by Ian Rankin
‘Hello, Jack,’ he said to the desk sergeant, who watched him walk past without the usual nod of the head. Strange, Rebus thought. Jack had never been a cheery bugger, but he’d usually had the use of his neck muscles. He was famous for his slight bow of the head, which he could make mean anything from approbation to insult.
But today, for Rebus, nothing.
Rebus decided to ignore the slight, and went upstairs. Two constables, in the act of coming down, fell quiet as they passed him. Rebus began to redden, but kept walking, sure now that he had forgotten to zip his fly, or had somehow contrived to get a smudge on his nose. Something like that. He’d check in the privacy of his office.
Holmes was waiting for him, seated in Rebus’s chair, at Rebus’s desk, some property details spread across the tabletop. He began to rise as Rebus entered, gathering together the sheets of paper like a kid caught with a dirty book.
‘Hello, Brian.’ Rebus took off his jacket, hanging it on the back of the door. ‘Listen, I want you to get me the names and addresses of all Edinburgh inhabitants whose names are Jekyll or Hyde. I know that may sound daft, but just do it. Then –’
‘I think you should sit down, sir,’ said Holmes tremulously. Rebus stared at him, saw the fear in the young man’s eyes, and knew that the worst had happened.
Rebus pushed open the door of the interview room. His face was the colour of pickled beetroot, and Holmes, following, feared that his superior was about to suffer a coronary. There were two CID men in the room, both in their shirtsleeves as though after a hard session. They turned at Rebus’s entrance, and the one who was seated rose as if for combat. On the other side of the table, the weasel-faced teenager known to Rebus as ‘James’ actually squealed, and flew to his feet, knocking the chair with a clatter onto the stone floor.
‘Don’t let him near me!’ he yelled.
‘Now, John –’ started one detective, a Sergeant Dick. Rebus held up a hand to show that he was not here to cause violence. The detectives eyed one another, not sure whether to believe him. Then Rebus spoke, his eyes on the teenager.
‘You’re going to get what’s coming to you, so help me.’ There was calm, lucid anger in Rebus’s voice. ‘I’m going to have you by your balls for this, son. You better believe that. Really, you better.’
The teenager saw now that the others would restrain Rebus, that the man himself presented an empty physical threat. He sneered.
‘Yeah, sure,’ he said dismissively. Rebus lurched forward, but Holmes’s hand was rigid against his shoulder, pulling him back.
‘Leave it be, John,’ the other detective, DC Cooper, cautioned. ‘Just let the wheels grind round. It won’t take long.’
‘Too long though,’ Rebus hissed, as Holmes pulled him out of the room, closing the door after them. Rebus stood in the shadowy corridor, all rage spent, head bowed. It was so very hard to believe.…
‘Inspector Rebus!’
Rebus and Holmes both jerked their heads towards the voice. It belonged to a WPC. She looked scared, too.
‘Yes?’ Rebus managed, swallowing.
‘The Super wants to see you in his office. I think it’s urgent.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Rebus, walking towards her with such menace that she retreated hurriedly, back towards the reception area and daylight.
‘It’s a bloody set-up, with all due respect, sir.’
Remember the golden rule, John, Rebus thought to himself: never swear at a superior without adding that ‘with all due respect’. It was something he’d learned in the Army. As long as you added that coda, the brass couldn’t have you for insubordination.
‘John.’ Watson interlaced his fingers, studying them as if they were the latest craze. ‘John, we’ve got to investigate it. That’s our duty. I know it’s daft, and everyone else knows it’s daft, but we’ve got to show that it’s daft. That’s our duty.’
‘All the same, sir –’
Watson cut him off with a wave of his hand. Then started twining fingers again.
‘God knows, you’re already “suspended” from duty as it is, until our little campaign gets into full swing.’
‘Yes, sir, but this is just what he wants.’
‘He?’
‘Some man called Hyde. He wants me to stop poking about in the Ronnie McGrath case. That’s what this is all about. That’s why it’s a set-up job.’
