Hide And Seek

by Ian Rankin

  The roads were quiet though, which was a break. Not enough of a break, but a break. So he made good time to Pilmuir, and then remembered that he didn’t know where Charlie boy lived. Charlie, the person he needed to talk to if he was going to find an address for a coven. A white coven. He wanted to double-check the witchcraft story. He wanted to double-check Charlie, too, come to that. But he didn’t want Charlie to know he was being checked.

  The witchcraft thing niggled. Rebus believed in good and evil, and believed stupid people could be attracted towards the latter. He understood pagan religions well enough, had read about them in books too thick and intense for their own good. He didn’t mind people worshipping the Earth, or whatever. It all came down to the same thing in the end. What he did mind was people worshipping Evil as a force, and as more than a force: as an entity. Especially, he disliked the idea of people doing it for ‘kicks’ without knowing or caring what it was they were involved in.

  People like Charlie. He remembered that book of Giger prints again. Satan, poised at the centre of a pair of scales, flanked by a naked woman left and right. The women were being penetrated by huge drills. Satan was a goat’s head in a mask.…

  But where would Charlie be now? He’d find out. Stop and ask. Knock on doors. Hint at retribution should information be withheld. He’d act the big bad policeman if that was what it took.

  He didn’t need to do anything, as it happened. He just had to find the police constables who were loitering outside one of the boarded-up houses, not too far from where Ronnie had died. One of the constables held a radio to his mouth. The other was writing in a notebook. Rebus stopped his car, stepped out. Then remembered something, leaned back into the car and drew his keys from out of the ignition. You couldn’t be too careful around here. A second later, he actually locked his driver’s side door, too.

  He knew one of the constables. It was Harry Todd, one of the men who had found Ronnie. Todd straightened when he saw Rebus, but Rebus waved this acknowledgment aside, so Todd continued with his radio conversation. Rebus concentrated on the other officer instead.

  ‘What’s the score here?’ The constable turned from his writing to give Rebus that suspicious, near-hostile look almost unique to the constabulary. ‘Inspector Rebus,’ Rebus explained. He was wondering where Todd’s Irish sidekick O’Rourke was.

  ‘Oh,’ said the constable. ‘Well …’ He started to put away his pen. ‘We were called to a domestic, sir. In this house. A real screaming match. But by the time we got here, the man had fled. The woman is still inside. She’s got herself a black eye, nothing more. Not really your territory, sir.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Rebus. ‘Well, thank you for telling me, sonny. It’s nice to be told what is and isn’t my “territory”. Thank you so much. Now, may I have your permission to enter the premises?’

  The constable was blushing furiously, his cheeks an almighty red against his bloodless face and neck. No: even his neck was blushing now. Rebus enjoyed that. He didn’t even mind that behind the constable, but in full view of Rebus himself, Todd was smirking at this encounter.

  ‘Well?’ Rebus prompted.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the constable.

  ‘Right,’ said Rebus, walking towards the door. But before he reached it, it was opened from the inside, and there stood Tracy, both eyes reddened from crying, one eye bruised a deep blue. She didn’t seem surprised to see Rebus standing in front of her; she seemed relieved, and threw herself at him, hugging him, her head against his chest, the tears beginning all over again.

  Rebus, startled and embarrassed, returned the embrace only lightly, with a patting of his hands on her back: a father’s ‘there, there’ to a frightened child. He turned his head to look at the constables, who were pretending to have noticed nothing. Then a car drew up beside his own, and he saw Tony McCall put on his handbrake before pushing open the driver’s door, stepping out and seeing Rebus there, and the girl.

  Rebus laid his hands on Tracy’s arms and pushed her away from him a little, but still retaining that contact between them. His hands, her arms. She looked at him, and began to fight against the tears. Finally, she pulled one arm away so that she could wipe her eyes. Then the other arm relaxed and Rebus’s hand fell from it, the contact broken. For now.

  ‘John?’ It was McCall, close behind him.

  ‘Yes, Tony?’

  ‘Why is it my patch has suddenly become your patch?’

