Hide And Seek

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus smiled a smile that reached all the way up to his eyes.

  ‘You’re sure this is him?’

  ‘One of the PCs at the station recognised him. He said he once got McCallum to sign an autograph for him.’

  ‘I’m impressed. Shouldn’t think he’ll be signing too many more though. Where are they holding him?’

  ‘Everybody they arrested has gone to Dunfermline nick’.

  ‘That’s nice for them. By the by, did they nab the ringleaders?’

  ‘Each and every one. Including Brightman. He was the boss.’

  ‘Davy Brightman? The scrappie?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘I played against that bugger at football a couple of times when I was at school. He played left back for his team when I was on the wing for ours. He gave me a good studding one match.’

  ‘Revenge is sweet,’ said Holmes.

  ‘It is that, Brian.’ Rebus was studying the photograph again. ‘It is that.’

  ‘Actually, a couple of the punters did scarper apparently, but they’re all on film. The camera never lies, eh, sir?’

  Rebus began to sift through the other pictures. ‘A powerful tool, the camera,’ he said. His face suddenly changed.

  ‘Sir? Are you all right?’

  Rebus’s voice was reduced to a whisper. ‘I’ve just had a revelation, Brian. A whatsit …? epiphany, is it?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’ Holmes was sure now that something inside his superior had snapped.

  ‘Epiphany, yes. I know where this has all been leading, Brian. I’m sure of it. That bastard on Calton Hill said something about pictures, some pictures everybody was interested in. They’re Ronnie’s pictures.’

  ‘What? The ones in his bedroom?’

  ‘No, not those.’

  ‘The ones at Hutton’s studio then?’

  ‘Not quite. No, I don’t know exactly where these particular pictures are, but I’ve got a bloody good idea. “Hide” can be a noun, Brian. Come on.’

  ‘Where?’ Holmes watched as Rebus sprang from his chair, heading for the door. He started to collect the photographs, which Rebus had let fall from his hands.

  ‘Never mind those,’ Rebus ordered, slipping on a jacket.

  ‘But where the hell are we going?’

  ‘You just answered your own question,’ Rebus said, turning back to grin at Holmes. ‘That’s exactly where we’re going.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘To hell, of course. Come on.’

  It was turning cold. The sun had just about tired itself out, and was retiring from the contest. The clouds were sticking-plaster pink. Two great final sunbeams shone down like torchlight upon Pilmuir, and picked out just the one building, leaving the other houses in the street untouched. Rebus sucked in breath. He had to admit, it was quite a sight.

  ‘Like the stable at Bethlehem,’ said Holmes.

  ‘A damned queer stable,’ Rebus retorted. ‘God’s got a funny sense of humour if this is His idea of a joke.’

  ‘You did say we were going to hell.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting Cecil B. DeMille to be in on it though. What’s going on there?’

  Almost hidden by the day’s last gasp of sunlight, a van and a hire skip were parked directly in front of Ronnie’s house.

  ‘The council?’ Holmes suggested. ‘Probably cleaning the place up.’

  ‘Why, in God’s name?’

  ‘There’s plenty that need housing,’ Holmes replied. Rebus wasn’t listening. As the car pulled to a stop, he was out and walking briskly towards the skip. It was filling up with the detritus of the squat’s interior. There were sounds of hammering from within. In the back of the van, a workman supped from a plastic cup, his thermos clutched in his other hand.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ Rebus demanded.

  The workman blew on the contents of his cup, then took another swig before replying. ‘Me, I suppose.’ His eyes were wary. He could smell authority a mile off. ‘This is a legitimate tea-break.’

  ‘Never mind that. What’s going on?’

  ‘Who wants to know.’

  ‘CID wants to know.’

  He looked hard at Rebus’s harder face, and made up his mind instantly. ‘Well, we got word to come and clean this place up. Make it habitable.’

  ‘On whose orders?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somebody’s. We just take the chitty and go do the job.’

  ‘Right.’ Rebus had turned from the man and was walking up the path to the front door. Holmes, having smiled apologetically at the foreman, followed. In the living room, two workmen in overalls and thick red rubber gloves were whitewashing the walls. Charlie’s pentagram had already been covered, its outline barely visible through the drying layer of paint. The men looked towards Rebus, then to the wall.

  ‘We’ll cover it up next coat,’ said one. ‘Don’t worry yourself about that.’

