‘Gill?’
‘Gill Templer. She was going out with him.’
‘Inspector Templer?’ Holmes was shocked. ‘I thought she was living with that disc jockey?’
Now Rebus was confused. ‘Isn’t that who we’re talking about?’
‘No,’ said Holmes. The surprise was still intact. He felt real relief.
‘So who are we talking about?’ asked Rebus with a growing sense of dread. ‘Who’s committed suicide?’
‘James Carew.’
‘Carew?’
‘Yes. Found him in his flat this morning. Overdose apparently.’
‘Overdose of what?’
‘I don’t know. Some kind of pills.’
Rebus was stunned. He recalled the look on Carew’s face that night atop Calton Hill.
‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wanted a word with him.’
‘I was wondering . . .’ said Holmes.
‘What?’
‘I don’t suppose you ever got round to asking him about getting me a flat?’
‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘I never got the chance.’
‘I was only joking,’ Holmes said, realising that Rebus had taken his comment literally. ‘Was he a friend? I mean, I know you met him for lunch, but I didn’t realise -’
‘Did he leave a note?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well who would know?’
Holmes thought for a second. ‘I think Inspector McCall was at the scene.’
‘Right, come on.’ Rebus was up on his feet.
‘What about your coffee?’
‘Sod the coffee. I want to see Tony McCall.’
‘What was all that about Calum McCallum?’ said Holmes, rising now.
‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ Holmes shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’
And then Rebus was on the move, grabbing jacket, getting out his keys to lock the front door. Holmes wondered what the secret was. What had Calum McCallum done? God, he hated people who hung on to secrets.
Rebus read the note as he stood in Carew’s bedroom. It was elegantly written with a proper nib pen, but in one or two of the words fear could be clearly read, the letters trembling uncontrollably, scribbled out to be tried again. Good-quality writing paper too, thick and watermarked. The V12 was in a garage behind the flat. The flat itself was stunning, a museum for art deco pieces, modern art prints, and valuable first editions, locked behind glass.
This is the flipside of Vanderhyde’s home, Rebus had thought as he moved through the flat. Then McCall had handed him the suicide note.
‘If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.’ Was that a quote from somewhere? Certainly, it was a bit prolix for a suicide note. But then Carew would have gone through draft upon draft until satisfied. It had to be exact, had to stand as his monument. ‘Some day you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this.’ Not that Rebus needed to seek too hard. He had the queasy feeling, reading the note, that Carew’s words were directed straight at him, that he was saying things only Rebus could fully understand.
‘Funny sort of note to leave behind,’ said McCall.
‘Yes,’ said Rebus.
‘You met him recently, didn’t you?’ said McCall. ‘I remember you saying. Did he seem okay then? I mean, he wasn’t depressed or anything?’
‘I’ve seen him since then.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was sniffing around Calton Hill a couple of nights back. He was there in his car.’
‘Ah-ha.’ McCall nodded. Everything was starting to make a little bit of sense.
Rebus handed back the note and went over to the bed. The sheets were rumpled. Three empty pill bottles stood in a neat line on the bedside table. On the floor lay an empty cognac bottle.
‘The man went out in style,’ McCall said, pocketing the note. ‘He’d gone through a couple of bottles of wine before that.’
‘Yes, I saw them in the living room. Lafite sixty-one. The stuff of a very special occasion.’
‘They don’t come more special, John.’