  ‘Just passing,’ said Rebus.

  The interior of the house was surprisingly neat and tidy. There were numerous, if uncoordinated, sticks of furniture – two well-worn settees, a couple of dining chairs, trellis table, half a dozen pouffes, burst at the seams and oozing stuffing – and, most surprising of all, the electricity was connected.

  ‘Wonder if the electric board know about that,’ said McCall as Rebus switched on the downstairs lights.

  For all its trappings, the place had an air of impermanence. There were sleeping bags laid out on the living-room floor, as though ready for any stray waifs and passers-by. Tracy went to one of the settees and sat down, wrapping her hands around her knees.

  ‘Is this your place, Tracy?’ said Rebus, knowing the answer.

  ‘No. It’s Charlie’s.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘I only found out today. He moves around all the time. It wasn’t easy tracking him down.’

  ‘It didn’t take you long.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I just wanted to talk to him.’

  ‘About Ronnie?’ McCall watched Rebus as he said this. McCall was concentrating now, aware that Rebus was trying to fill him in on the situation while at the same time questioning Tracy. Tracy nodded.

  ‘Stupid, maybe, but I needed to talk to someone.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we got into an argument. He started it. Told me I was the cause of Ronnie’s death.’ She looked up at them; not pleadingly, but just to show that she was sincere. ‘It’s not true. But Charlie said I should have looked after Ronnie, stopped him taking the stuff, got him away from Pilmuir. How could I have done that? He wouldn’t have listened to me. I thought he knew what he was doing. Nobody could tell him otherwise.’

  ‘Is that what you told Charlie?’

  She smiled. ‘No. I only thought of it just now. That’s what always happens, isn’t it? You only think of the clever comeback after the argument’s finished.’

  ‘I know what you mean, love,’ said McCall.

  ‘So you started a slanging match –’

  ‘I never started the slanging match!’ she roared at Rebus.

  ‘Okay,’ he said quietly, ‘Charlie started shouting at you, and you shouted back, then he hit you. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ She seemed subdued.

  ‘And maybe,’ Rebus prompted, ‘you hit him back?’

  ‘I gave as good as I got.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said McCall. He was touring the room, turning up cushions on the settees, opening old magazines, crouching to pat each sleeping bag.

  ‘Don’t patronise me, you bastard,’ said Tracy.

  McCall paused, looked up, surprised. Then smiled, and patted the next sleeping bag along. ‘Ah-ha,’ he said, lifting the sleeping bag and shaking it. A small polythene bag fell out onto the floor. He picked it up, satisfied. ‘A little bit of blaw,’ he said. ‘Makes a house into a home, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Tracy, looking at the bag.

  ‘We believe you,’ said Rebus. ‘Charlie did a runner then?’

  ‘Yes. The neighbours must’ve phoned for the pigs … I mean, the police.’ She averted her eyes from them.

  ‘We’ve been called worse,’ said McCall, ‘haven’t we, John?’

  ‘That’s for sure. So the constables arrived at one door, and Charlie left by another, right?’

  ‘Out of the back door, yes.’

  ‘Well,’ said Rebus, ‘while we’re here we might as well have
a look at his room, if such a thing exists.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said McCall, pocketing the polythene bag. ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’

  Charlie had a room all right. It consisted of a single sleeping bag, a desk, anglepoise lamp, and more books than Rebus had ever seen in such an enclosed space. They were piled against the walls, reaching in precarious pillars from floor to ceiling. Many were library books, well overdue.

  ‘Must owe the City Fathers a small fortune,’ said McCall.

  There were books on economics, politics and history, as well as learned and not so learned tomes on demonism, devil worship and witchcraft. There was little fiction, and most of the books had been read thoroughly, with much underlining and pencilled marginalia. On the desk sat a half-completed essay, part of Charlie’s university course work no doubt. It seemed to be trying to link ‘magick’ to modern society, but was mostly, to Rebus’s eye, rambling nonsense.

  ‘Hello!’

  This was shouted from downstairs, as the two constables started to climb the staircase.

