Ian Rankin - Hide And Seek

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.