‘That’s as maybe. The fact remains, a complaint has been made against you –’
‘By that little bastard downstairs.’
‘He says you gave him money, twenty pounds, I believe.’
‘I did give him twenty quid, but not for a shag, for Chrissake!’
‘For what then?’
Rebus made to answer, but was defeated. Why had he handed the teenager called James that money? He’d set himself up, all right. Hyde couldn’t have done it better himself. And now James was downstairs, spilling his carefully rehearsed story to CID. And say what you liked, mud stuck. By Christ, it didn’t half. No amount of soap and water would clean it off. The little toerag.
‘This is playing right into Hyde’s hands, sir,’ Rebus tried: one last shot. ‘If his story’s true, why didn’t he come in yesterday? Why wait till today?’
But Watson was decided.
‘No, John. I want you out of here for a day or two. A week even. Take a break. Do whatever you like, but leave well alone. We’ll clear it up, don’t worry. We’ll break his story down into pieces so small he won’t be able to see them any more. One of those pieces will snap, and with it, his whole story. Don’t you worry.’
Rebus stared at Watson. What he said made sense; more than that, it was actually fairly subtle and shrewd. Maybe the Farmer wasn’t so agricultural in his ways after all. He sighed.
‘Whatever you say, sir.’
Watson nodded, smiling.
‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Remember that fellow Andrews, ran a club called Finlay’s?’
‘We had lunch with him, sir.’
‘That’s right. He’s invited me to apply for membership.’
‘Good for you, sir.’
‘Apparently the waiting list’s about a year long – all these rich Sassenachs coming north – but he said he could do a bit of pruning in my case. I told him not to bother. I seldom drink, and I certainly don’t gamble. Still, a nice gesture all the same. Maybe I should ask him to consider you in my place. That’d give you something to do with your time off, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus seemed to consider the suggestion. Booze and gambling: not a bad combination. His face brightened. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘That would be very kind of you.’
‘I’ll see what I can do then. One last thing.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Are you intending to go to Malcolm Lanyon’s party tonight? Remember, he invited us at The Eyrie?’
‘I’d forgotten all about it, sir. Would it be more … proper for me to stay away?’
‘Not at all. I may not manage along myself, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t attend. But not a word about.…’ Watson nodded towards the door, and by implication to the interview room beyond.
‘Understood, sir. Thank you.’
‘Oh, and John?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Don’t swear at me. Ever. With respect or otherwise. Okay?’
Rebus felt his cheeks reddening, not in anger but in shame. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, making his exit.
Holmes was waiting impatiently in Rebus’s office.
‘What did he want then?’
‘Who?’ Rebus was supremely nonchalant. ‘Oh, Watson you mean? He wanted to tell me that he’s put my name forward for Finlay’s.’
‘Finlay’s Club?’ Holmes’ face was quizzical; this wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all.
‘That’s right. At my age, I think I deserve a club in town, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, and he also wanted to remind me about a party tonight at Malcolm Lanyo
n’s place.’
‘The lawyer?’
‘That’s him.’ Rebus had Holmes at a disadvantage, and knew it. ‘I hope you’ve been busy while I’ve been having a chinwag.’
‘Eh?’
‘Hydes and Jekylls, Brian. I asked you for addresses.’
‘I’ve got the list here. Not too long, thank the Lord. I suppose I’m going to be Shoeleather on this one?’
Rebus looked flabbergasted. ‘Not at all. You’ve got better things to be doing with your time. No, I think this time the shoeleather ought to be mine.’
‘But … with respect, shouldn’t you be keeping out of things?’
‘With respect, Brian, that’s none of your bloody business.’
From home, Rebus tried phoning Gill, but she couldn’t be reached. Keeping out of things, no doubt. She had been quiet during the drive home last night, and hadn’t invited him in. Fair enough, he supposed. He wasn’t about to take advantage.… So why was he trying to telephone her? Of course he was trying to take advantage! He wanted her back.
