Hide And Seek ir-2

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus smiled now, as he had smiled then. She had guts, that one. He rather liked her, her face taped, eyes blackened. She reminded him a lot of Gill.

  So, Tracy was leaving a silvery snail’s trail of chaos by which to follow her. Little bitch. Had she simply flipped, or was there a real motive for her trip to the University Library? Rebus leaned against the wall of the corridor. God, what a day. He was supposed to be between cases. Supposed to be ‘tidying things up’ before starting full time on the drugs campaign. He was supposed, for the sake of Christ, to be having things easy. That’d be the day.

  The ward doors swung shut, alerting him to the figure of Brian Holmes in the corridor. Holmes seemed lacking direction, then spotted his superior and came walking briskly up the hall. Rebus wasn’t sure yet whether Holmes was invaluable, or a liability. Could you be both things at once?

  ‘Is she all right?’ he asked solicitously.

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. She’s awake. Face looks a bit of a mess though.’

  ‘Just bruises. They say the nose will heal. You’ll never know it was broken.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Nell said.’

  ‘She talking? That’s good.’

  ‘She also told me who did it.’ Holmes looked at Rebus, who looked away. ‘What’s this all about? What’s Nell got to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing, so far as I know. She just happened to be in the wrong place, et cetera. Chalk it down to coincidence.’

  ‘Coincidence? That’s a nice easy word to say. Put it down to “coincidence” and then we can forget all about it, is that it? I don’t know what your game is, Rebus, but I’m not going to play it any longer.’

  Holmes turned and stalked off along the hall. Rebus almost warned him that there was no exit at that end of the building, but favours weren’t what Holmes wanted. He needed a bit of time, a break. So did Rebus, but he had some thinking to do, and the station was the best place for that.

  By taking them slowly, Rebus managed the stairs to his office. He had been at his desk fully ten minutes before a craving for tea had him reaching for the telephone. Then he sat back, holding in front of him a piece of paper on which he had attempted to set out the ‘facts’ of the ‘case’. He was chilled by the thought that he might be wasting time and effort. A jury would have to work hard to see any crime there at all. There was no suggestion that Ronnie had not injected himself. However, he had been starved of his supply, despite there being no shortage of dope in the city, and someone had moved his body, and left behind a packet of good heroin, hoping, perhaps, that this would be tested, found clean, and therefore death by misadventure would be recorded: a simple overdose. But the rat poison had been found.

  Rebus looked at the paper. Already ‘perhapses’ and conjecture had entered the picture. Maybe the frame wasn’t right. So, turn the picture another way round, John, and start again.

  Why had someone gone to the trouble of killing Ronnie? After all, the poor bugger would have topped himself given time. Ronnie had been starved of a fix, then given some, but had known this stuff to be less than pure. So doubtless he had known that the person who supplied it wanted him dead. But he had taken it anyway…. No, viewed this way round it was making even less sense. Start again.

  Why would someone want Ronnie dead? There were several obvious answers. Because he knew something he shouldn’t. Because he possessed something he shouldn’t. Because he didn’t possess something he should. Which was correct? Rebus didn’t know. Nobody seemed to know. The picture still lacked meaning.

  There was a knock on the door, and the door itself was pushed open by a constable carrying a mug of tea. The constable was Harry Todd. Rebus recognised him.

  ‘You get around a bit, son.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Todd, placing the tea on a corner of the desk, the only three square inches of wood visible from beneath a surface covering of paperwork.

  ‘Is it quiet tonight?’

  ‘The usual, sir. A few drunks. Couple of break-ins. Nasty car crash down near the docks.’

  Rebus nodded, reaching for the tea. ‘Do you know another constable, name of Neil McGrath?’ Raising the mug to his lips, Rebus stared up at Todd, who had begun to blush.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I know him.’

  ‘Mm-hm.’ Rebus tested the tea, seeming to relish the bland flavour of milk and hot water. ‘Told you to keep an eye on me, did he?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘If you happen to see him, Todd, tell him everything’s fine.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Todd was turning to leave.

