Hide & Seek

‘My two,’ Watson explained, ‘They’re a bit older than that now, but still a handful.’

Watson was a large man, his girth giving truth to the phrase ‘barrel-chested’. His face was ruddy, hair thin and silvered at the temples. Yes, Rebus could picture him in galoshes and a trout-fishing hat, stomping his way across a moor, his collie obedient beside him. But what did he want with Rebus? Was he seeking a human collie?

‘You were at the scene of a drugs overdose this morning.’ It was a statement of fact, so Rebus didn’t

bother to answer. ‘It should have’ been Inspector McCall’s call, but he was … well, wherever he was.’

‘He’s a good copper, sir.’

Watson stared up at him, then smiled. ‘Inspector McCall’s qualities are not in question. That’s not why you’re here. But your being on the scene gave me an idea. You probably know that I’m interested in this city’s drugs problem. Frankly, the statistics appal me. It’s not something I’d encountered in Aberdeen, with the exception of some of the oil workers. But then it was mostly the executives, the ones they flew in from the United States. They brought their habits, if you’ll pardon the pun, with them. But here -’ He flicked open the folder and began to pick over some of the sheets. ‘Here, Inspector, it’s Hades. Plain and simple.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you a churchgoer?’

‘Sir?’ Rebus was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

‘It’s a simple enough question, isn’t it? Do you go to church?’

‘Not regularly, sir. But sometimes I do, yes.’ like yesterday, Rebus thought. And here again he felt like fleeing.

‘Someone said you did. Then you should know what I’m talking about when I say that this city is turning into Hades.’ Watson’s face was ruddier than ever. ‘The Infirmary has treated addicts as young as eleven and twelve. Your own brother is serving a prison sentence for dealing in drugs.’ Watson looked up again, perhaps expecting Rebus to look shamed. But Rebus’s eyes were a fiery glare, his cheeks red not with embarrassment.

‘With respect, sir,’ he said, voice level but as taut as a wire, ‘what has this got to do with me?’

‘Simply this.’ Watson closed the folder and settled back in his chair. ‘I’m putting into operation a new anti-drugs campaign. Public awareness and that sort of thing,

coupled with funding for discreet information. I’ve got the backing, and what’s more I’ve got the money. A group of the city’s businessmen are prepared to put fifty thousand pounds into the campaign.’

‘Very public-spirited of them, sir.’

Watson’s face became darker. He leaned forward in his chair, filling Rebus’s vision. ‘You better bloody believe it,’ he said.

‘But I still don’t see where I —’

‘John.’ The voice was anodyne now. ‘You’ve had .. . experience. Personal experience. I’d like you to help me front our side of the campaign.’

‘No, sir, really -’

‘Good. That’s agreed then.’ Watson had already risen. Rebus tried to stand, too, but his legs had lost all power. He pushed against the armrests with his hands and managed to heave himself upright. Was this the price they were demanding? Public atonement for having a rotten brother? Watson was opening the door. ‘We’ll talk again, go through the details. But for now, try to tie up whatever you’re working on, casenotes up to date, that sort of thing. Tell me what you can’t finish, and we’ll find someone to take it off your hands.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus clutched at the proffered hand. It was like steel, cool, dry and crushing.

‘Goodbye, sir,’ Rebus said, standing in the corridor now, to a door that had already closed on him.

That evening, still numb, he grew bored with television and left his flat, planning to drive around a bit, no real destination in mind. Marchmont was quiet, but then it always was. His car sat undisturbed on the cobbles outside his tenement. He started it up and drove, entering the centre of town, crossing to the New Town. At Canonmills he stopped in the forecourt of a petrol station and filled the

car, adding a torch, some batteries, and several bars of chocolate to his purchases, paying by credit card.

He ate the chocolate as he drove, trying not to think of the next day’s cigarette ration, and listened to the car radio. Gill Templer’s lover, Calum McCallum, began his broadcast at eight thirty, and he listened for a few minutes. It was enough. The mock-cheery voice, the jokes so lame they needed wheelchairs, the predictable mix of old records and telephone-linked chatter…. Rebus turned the tuning knob until he found Radio Three. Recognising the music of Mozart, he turned up the volume.