood in Carew’s bedroom. It was elegantly written with a proper nib pen, but in one or two of the words fear could be clearly read, the letters trembling uncontrollably, scribbled out to be tried again. Good-quality writing paper too, thick and watermarked. The V₁₂ was in a garage behind the flat. The flat itself was stunning, a museum for art deco pieces, modern art prints, and valuable first editions, locked behind glass.

This is the flipside of Vanderhyde’s home, Rebus had thought as he moved through the flat. Then McCall had handed him the suicide note.

‘If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.’ Was that a quote from somewhere? Certainly, it was a bit prolix for a suicide note. But then Carew would have gone through draft upon draft until satisfied. It had to be exact, had to stand as his monument. ‘Some day you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this.’ Not that Rebus needed to seek too hard. He had the queasy feeling, reading the note, that Carew’s words were directed straight at him, that he was saying things only Rebus could fully understand.

‘Funny sort of note to leave behind,’ said McCall.

‘Yes,’ said Rebus.

‘You met him recently, didn’t you?’ said McCall. ‘I remember you saying. Did he seem okay then? I mean, he wasn’t depressed or anything?’

‘I’ve seen him since then.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was sniffing around Calton Hill a couple of nights back. He was there in his car.’

‘Ah-ha.’ McCall nodded. Everything was starting to make a little bit of sense.

Rebus handed back the note and went over to the bed. The sheets were rumpled. Three empty pill bottles stood in a neat line on the bedside table. On the floor lay an empty cognac bottle.

‘The man went out in style,’ McCall said, pocketing the note. ‘He’d gone through a couple of bottles of wine before that.’

‘Yes, I saw them in the living room. Lafite sixty-one. The stuff of a very ‘special occasion’.

‘They don’t come more special, John.’

Both men turned as a third presence became evident in the room. It was Farmer Watson, breathing heavily from the effort of the stairs.

‘This is bloody awkward,’ he said. ‘One of the linchpins of our campaign tops himself, and by taking a bloody overdose. How’s that going to look, eh?’

‘Awkward, sir,’ replied Rebus, ‘just as you say.’

‘I do say. I do say.’ Watson thrust a finger out towards Rebus. ‘It’s up to you, John, to make sure the media don’t make a meal of this, or of us.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Watson looked over towards the bed. ‘Waste of a bloody decent man. What makes someone do it? I mean, look at this place. And there’s an estate somewhere on one of the islands. Own business. Expensive car. Things we can only dream about. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right.’ Watson took a last glance towards the bed, then slapped a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘I’m depending on you, John.’

‘Yes, sir.’

McCall and Rebus watched their superior go.

‘Bloody hell!’ whispered McCall. ‘He didn’t look at me, not once. I might as well have not been there.’

‘You should thank your lucky stars, Tony. I wish I had your gift of invisibility.’

Both men smiled. ‘Seen enough?’ McCall asked.

‘Just one more circuit,’ said Rebus. ‘Then I’ll get out of your hair.’

‘Whatever you say, John. Just one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘What the hell were you doing up Calton Hill in the middle of the night?’

‘Don’t ask,’ said Rebus, blowing a kiss as he headed for the living area.

It would be big news locally, of course. There was no getting away from the fact. The radio stations and newspapers would have trouble deciding which headline deserved most prominence: Disc Jockey Arrested at Illegal Dog Fight or Suicide Shock of Estate Agent Giant. Well, something along those lines. Jim Stevens would have loved it, but then Jim Stevens was in London and married, by all accounts, to some girl half his age.

Rebus admired that kind of dangerous move. He had no admiration for James Carew: none. Watson was right in at least one respect: Carew had everything going for him, and Rebus was finding it difficult to believe that he would commit suicide solely because he had been spotted by a police officer on Calton Hill. No, that might have been the trigger, but there had to be something more. Something, perhaps, in the flat, or in the offices of Bowyer Carew on George Street.

James Carew owned a lot of books. A quick examination showed that they were for the most part expensive, impressive titles, but unread, their spines crackling as they were opened by Rebus for the first time. The top right hand section of the bookcase held several titles which interested him more than the others. Books by Genet and Alexander Trocchi, copies of Forster’s Maurice and even Last Exit to Brooklyn. Poems by Walt Whitman, the text of Torchlight Trilogy. A mixed bag of predominantly gay reading. Nothing wrong in that. But their positioning in the bookshelves — right at the top and separated from the other titles — suggested to Rebus that here was a man ashamed of himself. There was no reason for this, not these days….

Who was he kidding? AIDS had squeezed homosexuality back into the darker comers of society, and by keeping the truth a secret Carew had laid himself open to feelings of shame, and, therefore, to blackmail of all kinds.

Yes, blackmail. Suicides were occasionally victims of blackmail who could see no way out of their dilemma. Just maybe there would be some evidence, a letter or a note or something. Anything. Just so Rebus could prove to himself he wasn’t completely paranoid.

Then he found it.

In a drawer. A locked drawer, to be sure, but the keys were in Carew’s trousers. He had died in his pyjamas, and his other clothes had not been taken away with the corpse. Rebus got the keys from the bedroom and headed back to the desk in the living room. A gorgeous writing desk, antique for sure: its surface was barely large enough to accommodate a sheet of A₄ paper and an elbow. What had been once a useful piece of furniture now found itself an ornament in a rich man’s apartment. Rebus opened the drawer carefully and drew out a leather-bound desk diary. A page a day, the pages large. Not a diary for appointments, not locked away in darkness like that. A personal diary then. Eagerly, Rebus flipped it open. His disappointment was immediate. The pages were blank for the most part. A line or two of pencil per page was as much as there was.

Rebus cursed.

All right, John. It’s better than nothing. He rested at one of the pages with some writing on it. The pencil marking was faint, neatly written. ‘Jerry, 4pm’. A simple appointment. Rebus flipped to the day on which they had all met for lunch at The Eyrie. The page was blank. Good. That meant the appointments weren’t of the business lunch variety. There weren’t many of them. Rebus felt sure that Carew’s diary at his office would be crammed. This was a much more private affair.

‘Lindsay, 6.30.’

‘Marks, IIam.’ An early start that day, and what about that name: two individuals, each named Mark? Or one individual whose surname was Marks? Maybe even the department store …? The other names — Jerry, Lindsay — were androgynous, anonymous. He needed a telephone number, a location.

He turned another page. And had to look twice at what was written there. His finger ran along the letters.

‘Hyde, Iopm.’

Hyde. What had Ronnie said to Tracy the night he’d died? Hide, he’s after me? Yes, and James had given him the name, too: not hide but H-y-d-e.

Hyde!

Rebus whooped. Here was a connection, no matter how tenuous. A connection between Ronnie and James Carew. Something more than a fleeting business transaction on Calton Hill. A name. He hurried through the other pages. There were three more mentions of Hyde, always in the late evening (when Calton Hill was starting its trade), always on a Friday. Sometimes the second Friday of the month, sometimes the third. Four mentions in the course of six months.

‘Anything?’ It was McCall, leaning over Rebus’s shoulder for a peek.

‘Yes,’ Rebus said. Then he changed his mind. ‘No, not really, Tony. Just an old diary, but the bugger wasn’t much of a writer.’

McCall nodded and moved away. He was more interested in the hi-fi system.

