Ian Rankin - Hide And Seek

‘Finlay Andrews!’ The shout echoed around the room, hanging emptily in air. Rebus hauled himself up into the boxing ring and looked around at the chairs. He could almost see the gleaming, gloating faces of the spectators. The canvas floor of the ring was pockmarked with brown stains, dried blood. It didn’t end here, of course. There were also the ‘guest bedrooms’, the locked doors behind which ‘private games’ were played. Yes, he could visualise the whole Sodom, held on the third Friday of the month, judging by James Carew’s diary. Boys brought back from Calton Hill to service the clients. On a table, in bed, wherever. And Ronnie had perhaps photographed it all. But Andrews had found out that Ronnie had some insurance, some photos stashed away. He couldn’t know, of course, that they were next to useless as weapons of blackmail or evidence. All he knew was that they existed.

So Ronnie had died.

Rebus climbed out of the ring and walked past one row of chairs. At the back of the hall, lurking in shadow, were two doors. He listened outside one, then outside the other. No sounds, yet he was sure…. He was about to open the door on the left, but something, some instinct, made him choose the right-hand door instead. He paused, turned the handle, pushed.

There was a light switch just inside the door. Rebus found it, and two delicate lamps either side of the bed came on. The bed was against the side wall. There wasn’t much else in the room, apart from two large mirrors, one against the wall opposite the bed, and one above the bed. The door clicked shut behind Rebus as he walked over to the bed. Sometimes he had been accused by his superiors of having a vivid imagination. Right now, he shut his imagination out altogether. Stick to the facts, John. The fact of the bed, the fact of the mirrors. The door clicked again. He leapt forwards and yanked at the handle, but it was fast, the door locked tight.

‘Shit!’ He stood back and kicked out, hitting the belly of the door with the heel of his shoe. The door trembled, but held. His shoe did not, the heel flapping off. Great, bang went his deposit on the dress hire. Hold on though, think it through. Someone had locked the door, therefore someone was down here with him, and the only other place they could have been hiding was the other room, the room next to this. He turned again and studied the mirror opposite the bed.

‘Andrews!’ he yelled to the mirror. ‘Andrews!’

The voice was muffled by the wall, sounding distant, but still lucid.

‘Hello, Inspector Rebus. Nice to see you.’

Rebus almost smiled, but managed to hide it.

‘I wish I could say the same.’ He stared into the mirror, visualising Andrews standing directly behind it, watching him. ‘A nice idea,’ he said, making conversation, needing time to gather his strength and his thoughts. ‘People screwing in one room, while everyone else is free to watch through a two-way mirror.’

‘Free to watch?’ The voice seemed closer. ‘No, not free, Inspector. Everything costs.’

‘I suppose you set the camera up in there too, did you?’

‘Photographed and framed. Framed being quite apt under the circumstances, don’t you think?’

‘Blackmail.’ It was an observation, nothing more.

‘Favours merely. Often given without question. But a photograph can be a useful tool when favours are being withheld.’

‘That’s why James Carew committed suicide?’

‘Oh no. That was your doing really, Inspector. James told me you’d recognised him. He thought you might be able to follow your nose from him back to Hyde’s.’

‘You killed him?’

‘We killed him, John. Which is a pity. I liked James. He was a good friend.’

‘Well, you have lots of friends, don’t you?’

There was laughter now, but the voice was level, elegiac almost. ‘Yes, I suppose they’d have a job finding a judge to try me, an advocate to prosecute me, fifteen good men and true to stand as jury. They’ve all been to Hyde’s. All of them. Looking for a game with just a little more edge than those played upstairs. I got the idea from a friend in London. He runs a similar establishment, though perhaps with a less sharp edge than Hyde’s. There’s a lot of new money in Edinburgh, John. Money for all. Would you like money? Would you like a sharper edge to your life? Don’t tell me you’re happy in your little flat, with your music and your books and your bottles of wine.’ Rebus’s face showed surprise. ‘Yes, I know quite a bit about you, John. Information is my edge.’ Andrews’ voice fell. ‘There’s a membership available here if you want it, John. I think maybe you do want it. After all, membership has its privileges.’

Rebus leaned his head against the mirror. His voice was a near whisper.

‘Your fees are too high.’

‘What’s that?’ Andrews’ voice seemed closer than ever, his breathing almost audible. Rebus’s voice was still a whisper.

‘I said your fees are too high.’

Suddenly, he pulled back an arm, made a fist, and pushed straight through the mirror, shattering it. Another trick from his SAS training. Don’t punch at something; always punch through, even if it’s a brick wall you’re attacking. Glass splintered around him, digging into the sleeve of his jacket, seeking flesh. His fist uncurled, became a claw. Just through the mirror, he found Andrews’ throat, clamped it, and hauled the man forward. Andrews was shrieking. Glass was in his face, flakes of it in his hair, his mouth, prickling his eyes. Rebus held him close, teeth gritted.

‘I said,’ he hissed, ‘your fees are too high.’ Then he brought his other hand into a fresh new fist and placed a blow on Andrews’ chin, releasing him so that the unconscious figure fell back into the room.

Rebus pulled off the useless shoe and tapped away the shards of glass which still clung around the edges of the frame. Then, carefully, he hauled himself through into the room, went to the door, and opened it.

He saw Tracy immediately. She was standing hesitantly in the middle of the boxing ring, arms hanging by her sides.

‘Tracy?’ he said.

‘She may not hear you, Inspector Rebus. Heroin can do that, you know.’

Rebus watched as Malcolm Lanyon stepped out from the shadows. Behind him were two men. One was tall, well built for a man of his mature years. He had thick black eyebrows and a thick moustache tinged with silver. His eyes were deep-set, his whole face louring. He was the most Calvinist-looking thing Rebus had ever seen. The other man was stouter, less justified in his sinning. His hair was curly but thinning, his face scarred like a knuckle, a labourer’s face. He was leering.

Rebus stared at Tracy again. Her eyes were like pinpoints. He went to the ring and climbed in, hugging her to him. Her body was totally compliant, her hair damp with sweat. She might have been a life-sized rag doll for all the impetus in her limbs. But when Rebus held her face so that she had to look back at him, her eyes glimmered, and he felt her body twitch.

‘My edge,’ Lanyon was saying. ‘It seems I needed it.’ He glanced towards the room where Andrews was lying unconscious. ‘Finlay said he could handle you himself. Having seen you last night, I doubted that.’ He beckoned to one of the men. ‘See if Finlay’s going to be all right.’ The man headed off. Rebus liked the way the odds were going.

‘Would you care to step into my office and talk?’ he said.

Lanyon considered this, saw that Rebus was a strong man, but that he had his hands full with the girl. Also, of course, Lanyon had his men, while Rebus was alone. He walked to the ring, grabbed onto a rope, and hauled himself up and in. Now, face to face with Rebus, he saw the cuts on Rebus’s arm and hand.