  ‘Oh, and Todd?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Don’t let me see you near me again, understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Todd was clearly downhearted. At the door, he paused, seeming to have a sudden plan that would ingratiate himself with his superior. Smiling, he turned back to Rebus.

  ‘Did you hear about the action across in Fife, sir?’

  ‘What action?’ Rebus sounded uninterested.

  ‘The dog fight, sir.’ Rebus tried hard to still look unmoved. ‘They broke up some dog fight. Guess who got arrested?’

  ‘Malcolm Rifkind?’ guessed Rebus. This deflated Todd totally. The smile left his face.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said, turning again to leave. Rebus’s patience was short.

  ‘Well who then?’ he snapped.

  ‘That disc jockey, Calum McCallum,’ Todd said, closing the door after him. Rebus stared at the door for a count of five before it struck home: Calum McCallum … Gill Templer’s lover!

  Rebus raised his head and let out a roar which mixed laughter with a kind of twisted victory cry. And when he had stopped laughing, and was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, he looked towards the door again and saw that it was open. There was someone standing in the doorway, watching his performance with a look of puzzlement on their face.

  It was Gill Templer.

  Rebus checked his watch. It was nearly one in the morning.

  ‘Working the late shift, Gill?’ he said to cover his confusion.

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard,’ she said, ignoring him.

  ‘Heard what?’

  She walked into the room, pushed some papers off the chair onto the floor, and sat down, looking exhausted. Rebus looked at all that paper slewed across the floor.

  ‘The cleaners come in in the morning anyway,’ he said. Then: ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘Is that what all the screaming was about?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Rebus tried to shrug it off, but could feel the blood tingling in his cheeks. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that was just something … well, something else….’

  ‘Not very convincing, Rebus, you bastard.’ Her words were tired. He wanted to buoy her up, tell her she was looking well or something. But it wouldn’t have been true and she would just scowl at him again. So he left it. She was looking drawn, not enough sleep and no fun left any more. She’d just had her world locked up in a cell somewhere in Fife. They would be photographing and fingerprinting it perhaps, ready to file it away. Her life, Calum McCallum.

  Life was full of surprises.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  She looked up at him, studying his face as though she wasn’t sure who he was or why she was here. Then she shook herself awake with a twitch of the shoulders.

  ‘It sounds corny, but I really was just passing. I dropped into the canteen for a coffee before going home, and then I heard — ’ She shivered again; the twitch which wasn’t quite a twitch. Rebus could see how fragile she was. He hoped she wasn’t going to shake apart. ‘I heard about Calum. How could he do that to me, John? Keep a secret like that? I mean, where’s the fun in watching dogs ripping each other — ’

  ‘That’s something you’ll have to ask him yourself, Gill. Can I get you some more coffee?’

  ‘Christ no, I’m going to find it hard enough getting to sleep as it is. Tell you what I would like though, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Name it.’

 
‘A lift home.’ Rebus was already nodding agreement. ‘And a hug.’

  Rebus got up slowly, donned his jacket, put the pen and piece of paper in his pocket, and met her in the middle of the room. She had already risen from her chair, and, standing on reports to be read, paperwork to be signed, arrest statistics and the rest, they hugged, their arms strong. She buried her head in his shoulder. He rested his chin on her neck, staring at the closed door, rubbing her back with one hand, patting with the other. Eventually, she pulled away, head first, then chest, but still holding him with her arms. Her eyes were moist, but it was over now. She was looking a little better.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘I needed it as much as you did,’ said Rebus. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’

  Friday

  The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their grains in coquetry.

  Someone was knocking on his door. An authoritarian knock, using the old brass knocker that he never cleaned. Rebus opened his eyes. The sun was streaming into his living room, a record’s run-out track crackling. Another night spent in the chair, fully clothed. He’d be as well selling the mattress in the bedroom. Would anyone buy a mattress without a bed-frame?

