Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

But someone had. Rebus knew which cutting he’d last read, and it was no longer on top of the pile. Instead, it had migrated south three or four layers. Maybe Jack... no, he didn’t think Jack had been snooping.

But someone had. Someone most definitely had.

By the time Jack got back, Rebus had changed into jeans and a gaudy T-shirt bearing the legend DANCING PIGS. A couple of woolly suits had been round to inspect the damage and scribble some notes. They gave Rebus a reference number. His insurers would want it.

Rebus had already moved some of the furniture out of the living room into the hall, and placed a ground-sheet over everything else. The other sheet went on the carpet. He lifted the fishing-boat painting off the wall.

‘I like that,’ Jack said.

‘Rhona gave it to me, the first birthday I had after we were married. Bought it at a craft fair, thought it’d remind me of Fife.’ He was studying the painting and shaking his head.

‘I take it it didn’t?’

‘I come from west Fife — mining villages, rough — not the East Neuk.’ All fishing creels, tourists and retirement homes. ‘I don’t think she ever understood.’ He took the painting through to the hall.

‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Jack said.

‘And on police time. Which would you rather do, paint the walls, strip the door, or fit the lock?’

‘Paint.’ With his blue boilersuit on, Jack looked the part. Rebus handed him the roller, then reached under the sheet to put the hi-fi on. Stones, Exile on Main Street . Just right. The two of them got to work.

They took a break and walked up Marchmont Road, buying groceries. Jack kept his boilersuit on, said he felt like he was undercover. He had a smudge of paint on his face, but didn’t bother wiping it off. He was enjoying himself. He’d sung along to the music, even though he didn’t always know the words. They bought junk food mostly, carbohydrate, but added four apples and a couple of bananas. Jack asked if Rebus was going to buy any beer. Rebus shook his head, chose Irn-Bru and bricks of orange juice instead.

‘What’s all this in aid of?’ Jack asked as they sauntered home.

‘Clearing the mind,’ Rebus answered, ‘giving me time to think... I don’t know. Maybe I’m thinking of selling.’

‘Selling the flat?’

Rebus nodded.

‘And doing what exactly?’

‘Well, I could buy a round-the-world ticket, couldn’t I? Take off for six months. Or stick the money in the bank and live off the interest.’ He paused. ‘Or maybe buy myself a place outside town.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Somewhere by the sea.’

‘That’d be nice.’

‘Nice?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I just fancy a change.’

‘Right next to the beach?’

‘Could be a cliff-top, who knows?’

‘What’s brought this on?’

Rebus thought about it. ‘My home doesn’t feel like my castle any longer.’

‘Yes, but we bought all the painting stuff before the break-in.’

Rebus didn’t have an answer to that.

They worked the rest of the afternoon, windows open to let out the paint fumes.

‘Am I supposed to sleep in here tonight?’ Jack asked.

‘The spare room,’ Rebus told him.

The phone rang at half past five. Rebus got to it just as the answering machine cut in.

‘Hello?’

‘John, it’s Brian. Siobhan told me you were back.’

‘Well, she should know. How are you?’

‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Me, too.’

‘You’re not pick of the week with DCI Ancram.’

Jack Morton started to take an interest in the call.

‘Maybe not, but he’s not my boss.’

‘He has pull, though.’

‘So let him pull.’

‘Brian, I know what you’re up to. I want to talk to you about it. Can we come round there?’

‘We?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Maybe I could come see you.’

‘This place is a building site. We’ll be there in about an hour, all right?’

Holmes hesitated, then said that would be fine.

‘Brian, this is Jack Morton, an old friend of mine. He’s with Falkirk CID, currently seconded to DI John Rebus.’

Jack winked at Brian. He’d washed the paint off his face and hands. ‘What he means is, I’m supposed to keep him out of trouble.’

‘UN Peacekeeper, eh? Well, come in.’

Brian Holmes had spent the hour tidying the living room. He saw Rebus’s appraisal.

‘Just don’t go into the kitchen — looks like an Apache raiding party’s ridden through.’

Rebus smiled and sat on the sofa, Jack next to him. Brian asked if they wanted anything to drink. Rebus shook his head.

‘Brian, I’ve told Jack a wee bit about what’s happened. He’s a good man, we can speak in front of him. OK?’

Rebus was taking a calculated risk, hoping the afternoon’s bonding had worked. If not, at least they’d made progress on the room: three walls with first coats, and half of one side of the door stripped. Plus a new lock on the door.

Brian Holmes nodded and sat down on a chair. There were photos of Nell on top of the gas fire. It looked like they’d been newly framed and placed there: a makeshift shrine.

‘Is she at her mum’s?’ Rebus asked.

Brian nodded. ‘But mostly working late shifts at the library.’

‘Any chance she’s coming back?’

‘I don’t know.’ Brian made to bite a fingernail, discovered there was nothing there to bite.

‘I’m not sure this is the answer.’

‘What?’

‘You can’t make yourself resign, so you’re going to let Ancram kick you out: not cooperating, acting the mule.’

‘I had a good teacher.’

Rebus smiled. It was true, after all. He’d had Lawson Geddes; and Brian had had him.

‘This happened to me once before,’ Brian went on. ‘At school, I had this really good friend, and we were going to go to university together, only he’d decided to go to Stirling, so I said I’d go there, too. But my first choice had been Edinburgh, and to knock Edinburgh’s offer on the head I had to fail Higher German.’

‘And?’

‘And I sat in the exam hall... knowing if I just sat there and didn’t answer any of the questions, that would be it.’

‘But you answered them?’

Brian smiled. ‘Couldn’t help myself. I got a C pass.’

‘Same problem now,’ Rebus said. ‘If you go this way, you’ll always regret it, because in your heart you don’t want to leave. You like what you’re doing. And beating yourself up about it...’

‘What about beating other people up?’ Brian looked straight at him as he asked the question. Mental Minto, sporting bruises.

‘You lost the head once.’ Rebus held up a finger for emphasis. ‘It was once too often, but you got away with it. I don’t think you’ll do that to anyone ever again.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Holmes turned to Jack Morton. ‘I had this suspect in the biscuit-tin, I gave him a smack.’

Jack nodded: Rebus had told him all about it. ‘I’ve been there myself, Brian,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, it’s never come to blows, but I’ve been close. I’ve skinned my knuckles on a few walls.’

Holmes held up ten fingers: scrapes all across them.

‘See,’ Rebus said, ‘like I say, you’re beating yourself up. Mental’s got a few marks, but they’ll fade.’ He tapped his head. ‘But when the bruises are in here...’

‘I want Nell back.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘But I want to be a copper.’

‘You’ve got to make both those clear to her.’

‘Christ.’ Brian rubbed his face. ‘I’ve tried explaining it...’