  ‘Hello yourselves,’ McCall called back. Then he shook the contents of a large supermarket carrier bag onto the floor, so that pens, toy cars, cigarette papers, a wooden egg, a spool of cotton, a personal cassette player, a Swiss army knife, and a camera fell out. McCall stooped to pick up the camera between thumb and middle finger. Nice model, thirty-five-millimetre SLR. Good make. He gestured with it towards Rebus, who took it from him, having first produced a handkerchief from his pocket, with which he held it. Rebus turned towards Tracy who was standing against the door with her arms folded. She nodded back at him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s Ronnie’s camera.’

  The constables were at the top of the stairs now. Rebus accepted McCall’s offer of the supermarket carrier and dropped the camera into it, careful not to mess up any prints.

  ‘Todd,’ he said to the constable he knew, ‘take this young lady down to Great London Road station.’ Tracy’s mouth opened. ‘It’s for your own protection,’ Rebus said. ‘Go on with them. I’ll see you later, soon as I can.’

  She still seemed ready to voice a complaint, but thought better of it, nodded and turned, leaving the room. Rebus listened as she went downstairs, accompanied by the officers. McCall was still searching, though without real concern. Two finds were quite enough to be going on with.

  ‘No smoke without fire,’ he said.

  ‘I had lunch with Tommy today,’ said Rebus.

  ‘My brother Tommy?’ McCall looked up. Rebus nodded. ‘Then that’s one up to you. He’s never taken me to lunch these past fifteen years.’

  ‘We were at The Eyrie.’ Now McCall whistled. ‘To do with Watson’s anti-drugs campaign.’

  ‘Yes, Tommy’s shelling out for it, isn’t he? Ach, I shouldn’t be hard on him. He’s done me a few favours in his time.’

  ‘He had a few too many.’

  McCall laughed gently. ‘He hasn’t changed then. Still, he can afford it. That transport company of his, it runs itself. He used to be there twenty-four hours a day, fifty-two weeks of the year. Nowadays, he can take off as long as he likes. His accountant once told him to take a year off. Can you imagine that? For tax purposes. If only we had those kinds of problem, eh, John?’

  ‘You’re right there, Tony.’ Rebus was still holding the supermarket bag. McCall nodded towards it.

  ‘Does this tie it up?’

  ‘It makes things a bit clearer,’ said Rebus. ‘I might get it checked for prints.’

  ‘I can tell you what you’ll find,’ said McCall. ‘The deceased’s and this guy Charlie’s.’

  ‘You’re forgetting someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You, Tony. You picked the camera up with your fingers, remember?’

  ‘Ah, sorry. I didn’t think.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s something, isn’t it? Something to celebrate, I mean. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.’

  As they left the room, one pillar of books finally gave way, slewing down across the floor like dominoes waiting to be shuffled. Rebus opened the door again to look in.

  ‘Ghosts,’ said McCall. ‘That’s all. Just ghosts.’

  It wasn’t much to look at. Not what he’d been expecting. Okay, so there was a potted plant in one corner, and black roller blinds over the windows, and even a word processor gathering dust on a newish plastic desk. But it was still the second floor of a tenement, still designed as somebody’s home and never meant to be used as office, studio, workplace. Holmes gave the room – the so-called ‘front office’ – a tour as the cute little school-leaver went off to fetch ‘His Highness’. That was what she’d called him. If your staff didn’t hold you in esteem, or at the very least in frightened awe, there was something wrong with you. Certainly, as the door opened and ‘His Highness’ walked in, it was evident to Holmes that there was something wrong with Jimmy Hutton.

  For a start, he was the other side of fifty, yet what hair he still had was long, thin strands covering his forehead almost down to his eyes. He was also wearing denims: a mistake easily made by those aspiring to youth from the wrong side. And he was short. Five foot two or three. Now Holmes began to see the relevance of the secretary’s pun. His highness, indeed.

  He had a harassed look on his face, but had left the camera through in the back bedroom or box room or whichever room of the smallish flat served as his studio. He stuck out a hand, and Holmes shook it.