‘The old guy had taste,’ McCall said, scrutinising it. ‘Linn turntable. Know how much one of those costs, John? Hundreds. They’re not showy. They’re just bloody good at what they do.’

‘A bit like us then,’ said Rebus. He was thinking of pushing the diary into his trousers. It wasn’t allowed, he knew. And what good would it do him? But with Tony McCall’s back turned so conveniently…. No, no, he couldn’t. He threw it noisily back into its drawer, shut the drawer again and locked it. He handed the key to McCall, who was still squatting in front of the hi-fi.

‘Thanks, John. Nice piece of equipment this, you know.’

‘I didn’t know you were interested in all that stuff’.

‘Since I was a kid. Had to get rid of my system when we got married. Too noisy.’ He straightened. ‘Are we going to find any answers here, do you think?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I think he kept all his secrets in his head. He was a very private man, after all. No, I think he’s taken the answers with him to the grave.’

‘Oh, well. Makes it nice and clear-cut then, doesn’t it?’

‘Clear as crystal, Tony,’ said Rebus.

What was it the old man, Vanderhyde, had said? Something about muddying the water. Rebus had the gnawing feeling that the solution to these many conundrums was a simple one, as crystal clear as one could wish. The problem was that extraneous stories were being woven into the whole. Do I mix my metaphors? Very well then, I mix my metaphors. All that counted was getting to the bottom of the pool, muddied or no, and bringing up that tiny cache of treasure called the truth.

He knew, too, that the problem was one of classification. He had to break the interlinked stories into separate threads, and work from those. At the moment, he was guilty of trying to weave them all into a pattern, a pattern that might not be there. By separating them all, maybe he’d be in with a chance of solving each.

Ronnie committed suicide. So did Carew. That gave them a second thing in common to add to the name of Hyde. Some client of Carew’s perhaps? Buying a substantial piece of property with money made through the dealing of hard drugs? That would be a link, for sure. Hyde. The name couldn’t be real. How many Hydes were there in the Edinburgh directory? It could always be an assumed name. Male prostitutes seldom used their own names, after all. Hyde. Jekyll and Hyde. Another coincidence: Rebus had been reading Stevenson’s book the night Tracy had visited. Maybe he should be looking for someone called Jekyll? Jekyll, the respectable doctor, admired by society; Hyde, his alter ego, small and brutish, a creature of the night. He remembered the shadowy forms he’d encountered by Calton Hill…. Could the answer be so obvious?

He parked in the only vacant bay left outside Great London Road station and climbed the familiar steps. They seemed to grow larger with the passing years, and he could swear there were more of them now than there had been when he’d first come to this place, all of — what was it? — six years ago? That wasn’t so long in the span of a man’s life, was it? So why did it feel so bloody Sisyphean?

‘Hello, Jack,’ he said to the desk sergeant, who watched him walk past without the usual nod of the head. Strange, Rebus thought. Jack had never been a cheery bugger, but he’d usually had the use of his neck muscles. He was famous for his slight bow of the head, which he could make mean anything from approbation to insult.

But today, for Rebus, nothing.

Rebus decided to ignore the slight, and went upstairs. Two constables, in the act of coming down, fell quiet as they passed him. Rebus began to redden, but kept walking, sure now that he had forgotten to zip his fly, or had somehow contrived to get a smudge on his nose. Something like that. He’d check in the privacy of his office.

Holmes was waiting for him, seated in Rebus’s chair, at Rebus’s desk, some property details spread across the tabletop. He began to rise as Rebus entered, gathering together the sheets of paper like a kid caught with a dirty book.

‘Hello, Brian.’ Rebus took off his jacket, hanging it on the back of the door. ‘Listen, I want you to get me the names and addresses of all Edinburgh inhabitants whose names are Jekyll or Hyde. I know that may sound daft, but just do it. Then — ’

‘I think you should sit down, sir,’ said Holmes tremulously. Rebus stared at him, saw the fear in the young man’s eyes, and knew that the worst had happened.

Rebus pushed open the door of the interview room. His face was the colour of pickled beetroot, and Holmes, following, feared that his superior was about to suffer a coronary. There were two CID men in the room, both in their shirtsleeves as though after a hard session. They turned at Rebus’s entrance, and the one who was seated rose as if for combat. On the other side of the table, the weasel-faced teenager known to Rebus as ‘James’ actually squealed, and flew to his feet, knocking the chair with a clatter onto the stone floor.

‘Don’t let him near me!’ he yelled.

‘Now, John — ’ started one detective, a Sergeant Dick. Rebus held up a hand to show that he was not here to cause violence. The detectives eyed one another, not sure whether to believe him. Then Rebus spoke, his eyes on the teenager.

‘You’re going to get what’s coming to you, so help me.’ There was calm, lucid anger in Rebus’s voice. ‘I’m going to have you by your balls for this, son. You better believe that. Really, you better.’

The teenager saw now that the others would restrain Rebus, that the man himself presented an empty physical threat. He sneered.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said dismissively. Rebus lurched forward, but Holmes’s hand was rigid against his shoulder, pulling him back.

‘Leave it be, John,’ the other detective, DC Cooper, cautioned. ‘Just let the wheels grind round. It won’t take long.’

‘Too long though,’ Rebus hissed, as Holmes pulled him out of the room, closing the door after them. Rebus stood in the shadowy corridor, all rage spent, head bowed. It was so very hard to believe….

‘Inspector Rebus!’

Rebus and Holmes both jerked their heads towards the voice. It belonged to a WPC. She looked scared, too.

‘Yes?’ Rebus managed, swallowing.

‘The Super wants to see you in his office. I think it’s urgent.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Rebus, walking towards her with such menace that she retreated hurriedly, back towards the reception area and daylight.

‘It’s a bloody set-up, with all due respect, sir.’

Remember the golden rule, John, Rebus thought to himself: never swear at a superior without adding that ‘with all due respect’. It was something he’d learned in the Army. As long as you added that coda, the brass couldn’t have you for insubordination.

‘John.’ Watson interlaced his fingers, studying them as if they were the latest craze. ‘John, we’ve got to investigate it. That’s our duty. I know it’s daft, and everyone else knows it’s daft, but we’ve got to show that it’s daft. That’s our duty.’

‘All the same, sir — ’

Watson cut him off with a wave of his hand. Then started twining fingers again.

‘God knows, you’re already “suspended” from duty as it is, until our little campaign gets into full swing.’

‘Yes, sir, but this is just what he wants.’

‘He?’

‘Some man called Hyde. He wants me to stop poking about in the Ronnie McGrath case. That’s what this is all about. That’s why it’s a set-up job.’

‘That’s as maybe. The fact remains, a complaint has been made against you — ’

‘By that little bastard downstairs.’

‘He says you gave him money, twenty pounds, I believe.’

‘I did give him twenty quid, but not for a shag, for Chrissake!’

‘For what then?’

Rebus made to answer, but was defeated. Why had he handed the teenager called James that money? He’d set himself up, all right. Hyde couldn’t have done it better himself. And now James was downstairs, spilling his carefully rehearsed story to CID. And say what you liked, mud stuck. By Christ, it didn’t half. No amount of soap and water would clean it off. The little toerag.

‘This is playing right into Hyde’s hands, sir,’ Rebus tried: one last shot. ‘If his story’s true, why didn’t he come in yesterday? Why wait till today?’

