Hide & Seek

‘Of course not. Anyway, I thought these might cheer you up.’ Holmes brandished a large manilla envelope, which had been discreetly tucked inside his cord jacket. Rebus hadn’t seen this cord jacket before, and supposed it to be the Detective Constable’s flat-buying uniform.

‘What are they?’ said Rebus, accepting the packet.

‘Pics. Last night’s raid. Thought you might be interested;

Rebus opened the envelope and withdrew a set of ten-by-eight black and whites. They showed the more or less blurred shapes of men scrambling across waste ground. What light there was had about it a halogen starkness,

sending up huge black shadows and capturing some faces in chalky states of shock and surprise.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘That DS Hendry sent them across with a note sympathising over Nell. He thought these might cheer me up.’

‘I told you he was a good bloke. Any idea which one of these goons is the DJ?’

Holmes leapt from his seat and crouched beside Rebus, who was holding a photograph at the ready.

‘No,’ Holmes said, ‘there’s a better shot of him.’ He thumbed through the set until he found the picture he was looking for. ‘Here we are. That one there. That’s McCallum.’

Rebus studied the fuzzy semblance before him. The look of fear, so distinct against the blurred face, could have been drawn by a child. Wide eyes and a mouth puckered into an ‘0′, arms suspended as though between rapid flight and final surrender.

Rebus smiled a smile that reached all the way up to his eyes.

‘You’re sure this is him?’

‘One of the PCs at the station recognised him. He said he once got McCallum to sign an autograph for him.’

‘I’m impressed. Shouldn’t think he’ll be signing too many more though. Where are they holding him?’

‘Everybody they arrested has gone to Dunfermline nick’.

‘That’s nice for them. By the by, did they nab the ringleaders?’

‘Each and every one. Including Brightman. He was the boss.’

‘Davy Brightman? The scrappie?’

‘That’s him.’

‘I played against that bugger at football a couple of times when I was at school. He played left back for his team when I was on the wing for ours. He gave me a good studding one match.’

‘Revenge is sweet,’ said Holmes.

‘It is that, Brian.’ Rebus was studying the photograph again. ‘It is that.’

‘Actually, a couple of the punters did scarper apparently, but they’re all on film. The camera never lies, eh, sir?’

Rebus began to sift through the other pictures. ‘A powerful tool, the camera,’ he said. His face suddenly changed.

‘Sir? Are you all right?’

Rebus’s voice was reduced to a whisper. ‘I’ve just had a revelation, Brian. A whatsit . . .? epiphany, is it?’

‘No idea, sir.’ Holmes was sure now that something inside his superior had snapped.

‘Epiphany, yes. I know where this has all been leading, Brian. I’m sure of it. That bastard on Calton Hill said something about pictures, some pictures everybody was interested in. They’re Ronnie’s pictures.’

‘What? The ones in his bedroom?’

‘No, not those.’

‘The ones at Hutton’s studio then?’

‘Not quite. No, I don’t know exactly where these particular pictures are, but I’ve got a bloody good idea. “Hide” can be a noun, Brian. Come on.’

‘Where?’ Holmes watched as Rebus sprang from his chair, heading for the door. He started to collect the photographs, which Rebus had let fall from his hands.

‘Never mind those,’ Rebus ordered, slipping on a jacket.

‘But where the hell are we going?’

‘You just answered your own question,’ Rebus said, turning back to grin at Holmes. ‘That’s exactly where we’re going.’

‘But where?’

‘To hell, of course. Come on.’

It was turning cold. The sun had just about tired itself out,

and was retiring from the contest. The clouds were sticking-plaster pink. Two great final sunbeams shone down like torchlight upon Pilmuir, and picked out just the one building, leaving the other houses in the street untouched. Rebus sucked in breath. He had to admit, it was quite a sight.

‘Like the stable at Bethlehem,’ said Holmes.

‘A damned queer stable,’ Rebus retorted. ‘God’s got a funny sense of humour if this is His idea of a joke.’

‘You did say we were going to hell.’

‘I wasn’t expecting Cecil B. DeMille to be in on it though. What’s going on there?’

Almost hidden by the day’s last gasp of sunlight, a van and a hire skip were parked directly in front of Ronnie’s house.

‘The council?’ Holmes suggested. ‘Probably cleaning the place up.’

‘Why, in God’s name?’

‘There’s plenty that need housing,’ Holmes replied. Rebus wasn’t listening. As the car pulled to a stop, he was out and walking briskly towards the skip. It was filling up with the detritus of the squat’s interior. There were sounds of hammering from within. In the back of the van, a workman supped from a plastic cup, his thermos clutched in his other hand.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ Rebus demanded.

The workman blew on the contents of his cup, then took another swig before replying. ‘Me, I suppose.’ His eyes were wary. He could smell authority a mile off. ‘This is a legitimate tea-break.’

‘Never mind that. What’s going on?’

‘Who wants to know.’