  Knockity knock knock again. Still patient. Still waiting for him to answer. His eyes were gummy, and he pushed his shirt back into his trousers as he walked from the living room to the door. He felt not too bad, considering. Not stiff, no tightness in the neck. A wash and a shave, and he might even feel human.

  He opened the door, just as Holmes was about to knock again.

  ‘Brian.’ Rebus sounded genuinely pleased.

  ‘Morning. Mind if I come in?’

  ‘Not at all. Is Nell okay?’

  ‘I phoned this morning. They say she had a good night.’

  They were walking in the direction of the kitchen, Rebus leading. Holmes had imagined the flat would smell of beer and cigarettes, a typical bachelor pad. In fact, it was tidier than he’d expected, furnished with a modicum of taste. There were a lot of books. Rebus had never struck him as a reader. Mind you, not all the books looked as though they’d been read: bought with a rainy, dead weekend in mind. The weekend that never came.

  Rebus pointed vaguely in the direction of kettle and cupboards.

  ‘Make us some coffee, will you? I’ll just take a quick shower.’

  ‘Right.’ Holmes thought that his news could probably wait. At least until Rebus was fully awake. He sought in vain for instant coffee, but found, in one cupboard, a vacuum pack of ground coffee, several months past its sell-by date. He opened it and spooned some into the teapot while the kettle was boiling. Sounds of running water came from the bathroom, and above these the tinny sound of a transistor radio. Voices. Some talk show, Holmes supposed.

  While Rebus was in the bathroom, he took the opportunity to wander through the flat. The living room was huge, with a high corniced ceiling. Holmes felt a pang of jealousy. He’d never be able to buy a place like this. He was looking around Easter Road and Gorgie, near the football grounds of Hibs and Hearts respectively. He could afford a flat in both these parts of the city, a decent-sized flat, too, three bedrooms. But the rooms were small, the areas mean. He was no snob. Hell, yes he was. He wanted to live in the New Town, in Dean Village, here in Marchmont, where students philosophised in pretty coffee shops.

  He wasn’t overcareful with the stylus when he lifted the arm off the record. The record itself was by some jazz combo. It looked old, and he sought in vain for its sleeve. The noises from the bathroom had stopped. He walked stealthily back to the kitchen and found a tea strainer in the cutlery drawer. So he was able to keep the grounds out of the coffee he now poured into two mugs. Rebus came in, wrapped in a bath-towel, rubbing at his head with another, smaller towel. He needed to lose weight, or to exercise what weight he had. His chest was beginning to hang, pale like a carcass.

  He picked up a mug and sipped.

  ‘Mmm. The real McCoy.’

  ‘I found it in the cupboard. No milk though.’

  ‘Never mind. This is fine. You say you found it in the cupboard? We might make a detective of you yet. I’ll just put on some togs.’ And he was off again, for only two minutes this time. The clothes he came back wearing were clean, but unironed. Holmes noticed that though there was plumbing in the kitchen for a washing machine, there was no machine. Rebus seemed to read his mind.

  ‘My wife took it when she moved out. Took a lot of stuff. That’s why the place looks so bare.’

  ‘It doesn’t look bare. It looks planned.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Let’s go into the living room.’

  Rebus motioned for Holmes to sit, then sat down himself. The chair was still warm from his night’s sleep. ‘I see you’ve already been in here.’

  Holmes looked surprised. Caught. He remembered that he’d lifted the stylus off the record.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I like to see,’ Rebus said. ‘Yes, we’ll make a detective of you yet, Brian.’

  Holmes wasn’t sure whether Rebus was being flattering or condescending. He let it go.

  ‘Something I thought you might like to know,’ he began.

  ‘I already know,’ said Rebus. ‘Sorry to spoil the surprise, but I was at the station late last night, and somebody told me.’

  ‘Last night?’ Holmes was confused. ‘But they only found the body this morning.’

  ‘The body? You mean he’s dead?’

  ‘Yes. Suicide.’