But Watson was decided.

‘No, John. I want you out of here for a day or two. A week even. Take a break. Do whatever you like, but leave well alone. We’ll clear it up, don’t worry. We’ll break his story down into pieces so small he won’t be able to see them any more. One of those pieces will snap, and with it, his whole story. Don’t you worry.’

Rebus stared at Watson. What he said made sense; more than that, it was actually fairly subtle and shrewd. Maybe the Farmer wasn’t so agricultural in his ways after all. He sighed.

‘Whatever you say, sir.’

Watson nodded, smiling.

‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Remember that fellow Andrews, ran a club called Finlay’s?’

‘We had lunch with him, sir.’

‘That’s right. He’s invited me to apply for membership.’

‘Good for you, sir.’

‘Apparently the waiting list’s about a year long — all these rich Sassenachs coming north — but he said he could do a bit of pruning in my case. I told him not to bother. I seldom drink, and I certainly don’t gamble. Still, a nice gesture all the same. Maybe I should ask him to consider you in my place. That’d give you something to do with your time off, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus seemed to consider the suggestion. Booze and gambling: not a bad combination. His face brightened. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘That would be very kind of you.’

‘I’ll see what I can do then. One last thing.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Are you intending to go to Malcolm Lanyon’s party tonight? Remember, he invited us at The Eyrie?’

‘I’d forgotten all about it, sir. Would it be more … proper for me to stay away?’

‘Not at all. I may not manage along myself, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t attend. But not a word about….’ Watson nodded towards the door, and by implication to the interview room beyond.

‘Understood, sir. Thank you.’

‘Oh, and John?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Don’t swear at me. Ever. With respect or otherwise. Okay?’

Rebus felt his cheeks reddening, not in anger but in shame. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, making his exit.

Holmes was waiting impatiently in Rebus’s office.

‘What did he want then?’

‘Who?’ Rebus was supremely nonchalant. ‘Oh, Watson you mean? He wanted to tell me that he’s put my name forward for Finlay’s.’

‘Finlay’s Club?’ Holmes’ face was quizzical; this wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all.

‘That’s right. At my age, I think I deserve a club in town, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, and he also wanted to remind me about a party tonight at Malcolm Lanyon’s place.’

‘The lawyer?’

‘That’s him.’ Rebus had Holmes at a disadvantage, and knew it. ‘I hope you’ve been busy while I’ve been having a chinwag.’

‘Eh?’

‘Hydes and Jekylls, Brian. I asked you for addresses.’

‘I’ve got the list here. Not too long, thank the Lord. I suppose I’m going to be Shoeleather on this one?’

Rebus looked flabbergasted. ‘Not at all. You’ve got better things to be doing with your time. No, I think this time the shoeleather ought to be mine.’

‘But … with respect, shouldn’t you be keeping out of things?’

‘With respect, Brian, that’s none of your bloody business.’

From home, Rebus tried phoning Gill, but she couldn’t be reached. Keeping out of things, no doubt. She had been quiet during the drive home last night, and hadn’t invited him in. Fair enough, he supposed. He wasn’t about to take advantage…. So why was he trying to telephone her? Of course he was trying to take advantage! He wanted her back.

He tidied the living room, did some washing up, and took a binbag‘s-worth of dirty washing to the local laundrette for a service wash. The attendant, Mrs Mackay, was full of outrage about Calum McCallum.

‘Yon’s a celebrity and a’. They should ken better.’

Rebus smiled and nodded agreement.

Back in the flat, he sat down and picked up a book, knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep his mind on it. He didn’t want Hyde to win, and, kept away from the case, that’s exactly what would happen. He took the slip of paper from his pocket. There were no people with the surname Jekyll in the Lothians, and a scant dozen with the surname Hyde. At least, those were the ones he could be sure about. What if Hyde possessed an unlisted number? He’d get Brian Holmes to check the possibility.

He reached for the telephone and was halfway through the number before he realised he was calling Gill’s office. He punched in the rest of the number. What the hell, she wouldn’t be there anyway.

‘Hello?’

It was Gill Templer’s voice, sounding as unflappable as ever. Yes, but that sort of trick was easy by phone. All the oldest tricks were.

‘It’s John.’

‘Hello there. Thanks for the lift home.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, honestly. I just feel a bit … I don’t know, confused doesn’t seem to cover it. I feel as though I’ve been conned. That’s as near as I can get to an explanation.’

‘Are you going to see him?’

‘What? In Fife? No, I don’t think so. It’s not that I couldn’t face him. I want to see him. It’s the thought of walking into the station with everyone knowing who I was, why I was there.’

‘I’d go with you, Gill, if you wanted.’

‘Thanks, John. Maybe in a day or two. But not yet.’

‘Understood.’ He became aware that he was gripping the receiver too hard, that his fingers were hurting. God, this was hurting him all over. Did she have any inkling of his feelings right this minute? He was sure he couldn’t put them into words. The words hadn’t been coined. He felt so close to her, and yet so far away, like a schoolkid who’d lost his first girlfriend.

‘Thanks for phoning, John. I appreciate it. But I’d better be getting — ’

‘Oh, right, right you are. Well, you’ve got my number, Gill. Take care.’

‘Bye, J — ’

He broke the connection. Don’t crowd her, John, he was thinking. That’s how you lost her the first time. Don’t go making any assumptions. She doesn’t like that. Give her space. Maybe he had made a mistake phoning in the first place. Hell and damn.

With respect.

That little weasel called James. That little toerag. He’d rip his head from his shoulders when he got him. He wondered how much Hyde had paid the kid. Considerably more than two ten-pound notes, that was for sure.

The telephone rang.

‘Rebus here.’

‘John? It’s Gill again. I’ve just heard the news. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’ He affected indifference, knowing she’d see through it immediately.

‘About this complaint against you.’

‘Oh, that. Come on, Gill, you know this sort of thing happens from time to time.’

‘Yes, but why didn’t you say? Why did you let me prattle on like that?’

‘You weren’t prattling.’

‘Dammit!’ She was almost in tears now. ‘Why do you always have to try and hide things from me like that? What’s the matter with you?’

He was about to explain, when the line went dead. He stared at the receiver dumbly, wondering just why he hadn’t told her in the first place. Because she had worries of her own? Because he was embarrassed? Because he hadn’t wanted the pity of a vulnerable woman? There were reasons enough.

Weren’t there?

Of course there were. It was just that none of them seemed to make him feel any better. Why do you always have to try and hide things from me? There was that word again: hide. A verb, an action, and a noun, a place. And a person. Faceless, but Rebus was beginning to know him so well. The adversary was cunning, there was no doubting that. But he couldn’t hope to tie up all the loose threads the way he’d tied up Ronnie and Carew, the way he was trying to tie up John Rebus.

The telephone rang again.

‘Rebus here.’

‘It’s Superintendent Watson. I’m glad I caught you at home.’

Because, Rebus added silently, it means I’m not out on the street causing trouble for you.

‘Yes, sir. Any problem?’

‘Quite the reverse. They’re still questioning this male prostitute. Shouldn’t be too long now. But meantime, the reason I called is because I’ve been on to the casino.’

‘Casino, sir?’

