Hide & Seek

Rebus looked down and saw that his hand was still bleeding in several places.

‘Seven years bad luck,’ he said. ‘Do you have a minute, sir? There’s something I’d like to show you. But first I need to phone for an ambulance.’

‘But why, for God’s sake? The rumpus is over, surely?’

Rebus looked at his superior. ‘I wouldn’t bet on that, sir,’ he said. ‘Not even if the chips were on the house.’

Rebus made his way home wearily, not from any real physical tiredness, but because his mind felt abused. The stairwell almost defeated him. He paused on the first floor, outside Mrs Cochrane’s door, for what seemed minutes. He tried not to think about Hyde’s, about what it meant, what it had been, what emotions it had serviced. But, not consciously thinking of it, bits of it flew around inside his head anyway, little jagged pieces of horror.

Mrs Cochrane’s cats wanted out. He could hear them on the other side of the door. A cat-flap would have been the answer, but Mrs Cochrane didn’t believe in them. like leaving your door open to strangers, she had said. Any old moggie could just waltz in.

How true. Somehow, Rebus found that little unwrapped parcel of strength which was necessary to climb the extra flight. He unlocked his door and closed it again behind him. Sanctuary. In the kitchen, he munched on a dry roll while he waited for the kettle to boil.

Watson had listened to his story with mounting unease and disbelief. He had wondered aloud just how many important people were implicated. But then only Andrews and Lanyon could answer that. They’d found some video film as well as an impressive selection of still photographs. Watson’s lips had been bloodless, though many of the faces meant nothing to Rebus. Still, a few of them did. Andrews had been right about the judges and the lawyers.

Thankfully, there were no policemen on display. Except one.

Rebus had wanted to clear up a murder, and instead had stumbled into a nest of vipers. He wasn’t sure any of it would come to light. Too many reputations would fall. The public’s faith in the beliefs and institutions of the city, of the country itself would be shattered. How long would it take to pick up the pieces of that broken mirror? Rebus examined his bandaged wrist. How long for the wounds to heal?

He went into the living room, carrying his tea. Tony McCall was seated in a chair, waiting.

‘Hello, Tony,’ Rebus said.

‘Hello, John.’

‘Thanks for your help back there.’

‘What are friends for?’

Earlier in the day, when Rebus had asked for Tony McCall’s help, McCall had broken down.

‘I know all about it, John,’ he had confessed. ‘Tommy took me along there once. It was hideous, and I didn’t stick around. But maybe there are pictures of me … I don’t know … Maybe there are.’

Rebus hadn’t needed to ask any more. It had come spilling out like beer from a tap: things bad at home, bit of fun, couldn’t tell anyone about it because he didn’t know who already knew. Even now he thought it best to keep quiet about it. Rebus had accepted the warning.

‘I’m still going ahead,’ he had said. ‘With you or without. Your choice.’

Tony McCall had agreed to help.

Rebus sat down, placed the tea on the floor, and reached into his pocket for the photograph he had lifted from the files at Hyde’s. He threw it in McCall’s direction. McCall lifted it, stared at it with fearful eyes.

‘You know,’ Rebus said, ‘Andrews was after Tommy’s

haulage company. He’d have had it, too, and at a bargain-basement price.’

‘Rotten bastard/ McCall said, tearing the photograph methodically into smaller and smaller pieces.

‘Why did you do it, Tony?’

‘I told you, John. Tommy took me along. Just a bit of fun-’

‘No, I mean why did you break into the squat and plant that powder on Ronnie?’

‘Me?’ McCall’s eyes were wider than ever now, but the look in them was still fear rather than surprise. It was all guesswork, but Rebus knew he was guessing right.

‘Come on, Tony. Do you think Finlay Andrews is going to let any names stay secret? He’s going down, and he’s got no reason to let anyone’s head stay above water.’

McCall thought about this. He let the bits of the photograph flutter into the ashtray, then set light to them with a match. They dissolved to blackened ash, and he seemed satisfied.

‘Andrews needed a favour. It was always “favours” with him. I think he’d seen The Godfather too many times. Pilmuir was my beat, my territory. We’d met through Tommy, so he thought to ask me.’

‘And you were happy to oblige.’

‘Well, he had the picture, didn’t he?’

‘There must’ve been more.’

‘Well …” McCall paused again, crushed the ash in the ashtray with his forefinger. A fine dust was all that was left. ‘Yes, hell, I was happy enough to do it. The guy was a junkie after all, a piece of rubbish. And he was already dead. All I had to do was place a little packet beside him, that’s all.’

‘You never questioned why?’

‘Ask no questions and all that.’ He smiled. ‘Finlay was offering me membership, you see. Membership of Hyde’s. Well, I knew what that meant. I’d be on nodding terms