  ‘Detective Constable Holmes,’ he announced. Hutton nodded, took a cigarette from the packet on his secretary’s desk and lit it. She frowned openly at this as she sat down again, smoothing her tight skirt beneath her. Hutton had not yet looked at Holmes. His eyes seemed to be mirroring some distraction in his mind. He went to the window, looked out, arched his neck to blow a plume of smoke towards the high, dark ceiling, then let his head go limp, leaning against the wall.

  ‘Get me a coffee, Christine.’ His eyes met Holmes’s momentarily. ‘Do you want one?’ Holmes shook his head.

  ‘Sure?’ said Christine kindly, rising out of her seat again.

  ‘Okay then. Thanks.’

  With a smile she left the room, off to the kitchen or darkroom to fill a kettle.

  ‘So,’ said Hutton. ‘What can I do for you?’

  That was another thing about the man. His voice was high, not shrill or girlish, just high. And slightly rasping, as though he had damaged his vocal cords at some point in his youth and they had never recovered.

  ‘Mr Hutton?’ Holmes needed to be sure. Hutton nodded.

  ‘Jimmy Hutton, professional photographer, at your service. You’re getting married and you want me to do you a discount?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘A portrait then. Girlfriend perhaps? Mum and dad?’

  ‘No, this is business, I’m afraid. My business, that is.’

  ‘But no new business for me, right?’ Hutton smiled, chanced another glance towards Holmes, drew on his cigarette again. ‘I could do a portrait of you, you know. Nice strong chin, decent cheekbones. With the proper lighting.…’

  ‘No, thanks. I hate having my picture taken.’

  ‘I’m not talking about pictures.’ Hutton was moving now, circling the desk. ‘I’m talking about art.’

  ‘That’s why I came here actually.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Art. I was impressed by some of your photos I saw in a newspaper. I was wondering whether you might be able to help me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s a missing person.’ Holmes was not a great liar. His ears tingled when he told a real whopper. Not a great liar, but a good one. ‘A young man called Ronnie McGrath.’

  ‘Name doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘He wanted to be a photographer, that’s why I was wondering.’

  ‘Wondering what?’

  ‘If he’d ever come to you. You know, asking advice, that sort of thing. You’re an established name, after a
ll.’ It was almost too blatant. Holmes could sense it: could sense Hutton just about realising what the game was. But vanity won in the end.

  ‘Well,’ the photographer said, leaning against the desk, folding his arms, crossing his legs, sure of himself. ‘What did he look like, this Ronnie?’

  ‘Tallish, short brown hair. Liked to do studies. You know the sort of thing, the Castle, Calton Hill.…’

  ‘Are you a photographer yourself, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m only a constable.’ Holmes smiled, pleased by the error. Then caught himself: what if Hutton were trying to play the vanity game with him? ‘And no, I’ve never really done much photography. Holiday snaps, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sugar?’ Christine put her head around the door, smiling at Holmes again.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Just milk.’

  ‘Put a drop of whisky in mine,’ said Hutton. ‘There’s a love.’ He winked towards the door as it closed again. ‘Sounds familiar, I have to admit. Ronnie.… Studies of the Castle. Yes, yes. I do remember some young guy coming in, bloody pest he was. I was doing a portfolio, some long-term stuff. Mind had to be one hundred percent on the job. He was always coming round, asking to see me, wanting to show me his work.’ Hutton raised his hands apologetically. ‘I mean, we were all young once. I wish I could have helped him. But I didn’t have the time, not right then.’

  ‘You didn’t look at his work?’

  ‘No. No time, as I say. He stopped coming by after a few weeks.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Few months. Three or four.’

  The secretary appeared with their coffees. Holmes could smell the whisky wafting out of Hutton’s mug, and was jealous and repelled in equal measure. Still, the interview was going well enough. Time for a side road.

  ‘Thanks, Christine,’ he said, seeming to please her with the familiarity. She sat down, not drinking herself, and lit a cigarette. He thought for a moment of reaching out to light it for her, but held back.