‘You know, Finlay’s.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And they say that you’ll be welcome there anytime, should you wish to pop in. You’ve just to mention Finlay Andrews’ name, and that’s your ticket.’

‘Right, sir. Well, thanks for that.’

‘My pleasure, John. Shame you’re having to take it easy, what with this suicide business and all. The press are all over it, sniffing around for any little piece of dirt they can find. What a job, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘McCall’s fielding their questions. I just hope he doesn’t appear on the box. Not exactly photogenic, is he?’

Watson made this sound like Rebus’s fault, and Rebus was on the point of apologising when the Superintendent placed a hand over the mouthpiece at his end, while he had a few words with someone. And when he came on again it was to say a hasty goodbye.

‘Press conference apparently,’ he said. And that was that.

Rebus stared at the receiver for a full minute. If there were to be any more calls, let them come now. They didn’t. He threw the instrument onto the floor, where it landed heavily. Secretly, he was hoping to break it one of these days, so he could go back to an old-style handset. But the blasted thing seemed tougher than it looked.

He was opening the book when the door-knocker sounded. Tappity tap tap. A business call then, and not Mrs Cochrane wondering why he hadn’t washed the communal stairwell yet.

It was Brian Holmes.

‘Can I come in?’

‘I suppose so.’ Rebus felt no real enthusiasm, but left the door open for the young detective to follow him through to the living room if he so desired. He so desired, following Rebus with mock heartiness.

‘I was just looking at a flat near Tollcross, and thought I’d — ’

‘Skip the excuses, Brian. You’re checking up on me. Sit down and tell me what’s been happening in my absence.’ Rebus checked his watch while Holmes seated himself. ‘An absence, for the record, of just under two hours.’

‘Ach, I was concerned, that’s all.’

Rebus stared at him. Simple, direct, and to the point. Maybe Rebus could learn something from Holmes after all.

‘It’s not Farmer’s orders then?’

‘Not at all. And as it happens, I did have a flat to look at.’

‘What was it like?’

‘Ghastly beyond speech. Cooker in the living room, shower in a wee cupboard. No bath, no kitchen.’

‘How much did they want for it? No, on second thoughts don’t tell me. It would just depress me.’

‘It certainly depressed me.’

‘You can always make an offer on this place when they throw me inside for corrupting a minor.’

Holmes looked up, saw that Rebus was smiling, and gave a relieved grin.

‘The guy’s story’s already coming apart at the seams.’

‘Did you ever doubt it?’

‘Of course not. Anyway, I thought these might cheer you up.’ Holmes brandished a large manilla envelope, which had been discreetly tucked inside his cord jacket. Rebus hadn’t seen this cord jacket before, and supposed it to be the Detective Constable’s flat-buying uniform.

‘What are they?’ said Rebus, accepting the packet.

‘Pics. Last night’s raid. Thought you might be interested.’

Rebus opened the envelope and withdrew a set of ten-by-eight black and whites. They showed the more or less blurred shapes of men scrambling across waste ground. What light there was had about it a halogen starkness, sending up huge black shadows and capturing some faces in chalky states of shock and surprise.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘That DS Hendry sent them across with a note sympathising over Nell. He thought these might cheer me up.’

‘I told you he was a good bloke. Any idea which one of these goons is the DJ?’

Holmes leapt from his seat and crouched beside Rebus, who was holding a photograph at the ready.

‘No,’ Holmes said, ‘there’s a better shot of him.’ He thumbed through the set until he found the picture he was looking for. ‘Here we are. That one there. That’s McCallum.’

Rebus studied the fuzzy semblance before him. The look of fear, so distinct against the blurred face, could have been drawn by a child. Wide eyes and a mouth puckered into an ‘O’, arms suspended as though between rapid flight and final surrender.

Rebus smiled a smile that reached all the way up to his eyes.

‘You’re sure this is him?’

‘One of the PCs at the station recognised him. He said he once got McCallum to sign an autograph for him.’

‘I’m impressed. Shouldn’t think he’ll be signing too many more though. Where are they holding him?’

‘Everybody they arrested has gone to Dunfermline nick’.

‘That’s nice for them. By the by, did they nab the ringleaders?’

‘Each and every one. Including Brightman. He was the boss.’

‘Davy Brightman? The scrappie?’

‘That’s him.’

‘I played against that bugger at football a couple of times when I was at school. He played left back for his team when I was on the wing for ours. He gave me a good studding one match.’

‘Revenge is sweet,’ said Holmes.

‘It is that, Brian.’ Rebus was studying the photograph again. ‘It is that.’

‘Actually, a couple of the punters did scarper apparently, but they’re all on film. The camera never lies, eh, sir?’

Rebus began to sift through the other pictures. ‘A powerful tool, the camera,’ he said. His face suddenly changed.

‘Sir? Are you all right?’

Rebus’s voice was reduced to a whisper. ‘I’ve just had a revelation, Brian. A whatsit …? epiphany, is it?’

‘No idea, sir.’ Holmes was sure now that something inside his superior had snapped.

‘Epiphany, yes. I know where this has all been leading, Brian. I’m sure of it. That bastard on Calton Hill said something about pictures, some pictures everybody was interested in. They’re Ronnie’s pictures.’

‘What? The ones in his bedroom?’

‘No, not those.’

‘The ones at Hutton’s studio then?’

‘Not quite. No, I don’t know exactly where these particular pictures are, but I’ve got a bloody good idea. “Hide” can be a noun, Brian. Come on.’

‘Where?’ Holmes watched as Rebus sprang from his chair, heading for the door. He started to collect the photographs, which Rebus had let fall from his hands.

‘Never mind those,’ Rebus ordered, slipping on a jacket.

‘But where the hell are we going?’

‘You just answered your own question,’ Rebus said, turning back to grin at Holmes. ‘That’s exactly where we’re going.’

‘But where?’

‘To hell, of course. Come on.’

It was turning cold. The sun had just about tired itself out, and was retiring from the contest. The clouds were sticking-plaster pink. Two great final sunbeams shone down like torchlight upon Pilmuir, and picked out just the one building, leaving the other houses in the street untouched. Rebus sucked in breath. He had to admit, it was quite a sight.

‘Like the stable at Bethlehem,’ said Holmes.

‘A damned queer stable,’ Rebus retorted. ‘God’s got a funny sense of humour if this is His idea of a joke.’

‘You did say we were going to hell.’

‘I wasn’t expecting Cecil B. DeMille to be in on it though. What’s going on there?’

Almost hidden by the day’s last gasp of sunlight, a van and a hire skip were parked directly in front of Ronnie’s house.

‘The council?’ Holmes suggested. ‘Probably cleaning the place up.’

‘Why, in God’s name?’

‘There’s plenty that need housing,’ Holmes replied. Rebus wasn’t listening. As the car pulled to a stop, he was out and walking briskly towards the skip. It was filling up with the detritus of the squat’s interior. There were sounds of hammering from within. In the back of the van, a workman supped from a plastic cup, his thermos clutched in his other hand.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ Rebus demanded.

The workman blew on the contents of his cup, then took another swig before replying. ‘Me, I suppose.’ His eyes were wary. He could smell authority a mile off. ‘This is a legitimate tea-break.’

‘Never mind that. What’s going on?’

‘Who wants to know.’

‘CID wants to know.’

He looked hard at Rebus’s harder face, and made up his mind instantly. ‘Well, we got word to come and clean this place up. Make it habitable.’

