Ian Rankin - Hide And Seek

‘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?’