Ian Rankin - Hide And Seek

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.