‘On whose orders?’

‘I don’t know. Somebody’s. We just take the chitty and go do the job.’

‘Right.’ Rebus had turned from the man and was walking up the path to the front door. Holmes, having smiled apologetically at the foreman, followed. In the living room, two workmen in overalls and thick red rubber gloves were whitewashing the walls. Charlie’s pentagram had already been covered, its outline barely visible through the drying layer of paint. The men looked towards Rebus, then to the wall.

‘We’ll cover it up next coat,’ said one. ‘Don’t worry yourself about that.’

Rebus stared at the man, then marched past Holmes out of the room. He started to climb the stairs, and turned into Ronnie’s bedroom. Another workman, much younger than the two downstairs, was gathering Ronnie’s few belongings together into a large black plastic bag. As Rebus entered the room, the boy was caught, frozen, stuffing one of the paperbacks into the pocket of his overalls.

Rebus pointed to the book.

‘There’s a next of kin, son. Put it in the bag with the rest.’

Something about his tone persuaded the teenager to obey.

‘Come across anything else interesting?’ Rebus asked now, hands in pockets, approaching the teenager.

‘Nothing,’ the boy said, guiltily.

‘In particular,’ Rebus went on, as though the teenager had not spoken, ‘photographs. Maybe just a few, maybe a whole packet. Hmm?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘Right. Get down to the van and bring up a crowbar or something. I want these floorboards up.’

‘Eh?’

‘You heard me, son. Do it.’

Holmes just stood and watched in silent appreciation. Rebus seemed to have grown in physical stature, becoming broader, taller. Holmes couldn’t quite fathom the trick: maybe it had something to do with the hands in the pockets, the way the elbows jarred outwards, lending apparent substance to the frame. Whatever it was, it worked. The young workman stumbled out of the door and down the stairs.

‘You’re sure they’ll be here?’ said Holmes quietly. He tried to keep his tone level, not wishing to sound too sceptical. But Rebus was way past that stage. In Rebus’s mind, the photographs were already in his hand.

‘I’m certain, Brian. I can smell them.’

‘You’re sure that’s not just the bathroom?’

Rebus turned and looked at him, as though seeing him for the very first time. ‘You might have a point, Brian. You just might.’

Holmes followed Rebus to the bathroom. As Rebus kicked open the door, the stench embraced both men, arching them forward in a convulsive fit of gagging. Rebus brought a handkerchief from his pocket, pushed it to his face, and leaned towards the door handle, pulling the door shut again.

‘I’d forgotten about that place,’ he said. Then: ‘Wait here.’

He returned with the foreman, a plastic dustbin, a shovel, and three small white face-masks, one of which he handed to Holmes. An elasticated band held the cardboard snout in place, and Holmes breathed deeply, testing the apparatus. He was just about to say something about the smell still being noticeable, when Rebus toed open the door again, and, as the foreman angled an industrial lamp into the bathroom, walked over the threshold.

Rebus pulled the dustbin to the rim of the bath and left it there, gesturing for the lamp to be shone into the bath itself. Holmes nearly fell backwards out of the room. A fat rat, caught in the act of feasting upon the rotten contents of the bath, squealed, red eyes burning directly into the light. Rebus swung the shovel down and cut the animal in two neat halves. Holmes spun from the room and, lifting the mask, retched against the damp wall. He tried taking gulps of air, but the smell was overpowering, the nausea returning in quickening floods.

Back inside the room, the foreman and Rebus exchanged a smile which wrinkled their eyes above the face-masks. They had seen worse than this — much worse — in their time. Then, neither man naive enough to want to linger, they set to work, the foreman holding the lamp while Rebus shovelled the contents of the bath slowly into the dustbin. The mess of raw sewage ran slickly from the shovel, spattering Rebus’s shirt and trousers. He ignored it, ignored everything but the task at hand. He had done dirtier jobs in the Army, dirtier jobs by far during his failed training in the SAS. This was routine. And at least here there was some purpose to the task, some end in view.

Or so he hoped.

Holmes meantime was wiping his moist eyes with the back of his hand. Through the open door he could see the progress being made, eerie shadows cast across the wall and ceiling by the lamp, as one silhouette shovelled shit into a bin, filling it noisily. It was like a scene from some latter-day Inferno, lacking only the devils to goad the damned workers on. But these men looked, if not happy in their work, then at least … well, professional sprang to mind. Dear God, all he wanted was a flat to call his own, and the occasional holiday, and a decent car. And Nell, of course. This would make a funny story for her one day.

But the last thing he felt like doing was smiling.

Then he heard the cackle of laughter, and, looking around him, it took several moments to realise that it was coming from the bathroom, that it was John Rebus’s laugh, and that Rebus was dipping his hand into the mess, drawing it out again with something clinging to it. Holmes didn’t even notice the thick rubberised gloves which protected Rebus up to his elbows. He simply turned and walked downstairs on brittle legs.

‘Got you!’ Rebus cried.

‘There’s a hose outside,’ the foreman said.

‘Lead on,’ said Rebus, shaking the packet free of some of its clots. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

‘The name’s MacBeth,’ the foreman called back, heading for the stairway.

In the cool, fresh air, they hosed down the package, standing it up against the front wall of the house as they did so. Rebus peered at it closely. A red plastic bag, like the carrier from a record shop, had been wrapped around some cloth, a shirt or the like. The whole had been stuck down with a roll’s worth of sellotape, then tied with string, knotted resolutely in the middle.

‘Clever little tyke, weren’t you, Ronnie?’ Rebus said to himself as he picked up the package. ‘Cleverer than they could ever have thought.’

At the van, he threw down the rubber gloves, shook the foreman’s hand, and exchanged the names of local watering holes with him, making promises of a drink, a nippy sweetie some night in the future. Then he headed for the car, Holmes following sheepishly. All the way back to Rebus’s flat, Holmes didn’t once dare to suggest that they open a window and let in some fresh air.

Rebus was like a child on a birthday morning who has just found his surprise. He clutched the parcel to him, staining his shirt even more, yet seemed loath to open it. Now that he possessed it, he could forestall the revelation. It would happen; that was all that mattered.

When they arrived at the flat, however, Rebus’s mood changed again, and he dashed to the kitchen for some scissors. Holmes meantime made his excuses and went to the bathroom, scrubbing his hands, bared arms, and face thoroughly. His scalp itched, and he wished he could throw himself into the shower and stand beneath it for an hour or two.

As he was coming out of the bathroom, he heard the sound from the kitchen. It was the antithesis of the laughter he had heard earlier, a kind of exasperated wail. He walked quickly to the kitchen, and saw Rebus standing there, head bowed, hands held out against the worktop as though supporting himself. The packet was open in front of him.

‘John? What’s wrong?’

Rebus’s voice was soft, suddenly tired. ‘They’re just pictures of a bloody boxing match. That’s all they are. Just bloody sports photos.’

Holmes came forward slowly, fearing noise and movement might crack Rebus completely.

‘Maybe,’ he suggested, peering over Rebus’s slumped shoulder, ‘maybe there’s somebody in the crowd. In the audience. This Hyde could be one of the spectators.’

‘The spectators are just a blur. Take a look.’