  Rebus stared at the man, then marched past Holmes out of the room. He started to climb the stairs, and turned into Ronnie’s bedroom. Another workman, much younger than the two downstairs, was gathering Ronnie’s few belongings together into a large black plastic bag. As Rebus entered the room, the boy was caught, frozen, stuffing one of the paperbacks into the pocket of his overalls.

  Rebus pointed to the book.

  ‘There’s a next of kin, son. Put it in the bag with the rest.’

  Something about his tone persuaded the teenager to obey.

  ‘Come across anything else interesting?’ Rebus asked now, hands in pockets, approaching the teenager.

  ‘Nothing,’ the boy said, guiltily.

  ‘In particular,’ Rebus went on, as though the teenager had not spoken, ‘photographs. Maybe just a few, maybe a whole packet. Hmm?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Right. Get down to the van and bring up a crowbar or something. I want these floorboards up.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard me, son. Do it.’

  Holmes just stood and watched in silent appreciation. Rebus seemed to have grown in physical stature, becoming broader, taller. Holmes couldn’t quite fathom the trick: maybe it had something to do with the hands in the pockets, the way the elbows jarred outwards, lending apparent substance to the frame. Whatever it was, it worked. The young workman stumbled out of the door and down the stairs.

  ‘You’re sure they’ll be here?’ said Holmes quietly. He tried to keep his tone level, not wishing to sound too sceptical. But Rebus was way past that stage. In Rebus’s mind, the photographs were already in his hand.

  ‘I’m certain, Brian. I can smell them.’

  ‘You’re sure that’s not just the bathroom?’

  Rebus turned and looked at him, as though seeing him for the very first time. ‘You might have a point, Brian. You just might.’

  Holmes followed Rebus to the bathroom. As Rebus kicked open the door, the stench embraced both men, arching them forward in a convulsive fit of gagging. Rebus brought a handkerchief from his pocket, pushed it to his face, and leaned towards the door handle, pulling the door shut again.

  ‘I’d forgotten about that place,’ he said. Then: ‘Wait here.’

  He returned with the foreman, a plastic dustbin, a shovel, and three small white face-masks, one of which he handed to Holmes. An elasticated band held the cardboard snout in place, and Holmes breathed deeply, testing the apparatus. He was just about to say something about the smell still being noticeable, when Rebus toed open the door again, and, as the foreman angled an industrial lamp into the bathroom, walked over the threshold.

  Rebus pulled the dustbin to the rim of the bath and left it there, gesturing for the lamp to be shone into the bath itself. Holmes nearly fell backwards out of the room. A fat rat, caught in the act of feasting upon the rotten contents of the bath, squealed, red eyes burning directly into the light. Rebus swung the shovel down and cut the animal in two neat halves. Holmes spun from the r
oom and, lifting the mask, retched against the damp wall. He tried taking gulps of air, but the smell was overpowering, the nausea returning in quickening floods.

  Back inside the room, the foreman and Rebus exchanged a smile which wrinkled their eyes above the face-masks. They had seen worse than this – much worse – in their time. Then, neither man naive enough to want to linger, they set to work, the foreman holding the lamp while Rebus shovelled the contents of the bath slowly into the dustbin. The mess of raw sewage ran slickly from the shovel, spattering Rebus’s shirt and trousers. He ignored it, ignored everything but the task at hand. He had done dirtier jobs in the Army, dirtier jobs by far during his failed training in the SAS. This was routine. And at least here there was some purpose to the task, some end in view.

  Or so he hoped.

  Holmes meantime was wiping his moist eyes with the back of his hand. Through the open door he could see the progress being made, eerie shadows cast across the wall and ceiling by the lamp, as one silhouette shovelled shit into a bin, filling it noisily. It was like a scene from some latter-day Inferno, lacking only the devils to goad the damned workers on. But these men looked, if not happy in their work, then at least … well, professional sprang to mind. Dear God, all he wanted was a flat to call his own, and the occasional holiday, and a decent car. And Nell, of course. This would make a funny story for her one day.

  But the last thing he felt like doing was smiling.

  Then he heard the cackle of laughter, and, looking around him, it took several moments to realise that it was coming from the bathroom, that it was John Rebus’s laugh, and that Rebus was dipping his hand into the mess, drawing it out again with something clinging to it. Holmes didn’t even notice the thick rubberised gloves which protected Rebus up to his elbows. He simply turned and walked downstairs on brittle legs.

  ‘Got you!’ Rebus cried.

  ‘There’s a hose outside,’ the foreman said.

  ‘Lead on,’ said Rebus, shaking the packet free of some of its clots. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

  ‘The name’s MacBeth,’ the foreman called back, heading for the stairway.

