Hide & Seek

She was sorting through request forms when the commotion began. The guard on the library entrance had stopped someone who was trying to get in without any identification. Normally, Nell knew, the guard wouldn’t have worried, but the girl was so obviously distraught, so obviously not a reader, not even a student. She was loudly argumentative, where a real student would have quietly explained that they had forgotten to bring their matriculation card with them. There was something else, too … Nell frowned, trying to place the girl. Catching her profile, she remembered the photograph in Brian’s briefcase. Yes, it was the same girl. No girl, really, but a fully grown, if youthful, woman. The lines around the eyes were the giveaway, no matter how slender the body, how fashionably young the clothes. But why was she making this fuss? She’d always gone to the coffee shop, had never, to Nell’s knowledge, tried to get into the library proper before now. Nell’s curiosity was aroused.

The guard was holding Tracy by the arm, and she was shrieking abuse at him, her eyes frantic. Nell tried to be authoritarian in her walk as she approached the pair of them.

‘Is there some problem, Mr Clarke?’

‘I can handle it, miss.’ His eyes betrayed his words. He was sweating, past retirement age, neither used to this sort of physical struggle nor knowing what to do about it. Nell turned to the girl.

‘You can’t just barge in here, you know. But if you want a message passed on to one of the students inside, I’ll see what I can do.’

The girl struggled again. ‘I just want to come in!’ All reasoning had gone now. She knew only that if someone was stopping her getting in, then she had to get in somehow.

‘Well you can’t,’ Nell said angrily. She should not have interfered. She was used to dealing with quiet, sane, rational people. Okay, some of them might lose their tempers momentarily when frustrated in their search for a book. But they would always remember their place. The girl stared at her, and the stare seemed absolutely malevolent. There was no trace of human kindness in it at all. Nell felt the hairs on her neck bristle. Then the girl gave a banshee wail, throwing herself forward, loosing the guard’s grip. Her forehead smashed into Nell’s face, sending the librarian flying, feet rooted to the spot, so that she fell like so much timber. Tracy stood there for a moment, seeming to come to herself. The guard made to grab her, but she gave another yell, and he backed off. Then she pushed past him out of the library doors and started running again, head down, arms and legs uncoordinated. The guard watched her, fearful still, then turned his attention to the bloody and unconscious face of Nell Stapleton.

The man who answered the door was blind.

‘Yes?’ he asked, holding the door, sightless eyes discernible behind the dark green lenses of his glasses. The hallway behind him was in deep shadow. What need had it of light?

“Mr Vanderhyde?’

The man smiled. ‘Yes?’ he repeated. Rebus couldn’t take his own eyes off those of the elderly man. Those green lenses reminded him of claret bottles. Vanderhyde would

be sixty-five, maybe seventy. His hair was silvery yellow, thick, well groomed. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, brown waistcoat, a watch chain hanging from one pocket. And he was leaning ever so slightly on a silver-topped stick. For some reason, Rebus had the idea that Vanderhyde would be able to handle that cane swiftly and effectively as a weapon, should anyone unpleasant ever come calling.

‘Mr Vanderhyde, I’m a police officer.’ Rebus was reaching for his wallet.

‘Don’t bother with identification, unless it’s in braille.’ Vanderhyde’s words stopped Rebus short, his hand frozen in his inside jacket pocket.

‘Of course,’ he mumbled, feeling ever so slightly ridiculous. Funny how people with disabilities had that special gift of making you seem so much less able than them.

‘You’d better come in, Inspector.’

‘Thank you.’ Rebus was in the hall before it hit him. ‘How did you -?’

Vanderhyde shook his head. ‘A lucky guess,’ he said, leading the way. ‘A shot in the dark, you might say.’ His laughter was abrasive. Rebus, studying what he could see of the hall, was wondering how even a blind man could make such a botched job of interior decoration. A stuffed owl stared down from its dusty pedestal, next to an umbrella stand which seemed to consist of a hollowed elephant’s foot. An ornately carved occasional table boasted a pile of unread mail and a cordless telephone. Rebus gave this latter item most attention.

‘Technology has made such progress, don’t you agree?’ Vanderhyde was saying. ‘Invaluable for those of us who have lost one of the senses.’

‘Yes,’ Rebus replied, as Vanderhyde opened the door to another room, almost as dark to Rebus’s eyes as the hall.

‘In here, Inspector.’