Holmes did. There were twelve or so photographs. Two featherweights, no love lost, were slugging it out. There was nothing subtle about the contest, but nothing unusual about it either.

‘Maybe it’s Hyde’s boxing club.’

‘Maybe,’ said Rebus, not really caring any more. He had been so sure that he would find the pictures, and so sure that they would prove the final, clinching piece of the puzzle. Why were they hidden away so carefully, so cunningly? And so well protected. There had to be a reason.

‘Maybe,’ said Holmes, who was becoming irritating again, ‘maybe there’s something we’re missing. The cloth they’re wrapped in, the envelope …?’

‘Don’t be so bloody thick, Holmes!’ Rebus slammed a hand against the worktop, and immediately calmed. ‘Sorry. Jesus, sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ Holmes said coldly. ‘I’ll make some coffee or something. Then why don’t we take a good look at those snaps? Eh?’

‘Yes,’ Rebus said, pushing himself upright. ‘Good idea.’ He headed towards the door. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ He turned and smiled at Holmes. ‘I must stink to high heaven.’

‘A very agricultural smell, sir,’ Holmes said, smiling also. They laughed at the shared reference to Farmer Watson. Then Rebus went to have his shower, and Holmes made the coffee, jealous of the sounds from the bathroom. He took another look at the photographs, a close look, hoping for something, something he could use to impress Rebus with, to cheer Rebus up just a little.

The boxers were young, photographed from ringside or near as dammit. But the photographer — Ronnie McGrath presumably — hadn’t used a flash, depending instead upon the smoky lights above the ring. Consequently, neither boxers nor audience were recognisable as distinct individuals. Their faces were grainy, the outlines of the combatants themselves blurred with sluggish movement. Why hadn’t the photographer used a flash?

In one photo, the right-hand side of the frame was dark, cut off at an angle by something getting in the way of the lens. What? A passing spectator? Somebody’s jacket?

It struck Holmes with sudden clarity: the photographer’s jacket had got in the way, and it had done so because the photos were being taken surreptitiously, from beneath a jacket. This would explain the poor quality of the photos, and the uneven angles of most of them. So there had to be a reason for them, and they had to be the clue Rebus was seeking. All they had to do now was discover just what kind of clue.

The shower became a drip, then died altogether. A few moments later, Rebus appeared clad only in a towel, holding it around his gut as he went to the bedroom to change. He was balancing with one foot poised above a trouser leg when Holmes burst in, waving the photographs.

‘I think I’ve got it!’ he exclaimed. Rebus looked up, surprised, then slipped on the trousers.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve worked it out, too. It came to me just now in the shower.’

‘Oh.’

‘So fetch us a coffee,’ said Rebus, ‘and let’s go into the living room and see if we’ve worked out the same thing. Okay?’

‘Right,’ said Holmes, wondering again why it was that he’d joined the police when there were so many more rewarding careers out there to be had.

When he arrived in the living room, carrying the two mugs of coffee, Rebus was pacing up and down, his telephone handset wedged against his ear.

‘Right,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll wait. No, no, I won’t call back. I said I’ll wait. Thank you.’

Taking the coffee from Holmes, he rolled his eyes, exhibiting disbelief at the stupidity of the person on the other end of the telephone.

‘Who is it?’ Holmes mouthed silently.

‘The council,’ said Rebus aloud. ‘I got a name and an extension number from Andrew.’

‘Who’s Andrew?’

‘Andrew MacBeth, the foreman. I want to find out who authorised the cleaning out of ’the house. A bit of a coincidence that, don’t you think? Cleaning it out just as we were about to do a bit of poking around.’ He turned his attention to the handset. ‘Yes? That’s right. Oh, I see.’ He looked at Holmes, his eyes betraying nothing. ‘How might that have happened?’ He listened again. ‘Yes, I see. Oh yes, I agree, it does seem a bit curious. Still, these things happen, eh? Roll on computerisation. Thanks for your help anyway.’

He pressed a button, kiling the connection. ‘You probably caught the gist of that.’

‘They’ve no record of who authorised the clear-out?’

‘Quite so, Brian. The documentation is all in order, but for the little matter of a signature. They can’t understand it.’

‘Any handwriting to go on?’

‘The chitty Andrew showed me was typed.’

‘So, what are you saying?’

‘That Mr Hyde seems to have friends everywhere. In the council, for starters, but probably in the police, too. Not to mention several less savoury institutions.’

‘What now?’

‘Those pictures. What else is there to go on?’

They studied each frame closely, taking their time, pointing out this or that blur or detail, trying ideas out on one another. It was a painstaking business. And throughout Rebus was muttering to himself about Ronnie McGrath’s final words to Tracy, about how they had been the key throughout. The triple meaning: make yourself scarce, beware a man called Hyde, and I’ve hidden something away. So clever. So compact. Almost too clever for Ronnie. Maybe the meanings had been there without his realising it himself….

At the end of ninety minutes, Rebus threw the final photograph down onto the floor. Holmes was half lying along the settee, rubbing his forehead with one hand as he held up one of the pictures in the other, his eyes refusing to focus any longer.

‘It’s no use, Brian. No use at all. I can’t make sense out of any of them, can you?’

‘Not a lot,’ Holmes admitted. ‘But I take it Hyde wanted — wants — these pictures badly.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning he knows they exist, but he doesn’t know how crude they are. He thinks they show something they don’t.’

‘Yes, but what? I’ll tell you something, Ronnie McGrath had bruises on his body the night he died.’

‘Not surprising when you remember that someone dragged his body down the stairs.’

‘No, he was already dead then. This was before. His brother noticed, Tracy noticed, but nobody ever asked. Somebody said something to me about rough trade.’ He pointed towards the scattering of snapshots. ‘Maybe this is what they meant.’

‘A boxing match?’

‘An illegal bout. Two unmatched kids knocking blue hell out of one another.’

‘For what?’

Rebus stared at the wall, looking for the word he lacked. Then he turned to Holmes.

‘The same reason men set up dog fights. For kicks.’

‘It all sounds incredible.’

‘Maybe it is incredible. The way my mind is just now, I could believe bombers have been found on the moon.’ He stretched. ‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly eight. Aren’t you supposed to be going to Malcolm Lanyon’s party?’

‘Jesus!’ Rebus sprang to his feet. ‘I’m late. I forgot all about it.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to get ready. There’s not much we can do about this.’ Holmes gestured towards the photographs. ‘I should visit Nell anyway.’

‘Yes, yes, off you go, Brian.’ Rebus paused. ‘And thanks.’

Holmes smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

‘One thing,’ Rebus began.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t have a clean jacket. Can I borrow yours?’

It wasn’t a great fit, the sleeves being slightly too long, the chest too small, but it wasn’t bad either. Rebus tried to seem casual about it all as he stood on Malcolm Lanyon’s doorstep. The door was opened by the same stunning Oriental who had been by Lanyon’s side at The Eyrie. She was dressed in a low-cut black dress which barely reached down to her upper thighs. She smiled at Rebus, recognising him, or at least pretending to do so.

‘Come in.’

‘I hope I’m not late.’

‘Not at all. Malcolm’s parties aren’t run by the clock. People come and go as they please.’ Her voice had a cool but not unpleasant edge to it. Looking past her, Rebus was relieved to see several male guests wearing lounge suits, and some wearing sports jackets. Lanyon’s personal (Rebus wondered just how personal) assistant led him into the dining room, where a barman stood behind a table laden with bottles and glasses.

