Ian Rankin - Hide And Seek

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?’