  ‘Jesus, poor Gill.’

  ‘Gill?’

  ‘Gill Templer. She was going out with him.’

  ‘Inspector Templer?’ Holmes was shocked. ‘I thought she was living with that disc jockey?’

  Now Rebus was confused. ‘Isn’t that who we’re talking about?’

  ‘No,’ said Holmes. The surprise was still intact. He felt real relief.

  ‘So who are we talking about?’ asked Rebus with a growing sense of dread. ‘Who’s committed suicide?’

  ‘James Carew.’

  ‘Carew?’

  ‘Yes. Found him in his flat this morning. Overdose apparently.’

  ‘Overdose of what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some kind of pills.’

  Rebus was stunned. He recalled the look on Carew’s face that night atop Calton Hill.

  ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wanted a word with him.’

  ‘I was wondering …’ said Holmes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you ever got round to asking him about getting me a flat?’

  ‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘I never got the chance.’

  ‘I was only joking,’ Holmes said, realising that Rebus had taken his comment literally. ‘Was he a friend? I mean, I know you met him for lunch, but I didn’t realise — ’

  ‘Did he leave a note?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well who would know?’

  Holmes thought for a second. ‘I think Inspector McCall was at the scene.’

  ‘Right, come on.’ Rebus was up on his feet.

  ‘What about your coffee?’

  ‘Sod the coffee. I want to see Tony McCall.’

  ‘What was all that about Calum McCallum?’ said Holmes, rising now.

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ Holmes shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

  And then Rebus was on the move, grabbing jacket, getting out his keys to lock the front door. Holmes wondered what the secret was. What had Calum McCallum done? God, he hated people who hung on to secrets.

  Rebus read the note as he stood in Carew’s bedroom. It was elegantly written with a proper nib pen, but in one or two of the words fear could be clearly read, the letters trembling uncontrollably, scribbled out to be tried again. Good-quality writing paper too, thick and watermarked. The V12 was in a garage behind the flat. The flat itself was stunning, a museum for art deco pieces, modern art prints, an
d valuable first editions, locked behind glass.

  This is the flipside of Vanderhyde’s home, Rebus had thought as he moved through the flat. Then McCall had handed him the suicide note.

  ‘If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.’ Was that a quote from somewhere? Certainly, it was a bit prolix for a suicide note. But then Carew would have gone through draft upon draft until satisfied. It had to be exact, had to stand as his monument. ‘Some day you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this.’ Not that Rebus needed to seek too hard. He had the queasy feeling, reading the note, that Carew’s words were directed straight at him, that he was saying things only Rebus could fully understand.

  ‘Funny sort of note to leave behind,’ said McCall.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rebus.

  ‘You met him recently, didn’t you?’ said McCall. ‘I remember you saying. Did he seem okay then? I mean, he wasn’t depressed or anything?’

  ‘I’ve seen him since then.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was sniffing around Calton Hill a couple of nights back. He was there in his car.’

  ‘Ah-ha.’ McCall nodded. Everything was starting to make a little bit of sense.

  Rebus handed back the note and went over to the bed. The sheets were rumpled. Three empty pill bottles stood in a neat line on the bedside table. On the floor lay an empty cognac bottle.

  ‘The man went out in style,’ McCall said, pocketing the note. ‘He’d gone through a couple of bottles of wine before that.’

  ‘Yes, I saw them in the living room. Lafite sixty-one. The stuff of a very ‘special occasion’.

  ‘They don’t come more special, John.’

  Both men turned as a third presence became evident in the room. It was Farmer Watson, breathing heavily from the effort of the stairs.

  ‘This is bloody awkward,’ he said. ‘One of the linchpins of our campaign tops himself, and by taking a bloody overdose. How’s that going to look, eh?’

  ‘Awkward, sir,’ replied Rebus, ‘just as you say.’

  ‘I do say. I do say.’ Watson thrust a finger out towards Rebus. ‘It’s up to you, John, to make sure the media don’t make a meal of this, or of us.’