  In the cool, fresh air, they hosed down the package, standing it up against the front wall of the house as they did so. Rebus peered at it closely. A red plastic bag, like the carrier from a record shop, had been wrapped around some cloth, a shirt or the like. The whole had been stuck down with a roll’s worth of sellotape, then tied with string, knotted resolutely in the middle.

  ‘Clever little tyke, weren’t you, Ronnie?’ Rebus said to himself as he picked up the package. ‘Cleverer than they could ever have thought.’

  At the van, he threw down the rubber gloves, shook the foreman’s hand, and exchanged the names of local watering holes with him, making promises of a drink, a nippy sweetie some night in the future. Then he headed for the car, Holmes following sheepishly. All the way back to Rebus’s flat, Holmes didn’t once dare to suggest that they open a window and let in some fresh air.

  Rebus was like a child on a birthday morning who has just found his surprise. He clutched the parcel to him, staining his shirt even more, yet seemed loath to open it. Now that he possessed it, he could forestall the revelation. It would happen; that was all that mattered.

  When they arrived at the flat, however, Rebus’s mood changed again, and he dashed to the kitchen for some scissors. Holmes meantime made his excuses and went to the bathroom, scrubbing his hands, bared arms, and face thoroughly. His scalp itched, and he wished he could throw himself into the shower and stand beneath it for an hour or two.

  As he was coming out of the bathroom, he heard the sound from the kitchen. It was the antithesis of the laughter he had heard earlier, a kind of exasperated wail. He walked quickly to the kitchen, and saw Rebus standing there, head bowed, hands held out against the worktop as though supporting himself. The packet was open in front of him.

  ‘John? What’s wrong?’

  Rebus’s voice was soft, suddenly tired. ‘They’re just pictures of a bloody boxing match. That’s all they are. Just bloody sports photos.’

  Holmes came forward slowly, fearing noise and movement might crack Rebus completely.

  ‘Maybe,’ he suggested, peering over Rebus’s slumped shoulder, ‘maybe there’s somebody in the crowd. In the audience. This Hyde could be one of the spectators.’

  ‘The spectators are just a blur. Take a look.’

  Holmes did. There were twelve or so photographs. Two featherweights, no love lost, were slugging it out. There was nothing subtle about the contest, but nothing unusual about it either.

  ‘Maybe it’s Hyde’s boxing club.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Rebus, not really caring any more. He had been so sure that he would find the pictures, and so sure that they would prove the final, clinching piece of the puzzle. Why were they hidden away so carefully, so cunningly? And so well protected. There had to be a reason.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Holmes, who was becoming irritating again, ‘maybe there’s something we’re missing. The cloth they’re wrapped in, the envelope …?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody thick, Holmes!’ Rebus slammed a hand against the worktop, and immediately calmed. ‘Sorry. Jesus, sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Holmes said coldly. ‘I’ll make some coffee or something. Then why don’t we take a good look at those snaps? Eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rebus said, pushing himself upright. ‘Good idea.’ He headed towards the door. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ He turned and smiled at Holmes. ‘I must stink to high heaven.’

  ‘A very agricultural smell, sir,’ Holmes said, smiling also. They laughed at the shared reference to Farmer Watson. Then Rebus went to have his shower, and Holmes made the coffee, jealous of the sounds from the bathroom. He took another look at the photographs, a close look, hoping for something, something he could use to impress Rebus with, to cheer Rebus up just a little.

  The boxers were young, photographed from ringside or near as dammit. But the photographer – Ronnie McGrath presumably – hadn’t used a flash, depending instead upon the smoky lights above the ring. Consequently, neither boxers nor audience were recognisable as distinct individuals. Their faces were grainy, the outlines of the combatants themselves blurred with sluggish movement. Why hadn’t the photographer used a flash?

  In one photo, the right-hand side of the frame was dark, cut off at an angle by something getting in the way of the lens. What? A passing spectator? Somebody’s jacket?

  It struck Holmes with sudden clarity: the photographer’s jacket had got in the way, and it had done so because the photos were being taken surreptitiously, from beneath a jacket. This would explain the poor quality of the photos, and the uneven angles of most of them. So there had to be a reason for them, and they had to be the clue Rebus was seeking. All they had to do now was discover just what kind of clue.

  The shower became a drip, then died altogether. A few moments later, Rebus appeared clad only in a towel, holding it around his gut as he went to the bedroom to change. He was balancing with one foot poised above a trouser leg when Holmes burst in, waving the photographs.

  ‘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 pe
rson 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.