‘Bit too much to drink, Tommy?’ said Carew. ‘Just need a breath of air,’ said McCall. ‘John’ll help me, won’t you, John?’
‘Of course,’ said Rebus, glad of this excuse for the very thing he needed.
McCall turned back towards Carew. ‘Got your new car with you?’
Carew shook his head. ‘I left it in the garage.’ McCall, nodding, turned to Rebus. ‘The flash bugger’s just bought himself a V-Twelve Jag,’ he explained. ‘Nearly forty thousand, and I’m not talking about miles on the clock.’
One of the waiters was standing by the lift. ‘Nice to have seen you gentlemen again,’ he said, his voice as automatic as the lift doors which closed when Rebus and McCall stepped inside.
‘I must have arrested him some time,’ Rebus said, ‘because I’ve never been here before, so he can’t have seen me here before.’
‘This place is nothing,’ said McCall, screwing up his face. ‘Nothing. You want some fun, you should come to the club one night. Just say you’re a friend of Finlay’s. That’ll get you in. Great place it is.’
‘I might do that,’ said Rebus as the lift doors opened. ‘Just as soon as my cummerbund comes back from the dry cleaners.’
McCall laughed all the way out of the building.
Holmes was stiff as he left the building by its staff entrance. The youth, having shown him through the maze of corridors, had already turned back inside, hands in pockets, whistling. Holmes wondered if he really would end up with a career in journalism. Stranger things had happened.
He had found the photographs he wanted, one in each of three consecutive Wednesday daytime’s editions. From these, the photographic library had traced the originals, and on the backs of the originals was the same golden rectangular sticker, denoting that the photos were the property of Jimmy Hutton Photographic Studios. The stickers, bless them, even mentioned an address and phone number. So Holmes allowed himself the luxury of a stretch, cracking his spine back into some semblance of shape. He thought about treating himself to a pint, but after leaning over the study table for the best part of two hours the last thing he wanted to do was lean against a bar as he drank. Besides, it was three fifteen. He was already, thanks to a quick-witted but slow-moving photo library, late for his meeting - his first - with Inspector Rebus. He didn’t know how Rebus stood on the issue of punctuality; he feared the stand would be hard. Well, if the day’s work so far didn’t cheer him up, he wasn’t human.
But then that was the rumour anyway.
Not that Holmes believed rumours. Well, not always.
As it turned out, Rebus was the later of the two for the meeting, though he had phoned ahead to apologise, which was something. Holmes was seated in front of Rebus’s desk when Rebus finally arrived, pulling off rather a gaudy tie and dumping it into a drawer. Only then did he turn to Holmes, stare at him, smile, and stretch out a hand, which Holmes accepted.
Well that’s something, thought Rebus: he’s not a mason either.
‘Your first name is Brian, isn’t it?’ said Rebus sitting down.
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Good. I’ll call you Brian, and you can keep on calling me sir. That seem fair enough?’
Holmes smiled. ‘Very fair, sir.’
‘Right, any progress?’
So Holmes started at the beginning. As he spoke, he noticed that Rebus, though trying his damnedest to be attentive, was drowsy. His breath across the table was strong-smelling. Whatever he’d had for lunch had agreed with him too well. Finishing his report, he waited for Rebus to speak.
Rebus merely nodded, and was silent for some time. Collecting his thoughts? Holmes felt the need to fill the vacuum.
‘What’s the problem, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘You’ve every right to ask,’ said Rebus at last. But he stopped at that.
‘Well, sir?’
‘I’m not sure, Brian. That’s the truth. Okay, here’s what I know - and I stress know, because there’s plenty I think, which isn’t quite the same thing in this case.’
‘There is a case then?’
‘You tell me, as soon as you’ve listened.’ And it was Rebus’s turn to make his ‘report’ of sorts, fixing it again in
his mind as he told the story. But it was too fragmented, too speculative. He could see Holmes struggling with the pieces, trying to see the whole picture. Was there a picture there to see?
‘So you see,’ Rebus ended, ‘we’ve got a junkie full of poison, self-inflicted. Someone who supplied the poison. Bruising on the body, and the hint of a witchcraft connection. We’ve got a missing camera, a tie clip, some photographs, and a girlfriend being followed. You see my problem?’
‘Too much to go on.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So what do we do now?’
That ‘we’ caught Rebus’s attention. For the first time, he realised that he was no longer in this alone, whatever ‘this’ was. The thought cheered him a little, though the hangover was starting now, the sleepy slow thumping either side of his forehead.
‘I’m going to see a man about a coven,’ he said, sure now of the next steps. ‘And you’re going to visit Hutton’s