The doorbell rang again. Fingers touched Rebus’s shoulder. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ said Rebus. He turned towards the barman. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he said. Then he turned again to watch her pass through the large hallway towards the main door.

‘Hello, John.’ A much firmer hand slapped Rebus’s shoulder. It belonged to Tommy McCall.

‘Hello, Tommy.’ Rebus accepted a drink from the barman, and McCall handed over his own empty glass for a refill.

‘Glad you could make it. Of course, it’s not quite as lively as usual tonight. Everyone’s a bit subdued.’

‘Subdued?’ It was true, the conversations around them were muted. Then Rebus noticed a few black ties.

‘I only came along because I thought James would have wanted it that way.’

‘Of course,’ Rebus said, nodding. He’d forgotten all about James Carew’s suicide. Christ, it had only happened this morning! It seemed like a lifetime ago. And all these people had been Carew’s friends or acquaintances. Rebus’s nostrils twitched.

‘Had he seemed depressed lately?’ he asked.

‘Not especially. He’d just bought himself that car, remember. Hardly the act of a depressed man!’

‘I suppose not. Did you know him well?’

‘I don’t think any of us knew him well. He kept himself pretty much to himself. And of course he spent a lot of time away from town, sometimes on business, sometimes staying on his estate.’

‘He wasn’t married, was he?’

Tommy McCall stared at him, then took a large mouthful of whisky. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe he ever was. It’s a blessing in a way.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ said Rebus, feeling the gin easing itself into his system. ‘But I still don’t understand why he would do it.’

‘It’s always the quiet ones though, isn’t it? Malcolm was just saying that a few minutes ago.’

Rebus looked around them. ‘I haven’t seen our host yet.’

‘I think he’s in the lounge. Shall I give you the tour?’

‘Yes, why not?’

‘It’s quite a place.’ McCall turned to Rebus. ‘Shall we start upstairs in the billiards room, or downstairs at the swimming pool?’

Rebus laughed and shook his empty glass. ‘I think the first place to visit is the bar, don’t you?’

The house was stunning, there was no other word for it. Rebus thought briefly of poor Brian Holmes, and smiled. You and me both, kid. The guests were nice, too. He recognised some of them by face, some by name, a few by reputation, and many by the titles of the companies they headed. But of the host there was no sign, though everyone claimed to have spoken with him ‘earlier in the evening’.

Later, as Tommy McCall was becoming noisy and inebriated, Rebus, by no means on his steadiest legs himself, decided on another tour of the house. But alone this time. There was a library on the first floor, which had received cursory attention on the first circuit. But there was a working desk in there, and Rebus was keen to take a closer look. On the landing, he glanced around him, but everyone seemed to be downstairs. A few guests had even donned swimsuits, and were lounging by (or in) the twenty-foot-long heated pool in the basement.

He turned the heavy brass handle and slipped into the dimly lit library. In here there was a smell of old leather, a smell which took Rebus back to past decades — the ‘twenties, say, or perhaps the ’thirties. There was a lamp on the desktop, illuminating some papers there. Rebus was at the desk before he realised something: the lamp had not been lit on his first visit here. He turned and saw Lanyon, standing against the far wall with his arms folded, grinning.

‘Inspector,’ he said, his voice as rich as his tailoring. ‘What an interesting jacket that is. Saiko told me you’d arrived.’

Lanyon walked forward slowly and extended a hand, which Rebus took. He returned the firm grip.

‘I hope I’m not …’ he began. ‘I mean, it was kind of you….’

‘Good lord, not at all. Is the Superintendent coming?’

Rebus shrugged his shoulders, feeling the jacket tight across his back.

‘No, well, never mind. I see that like me you are a studious man.’ Lanyon surveyed the shelves of books. ‘This is my favourite room in the whole house. I don’t know why I bother holding parties. It is expected, I suppose, and that’s why I do it. Also of course it is interesting to note the various permutations, who’s talking with whom, whose hand just happened to squeeze whose arm a touch too tenderly. That sort of thing.’

‘You won’t see much from here,’ Rebus said.

‘But Saiko tells me. She’s marvellous at catching that sort of thing, no matter how subtle people think they are being. For example, she told me about your jacket. Beige, she said, cord, neither matching the rest of your wardrobe nor quite fitting your figure. Therefore borrowed, am I right?’

Rebus applauded silently. ‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘I suppose that’s what makes you such a good lawyer.’

‘No, years and years of study are what have made me a good lawyer. But to be a known lawyer, well, that demands a few simple party tricks, such as the one I’ve just shown you.’

Lanyon walked past Rebus and stopped at the writing desk. He sifted through the papers.

‘Was there anything special you were interested in?’

‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘Just this room.’

Lanyon glanced towards him, smiling, not quite believing. ‘There are more interesting rooms in the house, but I keep those locked.’

‘Oh?’

‘One doesn’t want everyone to know just what paintings one has collected for example.’

‘Yes, I see.’

Lanyon sat at the desk now, and slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses. He seemed interested in the papers before him.

‘I’m James Carew’s executor,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to sort out, who will benefit from his will.’

‘A terrible business.’

Lanyon seemed not to understand. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, yes, tragic.’

‘I take it you were close to him?’

Lanyon smiled again, as though he knew this same question had been asked of several people at the party already. ‘I knew him fairly well,’ he said at last.

‘Did you know he was homosexual?’

Rebus had been hoping for a response. There was none, and he cursed having played his trump card so soon in the game.

‘Of course,’ Lanyon said in the same level voice. He turned towards Rebus. ‘I don’t believe it’s a crime.’

‘That all depends, sir, as you should know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As a lawyer, you must know that there are still certain laws….’

‘Yes, yes, of course. But I hope you’re not suggesting that James was involved in anything sordid.’

‘Why do you think he killed himself, Mr Lanyon? I’d appreciate your professional opinion.’

‘He was a friend. Professional opinions don’t count.’ Lanyon stared at the heavy curtains in front of his desk. ‘I don’t know why he committed suicide. I’m not sure we’ll ever know.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on that, sir,’ said Rebus, going to the door. He stopped, hand on the handle. ‘I’d be interested to know who will benefit from the estate, when you’ve worked it all out of course.’

Lanyon was silent. Rebus opened the door, closed it behind him, and paused on the landing, breathing deeply. Not a bad performance, he thought to himself. At the very least it was worthy of a drink. And this time he would toast — in silence — the memory of James Carew.

Nursemaid was not his favourite occupation, but he’d known all along that it would come to this.

Tommy McCall was singing a rugby song in the back of the car, while Rebus waved a hasty goodbye to Saiko, who was standing on the doorstep. She even managed a smile. Well, after all he was doing her a favour in quietly removing the loud drunkard from the premises.

‘Am I under arrest, John?’ McCall yelled, interrupting his song.

‘No, now shut up, for Christ’s sake!’

Rebus got into the car and started the engine. He glanced back one last time and saw Lanyon join Saiko on the doorstep. She seemed to be filling him in on events, and he was nodding. It was the first Rebus had seen of him since their confrontation in the library. He released the handbrake, pulled out of the parking space, and drove off.

‘Left here, then next right.’

