Hide & Seek

Rebus waited with McCall until the taxi arrived. He gave the driver McCall’s address, and watched the cab pull away. Damn, he felt a little groggy himself. He went back into the pub and headed for the toilets. The bar was busier now, the jukebox louder. The bar staff had grown in strength from one to three, and they were working hard to cope. The toilets were a cool tiled haven, free from much of the bar’s cigarette smoke. Pine disinfectant caught in Rebus’s nostrils as he leaned over into one of the sinks. Two fingers sought out his tonsils, pausing there at the back of his throat until he retched, bringing up half a pint of beer, then another half. He breathed deeply, feeling a little better already, then washed his face thoroughly with cold water, drying himself off with a fistful of paper towels.

‘You all right?’ The voice lacked real sympathy. Its

owner had just pushed open the door to the gents’ and was already seeking the closest urinal.

‘Never felt better,’ said Rebus.

‘That’s good.’

Good? He didn’t know about that, but at least his head was clearer, the world more in focus. He doubted if he’d fail a breathalyser, which was just as well, since his next port of call was his car, parked on a darkened side road. He was still wondering how Tony McCall, shaky on his pins after half a dozen pints, had managed to play pool with such a steady eye and steady hand. The man was miraculous. He’d beaten Rebus six straight games. And Rebus-had been trying. By the end he’d really been trying. After all, it didn’t look good when a man barely able to stand upright could pot ball after ball, cleaning up and roaring to yet another victory. It didn’t look good. It hadn’t felt good.

It was eleven o’clock, perhaps a little early yet. He allowed himself one cigarette in the stationary car, window open, picking up the sounds from the world around him. The honest sounds of the late evening: traffic, heightened voices, laughter, the clatter of shoes on cobblestones. One cigarette, that was all. Then he started the car, and slowly drove the half mile or so to his destination. There was still some light in the sky, typical of the Edinburgh summer. Further north he knew it never got truly dark at this time of year.

But the night could be dark in other ways.

He spotted the first one on the pavement outside the Scottish Assembly building. There was no reason for the teenager to be standing there. It was an unlikely time of night to have arranged to meet friends, and the nearest bus stop was a hundred yards further up Waterloo Place. The lad stood there, smoking, one foot up behind him resting against the stone wall. He watched Rebus as the car slowly went past, and even lowered his head forward

a little so that he could peer in, as though inspecting the driver. Rebus thought there was a smile there, but couldn’t be sure. Further along the road, he turned the car and came back. Another car had stopped beside the boy, and a conversation was taking place. Rebus kept driving. Two young men were talking together outside the Scottish Office building on this side of the road. A little way past them, a line of three cars stood outside Calton Cemetery. Rebus cruised one more circuit, then parked near these cars, and walked.

The night was fresh. No cloud cover. There was a slight breeze, nothing more. The lad outside the Assembly building had gone off in the car. No one stood there now. Rebus crossed the road, stopped by the wall, and waited, biding his time. He watched. One or two cars drove past him slowly, the drivers turning to stare at him. But nobody stopped. He tried memorising the number plates, unsure why.

‘Got a light, mister?’

He was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Dressed in jeans, training shoes, a shapeless T-shirt and denim jacket. His hair had been razored short, face cleanshaven but scarred with acne. There were two gold studs in his left ear.

‘Thanks,’ he said as Rebus held out a box of matches. Then: ‘What’s happening then?’, with an amused glance towards Rebus before lighting the cigarette.

‘Not much,’ Rebus said, taking back the matchbox. The young man blew smoke out through his nostrils. He didn’t seem about to go. Rebus wondered if there were any codes he should be using. He felt clammy beneath his thin shirt, despite the gooseflesh.

‘Nah, there’s never much happens around here. Fancy a drink?’

‘At this time? Whereabouts?’

The young man nodded a vague direction. ‘Calton Cemetery. You can always get a drink there.’

‘No, thanks anyway.’ Rebus was appalled to find himself blushing. He hoped the street lighting would disguise it.

‘Fair enough. See you around then.’ The young man was moving off.

‘Yes,’ Rebus said, relieved. ‘See you.’

‘And thanks for the light.’