He tidied the living room, did some washing up, and took a binbag’s-worth of dirty washing to the local laundrette for a service wash. The attendant, Mrs Mackay, was full of outrage about Calum McCallum.
‘Yon’s a celebrity and a’. They should ken better.’
Rebus smiled and nodded agreement.
Back in the flat, he sat down and picked up a book, knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep his mind on it. He didn’t want Hyde to win, and, kept away from the case, that’s exactly what would happen. He took the slip of paper from his pocket. There were no people with the surname Jekyll in the Lothians, and a scant dozen with the surname Hyde. At least, those were the ones he could be sure about. What if Hyde possessed an unlisted number? He’d get Brian Holmes to check the possibility.
He reached for the telephone and was halfway through the number before he realised he was calling Gill’s office. He punched in the rest of the number. What the hell, she wouldn’t be there anyway.
‘Hello?’
It was Gill Templer’s voice, sounding as unflappable as ever. Yes, but that sort of trick was easy by phone. All the oldest tricks were.
‘It’s John.’
‘Hello there. Thanks for the lift home.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, honestly. I just feel a bit … I don’t know, confused doesn’t seem to cover it. I feel as though I’ve been conned. That’s as near as I can get to an explanation.’
‘Are you going to see him?’
‘What? In Fife? No, I don’t think so. It’s not that I couldn’t face him. I want to see him. It’s the thought of walking into the station with everyone knowing who I was, why I was there.’
‘I’d go with you, Gill, if you wanted.’
‘Thanks, John. Maybe in a day or two. But not yet.’
‘Understood.’ He became aware that he was gripping the receiver too hard, that his fingers were hurting. God, this was hurting him all over. Did she have any inkling of his feelings right this minute? He was sure he couldn’t put them into words. The words hadn’t been coined. He felt so close to her, and yet so far away, like a schoolkid who’d lost his first girlfriend.
‘Thanks for phoning, John. I appreciate it. But I’d better be getting –’
‘Oh, right, right you are. Well, you’ve got my number, Gill. Take care.’
‘Bye, J –’
He broke the connection. Don’t crowd her, John, he was thinking. That’s how you lost her the first time. Don’t go making any assumptions. She doesn’t like that. Give her space. Maybe he had made a mistake phoning in the first place. Hell and damn.
With respect.
That little weasel called James. That little toerag. He’d rip his head from his shoulders when he got him. He wondered how much Hyde had paid the kid. Considerably more than two ten-pound notes, that was for sure.
The telephone rang.
‘Rebus here.’
‘John? It’s Gill again. I’ve just heard the news. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’ He affected indifference, knowing she’d see through it immediately.
‘About this complaint against you.’
‘Oh, that. Come on, Gill, you know this sort of thing happens from time to time.’
‘Yes, but why didn’t you say? Why did you let me prattle on like that?’
‘You weren’t prattling.’
‘Dammit!’ She was almost in tears now. ‘Why do you always have to try and hide things from me like that? What’s the matter with you?’
He was about to explain, when the line went dead. He stared at the receiver dumbly, wondering just why he hadn’t told her in the first place. Because she had worries of her own? Because he was embarrassed? Because he hadn’t wanted the pity of a vulnerable woman? There were reasons enough.
Weren’t there?
Of course there were. It was just that none of them seemed to make him feel any better. Why do you always have to try and hide things from me? There was that word again: hide. A verb, an action, and a noun, a place. And a person. Faceless, but Rebus was beginning to know him so well. The adversary was cunning, there was no doubting that. But he couldn’t hope to tie up all the loose threads the way he’d tied up Ronnie and Carew, the way he was trying to tie up John Rebus.
The telephone rang again.
‘Rebus here.’
‘It’s Superintendent Watson. I’m glad I caught you at home.’
Because, Rebus added silently, it means I’m not out on the street causing trouble for you.
‘Yes, sir. Any problem?’