Tommy McCall had had too much to drink, but his sense of direction seemed unimpaired. Yet Rebus had a strange feeling….

‘Along to the end of this road, and it’s the last house on the corner.’

‘But this isn’t where you live,’ Rebus protested.

‘Quite correct, Inspector. This is where my brother lives. I thought we’d drop in for a nightcap.’

‘Jesus, Tommy, you can’t just — ’

‘Rubbish. He’ll be delighted to see us.’

As Rebus pulled up in front of the house, he looked out of his side window and was relieved to see that Tony McCall’s living room was still illuminated. Suddenly, Tommy’s hand thrust past him and pushed down on the horn, sending a loud blare into the silent night. Rebus pushed the hand away, and Tommy fell back into his seat, but he’d done enough. The curtains twitched in the McCall living room, and a moment later a door to the side of the house opened and Tony McCall came out, glancing back nervously. Rebus wound down the window.

‘John?’ Tony McCall seemed anxious. ‘What’s the matter?’

But before Rebus could explain, Tommy was out of the car and hugging his brother.

‘It’s my fault, Tony. All mine. I just wanted to see you, that’s all. Sorry though, sorry.’

Tony McCall took the situation in, glanced towards Rebus as if to say I don’t blame you, then turned to his brother.

‘Well, this is very thoughtful of you, Tommy. Long time no see. You’d better come in.’

Tommy McCall turned to Rebus. ‘See? I told you there’d be a welcome waiting for us at Tony’s house. Always a welcome at Tony’s.’

‘You’d better come in, too, John,’ said Tony.

Rebus nodded unhappily.

Tony directed them through the hall and into the living room. The carpet was thick and yielding underfoot, the furnishings looking like a showroom display. Rebus was afraid to sit, for fear of denting one of the puffed-up cushions. Tommy, however, collapsed immediately into a chair.

‘Where’s the wee ones?’ he said.

‘In bed,’ Tony answered, keeping his voice low.

‘Ach, wake them up then. Tell them their Uncle Tommy’s here.’

Tony ignored this. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said.

Tommy’s eyes were already closing, his arms slumped either side of him on the arms of the chair. While Tony was in the kitchen, Rebus studied the room. There were ornaments everywhere: along the length of the mantelpiece, covering the available surfaces of the large wall-unit, arranged on the surface of the coffee table. Small plaster figurines, shimmering glass creations, holiday souvenirs. The arms and backs of chairs and sofa were protected by antimacassars. The whole room was busy and ill at ease. Relaxation would be almost impossible. He began to understand now why Tony McCall had been out walking in Pilmuir on his day off.

A woman’s head peered round the door. Its lips were thin and straight, eyes alert but dark. She was staring at the slumbering figure of Tommy McCall, but caught sight of Rebus and prepared a kind of smile. The door opened a little wider, showing that she was wearing a dressing gown. A hand clutched this tight around her throat as she began to speak.

‘I’m Sheila, Tony’s wife.’

‘Yes, hello, John Rebus.’ Rebus made to stand, but a nervous hand fluttered him back down.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘Tony’s talked about you. You work together, don’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yes.’ Her attention was wandering, and she turned her gaze back to Tommy McCall. Her voice became like damp wallpaper. ‘Would you look at him. The successful brother. His own business, big house. Just look at him.’ She seemed about to launch into a speech on social injustice, but was interrupted by her husband, who was now squeezing past her carrying a tray.

‘No need for you to get up, love,’ he said.

‘I could hardly sleep through that horn blaring, could I?’ Her eyes now were on the tray. ‘You’ve forgotten the sugar,’ she said critically.

‘I don’t take sugar,’ Rebus said. Tony was pouring tea from the pot into two cups.

‘Milk first, Tony, then tea,’ she said, ignoring Rebus’s remark.

‘It doesn’t make a blind bit of difference, Sheila,’ said Tony. He handed a cup to Rebus.

‘Thanks.’

She stood for a second or two watching the two men, then ran a hand down the front of her dressing gown.

‘Right then,’ she ‘said. ‘Good night.’

‘Good night,’ concurred Rebus.

‘Try not to be too long, Tony.’

‘Right, Sheila.’

They listened, sipping tea, as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Then Tony McCall exhaled.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

‘What for?’ said Rebus. ‘If a couple of drunks had walked into my home at this time of night, you wouldn’t want to hear the reception I’d give them! I thought she stayed remarkably calm.’

‘Sheila’s always remarkably calm. On the outside.’

Rebus nodded towards Tommy. ‘What about him?’

‘He’ll be all right where he is. Let him sleep it off.’

‘Are you sure? I can take him home if you — ’

‘No, no. Christ, he’s my brother. I think a chair for the night is called for.’ Tony looked across towards Tommy. ‘Look at him. You wouldn’t believe the tricks we got up to when we were kids. We had the neighbourhood terrified of what we’d do next. Chap-Door-Run, setting bonfires, putting the football through somebody’s window. We were wild, I can tell you. Now I never see him unless he’s like this.’

‘You mean he’s pulled this stunt before?’

‘Once or twice. Turns up in a taxi, crashes out in the chair. When he wakes up the next morning, he can’t believe where he is. Has breakfast, slips the kids a few quid, and he’s off. Never phones or visits. Then one night we hear the taxi chugging outside, and there he is.’

‘I didn’t realise.’

‘Ach, I don’t know why I’m telling you, John. It’s not your problem, after all.’

‘I don’t mind listening.’

But Tony McCall seemed reluctant to go further. ‘How do you like this room?’ he asked instead.

‘It’s nice,’ Rebus lied. ‘A lot of thought’s gone into it.’

‘Yes.’ McCall sounded unconvinced. ‘A lot of money, too. See those little glass bauble things? You wouldn’t believe how much one of those can cost.’

‘Really?’

McCall was examining the room as though he were the visitor. ‘Welcome to my life,’ he said at last. ‘I think I’d rather have one of the cells down the station.’ He got up suddenly and walked across to Tommy’s chair, then crouched down in front of his brother, one of whose eyes was open but glazed with sleep. ‘You bugger,’ Tony McCall whispered. ‘You bugger, you bugger.’ And he bowed his head so as not to show the tears.

It was growing light as Rebus drove the four miles back to Marchmont. He stopped at an all night bakery and bought warm rolls and refrigerated milk. This was the time when he liked the city best, the peaceful camaraderie of early morning. He wondered why people couldn’t be happy with their lot. I’ve got everything I’ve never wanted and it isn’t enough. All he wanted now was sleep, and in his bed for a change rather than on the chair. He kept playing the scene over and over: Tommy McCall dead to the world, saliva on his chin, and Tony McCall crouched in front of him, body shaking with emotion. A brother was a terrible thing. He was a lifelong competitor, yet you couldn’t hate him without hating yourself. And there were other pictures too: Malcolm Lanyon in his study, Saiko standing at the door, James Carew dead in his bed, Nell Stapleton’s bruised face, Ronnie McGrath’s battered torso, old Vanderhyde with his unseeing eyes, the fear in Calum McCallum’s eyes, Tracy with her tiny fists….

If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.

Carew had stolen that line from somewhere … but where? Who cares, John, who cares? It would just be another bloody thread, and there were far too many of those already, knotted into an impenetrable tangle. Get home, sleep, forget.

One thing was for sure: he’d have some wild dreams.