Rebus nodded. ‘I know him. I’m surprised you don’t, at least by reputation.’
Holmes shrugged. ‘I just hope they nab those bastards.’
Rebus had stopped outside the door of a ward. ‘This it?’ Holmes asked. Rebus nodded. ‘Want me to come in with you?’
Holmes stared at his superior with something approaching gratitude, then shook his head.
‘No, it’s all right. I won’t stay if she’s asleep. One last thing though.’
‘Yes?’
‘Who did it?’
Who did it. That was the hardest part to understand. Walking back along the corridor, Rebus saw Nell’s puffy face, saw her distress as she tried to talk, and couldn’t. She had signalled for some paper. He had taken a notebook from his pocket, and handed her his pen. Then she had written furiously for a full minute. He stopped now and took out the notebook, reading it through for the fourth or fifth time that evening.
‘I was working at the library. A woman tried to push her way into the building, past the guard. Talk to him if you want to check. This woman then butted me on the face. I was trying to help, to calm her down. She must have thought I was interfering. But I wasn’t. I was trying to help. She was the girl in that photograph, the nude photograph Brian had in his briefcase last night in the pub. You were there, weren’t you, in the same pub as us? Not easy not to notice - the place was empty, after all. Where’s Brian? Out chasing more salacious pictures for you, Inspector?’
Ian Rankin - Rebus 02 - Hide An
Rebus smiled now, as he had smiled then. She had guts, that one. He rather liked her, her face taped, eyes blackened. She reminded him a lot of Gill.
So, Tracy was leaving a silvery snail’s trail of chaos by which to follow her. Little bitch. Had she simply flipped, or was there a real motive for her trip to the University Library? Rebus leaned against the wall of the corridor. God, what a day. He was supposed to be between cases. Supposed to be ‘tidying things up’ before starting full time
on the drugs campaign. He was supposed, for the sake of Christ, to be having things easy. That’d be the day.
The ward doors swung shut, alerting him to the figure of Brian Holmes in the corridor. Holmes seemed lacking direction, then spotted his superior and came walking briskly up the hall. Rebus wasn’t sure yet whether Holmes was invaluable, or a liability. Could you be both things at once?
‘Is she all right?’ he asked solicitously.
‘Yes. I suppose so. She’s awake. Face looks a bit of a mess though.’
‘Just bruises. They say the nose will heal. You’ll never know it was broken.’
‘Yes, that’s what Nell said.’
‘She talking? That’s good.’
‘She also told me who did it.’ Holmes looked at Rebus, who looked away. ‘What’s this all about? What’s Nell got to do with it?’
‘Nothing, so far as I know. She just happened to be in the wrong place, et cetera. Chalk it down to coincidence.’
‘Coincidence? That’s a nice easy word to say. Put it down to “coincidence” and then we can forget all about it, is that it? I don’t know what your game is, Rebus, but I’m not going to play it any longer.’
Holmes turned and stalked off along the hall. Rebus almost warned him that there was no exit at that end of the building, but favours weren’t what Holmes wanted. He needed a bit of time, a break. So did Rebus, but he had some thinking to do, and the station was the best place for that.
By taking them slowly, Rebus managed the stairs to his office. He had been at his desk fully ten minutes before a craving for tea had him reaching for the telephone. Then he sat back, holding in front of him a piece of paper on which he had attempted to set out the ‘facts’ of the ‘case’.
He was chilled by the thought that he might be wasting time and effort. A jury would have to work hard to see any crime there at all. There was no suggestion that Ronnie had not injected himself. However, he had been starved of his supply, despite there being no shortage of dope in the city, and someone had moved his body, and left behind a packet of good heroin, hoping, perhaps, that this would be tested, found clean, and therefore death by misadventure would be recorded: a simple overdose. But the rat poison had been found.
Rebus looked at the paper. Already ‘perhapses’ and conjecture had entered the picture. Maybe the frame wasn’t right. So, turn the picture another way round, John, and start again.
Why had someone gone to the trouble of killing Ronnie? After all, the poor bugger would have topped himself given time. Ronnie had been starved of a fix, then given some, but had known this stuff to be less than pure. So doubtless he had known that the person who supplied it wanted him dead. But he had taken it anyway. … No, viewed this way round it was making even less sense. Start again.
Why would someone want Ronnie dead? There were several obvious answers. Because he knew something he shouldn’t. Because he possessed something he shouldn’t. Because he didn’t possess something he should. Which was correct? Rebus didn’t know. Nobody seemed to know. The picture still lacked meaning.
There was a knock on the door, and the door itself was pushed open by a constable carrying a mug of tea. The constable was Harry Todd. Rebus recognised him.
‘You get around a bit, son.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Todd, placing the tea on a corner of the desk, the only three square inches of wood visible from beneath a surface covering of paperwork.
Is it quiet tonight?’
‘The usual, sir. A few drunks. Couple of break-ins. Nasty car crash down near the docks.’
Rebus nodded, reaching for the tea. ‘Do you know another constable, name of Neil McGrath?’ Raising the mug
