Hide & Seek

Rebus checked his watch. ‘Okay, what about if I drive you back to the squat now? We can check that there’s no one watching.’

‘I don’t know.. ..’ The fear had returned to her face, erasing years from her, turning her into a child again, afraid of shadows and ghosts.

‘I’ll be there,’ Rebus added.

‘Well. .. . Can I do something first?’

‘What?’

She pulled at her damp clothes. ‘Take a bath,’ she said. Then she smiled. ‘I know it’s a bit brassnecked, but I really could use one, and there’s no water at all in the squat.’

Rebus smiled too, nodding slowly. ‘My bathtub is at your disposal,’ he said.

While she was in the bath, he hung her clothes over the radiator in the hall. Turning the central heating on made a sauna of the flat, and Rebus struggled with the sash windows in the living room, trying without success to open them. He made more tea, in a pot this time, and had just carried it into the living room when he heard her call from the bathroom. When he came out into the hall, she had her head around the bathroom door, steam billowing out around her. Her hair, face and neck were gleaming.

‘No towels,’ she explained.

‘Sorry,’ said Rebus. He found some in the cupboard in his room, and brought them to her, pushing them through the gap in the door, feeling awkward despite himself.

‘Thanks,’ she called.

He had swopped The White Album for some jazz - barely audible - and was sitting with his tea when she came in. One large red towel was expertly tied around her body, another around her head. He had often wondered how

women could be so good at wearing towels. . . . Her arms and legs were pale and thin, but there was no doubting that her shape was pleasing, and the glow from the bath gave her a kind of nimbus. He remembered the photographs of her in Ronnie’s room. Then he recalled the missing camera.

‘Was Ronnie still keen on photography? I mean, of late.’ The choice of words was accidentally unsubtle, and he winced a little, but Tracy appeared not to notice.

‘I suppose so. He was quite good, you know. He had a good eye. But he didn’t get the breaks.’

‘How hard did he try?’

‘Bloody hard.’ There was resentment in her voice. Perhaps Rebus had allowed too much professional scepticism to creep into his tone.

‘Yes, I’m sure. Not an easy profession to get into, I’d imagine.’

‘Too true. And there were some who knew how good Ronnie was. They didn’t want the competition. Put obstacles in his way whenever and wherever they could.’

‘You mean other photographers?’

‘That’s right. Well, when Ronnie was going through his really keen spell, before disillusionment set in, he didn’t know quite how to get the breaks. So he went to a couple of studios, showed some of his work to the guys who worked there. He had some really inspired shots. You know, everyday things seen from weird angles. The Castle, Waverley Monument, Calton Hill.’

‘Calton Hill?’

‘Yes, the whatsit.’

‘The folly?’

‘That’s it.’ The towel was slipping a little from around her shoulders, and as Tracy sat with her legs tucked beneath her, sipping tea, it also fell away to reveal more than enough thigh. Rebus tried to concentrate his eyes on her face. It wasn’t easy. ‘Well,’ she was saying, ‘a couple

of his ideas got ripped off. He’d see a photo in one of the local rags, and it’d be exactly the angle he’d used, the same time of day, same filters. Those bastards had copied his ideas. He’d see their names beneath the pictures, the same guys he’d shown his portfolio to.’

‘What were their names?’

‘I don’t remember now.’ She readjusted the towel. There seemed something defensive in the action. Was it so hard to remember a name? She giggled. ‘He tried to get me to pose for him.’

‘I saw the results.’

‘No, not those ones. You know, nude shots. He said he could sell them for a fortune to some of the magazines. But I wasn’t having it. I mean, the money would’ve been all well and good, but these mags get passed around, don’t they? I mean, they never get thrown away. I’d always be wondering if anybody could recognise me on the street.’ She waited for Rebus’s reaction, and when it was one of thoughtful bemusement, laughed throatily. ‘So, it’s not true what they say. You can embarrass a copper.’

‘Sometimes.’ Rebus’s cheeks were tingling. He put a hand self-consciously to one of them. He had to do something about this. ‘So,’ he said, ‘was Ronnie’s camera worth much then?’

She seemed nonplussed by this turn in the conversation, and pulled the towel even tighter around her. ‘Depends. I mean, worth and value, they’re not the same thing, are they?’

‘Aren’t they?’

‘Well, he might have paid only a tenner for the camera, but that doesn’t mean it was only worth a tenner to him. Do you see?’

So he paid a tenner for the camera?’

‘No, no, no.’ She shook her head, dislodging the towel. ‘I thought you had to be brainy to get in the CID? What I mean is . . .’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling, and the