Hide & Seek

‘Yes, you know. Put two dogs in a ring. Let them tear each other to shreds. Place bets on the result.’

‘I thought that died with the depression.’

‘There’s been a revival of late. Vicious it is, too. I could show you some photos -’

‘Why the revival?’

‘Who knows? People looking for kicks, something less tame than a bet at the bookie’s.’

Rebus was nodding now, almost lost to his own thoughts again.

‘Would you say it was a yuppie pursuit, Holmes?’

Holmes shrugged: he’s getting better. Stopped calling me by my first name.

‘Well, never mind. So you want to be in on the arrest?’

Holmes nodded. ‘If possible, sir.’

‘Entirely possible,’ said Rebus. ‘So where’s it all happening?’

‘I still have to check that out. Somewhere in Fife though.’

‘Fife? Home territory for me.’

‘Is it? I didn’t know. What’s that saying again . ..?’

‘ “Ye need a lang spoon tae sup wi’ a Fifer.” ‘

Holmes smiled. ‘Yes, that’s it. There’s a similar saying about the devil, isn’t there?’

‘All it means is that we’re close, Holmes, tightly knit. We don’t suffer fools and strangers gladly. Now off you go to Fife and see what I’m on about.’

‘Yes, sir. What about you? I mean, what will you do about.. .?’ His eyes were on the photograph again. Rebus

picked it up and placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Don’t worry about me, son. I’ve plenty to keep me busy. Just keeping out of range of Farmer Watson is work enough for a day. Maybe I’ll take the car out. Nice day for a drive.’

‘Nice day for a drive.’

Tracy was doing her best to ignore him. She stared from her passenger side window, seemingly interested in the passing parade of shops and shoppers, tourists, kids with nothing to do now the schools had broken up for summer.

She’d been keen enough to get out of the station though. He’d held the car door open for her, dissuading her from just walking away. And she’d complied, but silently, sullenly. Okay, she was in the huff with him. He’d get over it. So would she.

‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘You’re pissed off. But how many times do I have to tell you? It was for your own safety, while I was doing some checking up.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Do you know this part of town?’

She was silent. There was to be no conversation. Only questions and answers: her questions.

‘We’re just driving,’ he said. ‘You must know this side of town. A lot of dealing used to go on around here.’

‘I’m not into that!’

It was Rebus’s turn to be silent. He wasn’t too old to play a game or two himself. He took a left, then another, then a right.

‘We’ve been here already,’ she commented. She’d noticed then, clever girl. Still, that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that slowly, by degrees, by left and right then left and right again, he was guiding them towards the destination.

He pulled into the kerb abruptly and yanked on the handbrake.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re here.’

‘Here?’ She looked out of the side window, up at the tenement building. The red stone had been cleaned in the past year, giving it the look of a child’s plasticine, pinky ochre and malleable. ‘Here?’ she repeated, the word choking off as she recognised the exact address, and then tried not to let that recognition show.

The photograph was on her lap when she turned from the window. She flicked it from her with a squeal, as though it were an insect. Rebus plucked the photo from the floor of the car and held it out to her.

‘Yours, I believe.’

‘Where the hell did you get that?’

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

Her face was as red as the stonework now, her eyes flitting in panic like a bird’s. She fumbled with the seatbelt, desperate to be out of the car, but Rebus’s hand on the catch was rock hard.

‘Let me go!’ she yelled, thumping down on his fist. Then she pushed open the door, but the camber of the road pulled it shut again. There was not enough give in the seatbelt anyway. She was securely bound.

‘I thought we’d pay Mr Hutton a call,’ Rebus was saying, his voice like a blade. ‘Ask him about this photo. About how he paid you a few quid to model for him. About how you brought him Ronnie’s pictures. Looking for a few bob more maybe, or just to spite Ronnie. Is that how it was, Tracy? I’ll bet Ronnie was pissed off when he saw Hutton had stolen his ideas. Couldn’t prove it though, could he? And how was he to know how the hell Hutton got them in the first place? I suppose you put the blame on Charlie, and that’s why the two of you aren’t exactly on speaking terms. Some friend to Ronnie you were, sweetheart. Some friend.’