‘Quite the reverse. They’re still questioning this male prostitute. Shouldn’t be too long now. But meantime, the reason I called is because I’ve been on to the casino.’
‘Casino, sir?’
‘You know, Finlay’s.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And they say that you’ll be welcome there anytime, should you wish to pop in. You’ve just to mention Finlay Andrews’ name, and that’s your ticket.’
‘Right, sir. Well, thanks for that.’
‘My pleasure, John. Shame you’re having to take it easy, what with this suicide business and all. The press are all over it, sniffing around for any little piece of dirt they can find. What a job, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘McCall’s fielding their questions. I just hope he doesn’t appear on the box. Not exactly photogenic, is he?’
Watson made this sound like Rebus’s fault, and Rebus was on the point of apologising when the Superintendent placed a hand over the mouthpiece at his end, while he had a few words with someone. And when he came on again it was to say a hasty goodbye.
‘Press conference apparently,’ he said. And that was that.
Rebus stared at the receiver for a full minute. If there were to be any more calls, let them come now. They didn’t. He threw the instrument onto the floor, where it landed heavily. Secretly, he was hoping to break it one of these days, so he could go back to an old-style handset. But the blasted thing seemed tougher than it looked.
He was opening the book when the door-knocker sounded. Tappity tap tap. A business call then, and not Mrs Cochrane wondering why he hadn’t washed the communal stairwell yet.
It was Brian Holmes.
‘Can I come in?’
‘I suppose so.’ Rebus felt no real enthusiasm, but left the door open for the young detective to follow him through to the living room if he so desired. He so desired, following Rebus with mock heartiness.
‘I was just looking at a flat near Tollcross, and thought I’d –’
‘Skip the excuses, Brian. You’re checking up on me. Sit down and tell me what’s been happening in my absence.’ Rebus checked his watch while Holmes seated himself. ‘An absence, for the record, of just under two hours.’
‘Ach, I was concerned, that’s all.’
Rebus stared at him. Simple, direct, and to the point. Maybe Rebus could learn s
omething from Holmes after all.
‘It’s not Farmer’s orders then?’
‘Not at all. And as it happens, I did have a flat to look at.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Ghastly beyond speech. Cooker in the living room, shower in a wee cupboard. No bath, no kitchen.’
‘How much did they want for it? No, on second thoughts don’t tell me. It would just depress me.’
‘It certainly depressed me.’
‘You can always make an offer on this place when they throw me inside for corrupting a minor.’
Holmes looked up, saw that Rebus was smiling, and gave a relieved grin.
‘The guy’s story’s already coming apart at the seams.’
‘Did you ever doubt it?’
‘Of course not. Anyway, I thought these might cheer you up.’ Holmes brandished a large manilla envelope, which had been discreetly tucked inside his cord jacket. Rebus hadn’t seen this cord jacket before, and supposed it to be the Detective Constable’s flat-buying uniform.
‘What are they?’ said Rebus, accepting the packet.
‘Pics. Last night’s raid. Thought you might be interested.’
Rebus opened the envelope and withdrew a set of ten-by-eight black and whites. They showed the more or less blurred shapes of men scrambling across waste ground. What light there was had about it a halogen starkness, sending up huge black shadows and capturing some faces in chalky states of shock and surprise.
‘Where did you get these?’
‘That DS Hendry sent them across with a note sympathising over Nell. He thought these might cheer me up.’
‘I told you he was a good bloke. Any idea which one of these goons is the DJ?’
Holmes leapt from his seat and crouched beside Rebus, who was holding a photograph at the ready.
‘No,’ Holmes said, ‘there’s a better shot of him.’ He thumbed through the set until he found the picture he was looking for. ‘Here we are. That one there. That’s McCallum.’
Rebus studied the fuzzy semblance before him. The look of fear, so distinct against the blurred face, could have been drawn by a child. Wide eyes and a mouth puckered into an ‘O’, arms suspended as though between rapid flight and final surrender.
