Both men turned as a third presence became evident in the room. It was Farmer Watson, breathing heavily from the effort of the stairs.
‘This is bloody awkward,’ he said. ‘One of the linchpins of our campaign tops himself, and by taking a bloody overdose. How’s that going to look, eh?’
‘Awkward, sir,’ replied Rebus, ‘just as you say.’
‘I do say. I do say.’ Watson thrust a finger out towards Rebus. ‘It’s up to you, John, to make sure the media don’t make a meal of this, or of us.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Watson looked over towards the bed. ‘Waste of a bloody decent man. What makes someone do it? I mean, look at this place. And there’s an estate somewhere on one of the islands. Own business. Expensive car. Things we can only dream about. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right.’ Watson took a last glance towards the bed, then slapped a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘I’m depending on you, John.’
‘Yes, sir.’
McCall and Rebus watched their superior go.
‘Bloody hell!’ whispered McCall. ‘He didn’t look at me, not once. I might as well have not been there.’
‘You should thank your lucky stars, Tony. I wish I had your gift of invisibility.’
Both men smiled. ‘Seen enough?’ McCall asked.
‘Just one more circuit,’ said Rebus. ‘Then I’ll get out of your hair.’
‘Whatever you say, John. Just one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What the hell were you doing up Calton Hill in the middle of the night?’
‘Don’t ask,’ said Rebus, blowing a kiss as he headed for the living area.
It would be big news locally, of course. There was no getting away from the fact. The radio stations and newspapers would have trouble deciding which headline deserved most prominence: Disc Jockey Arrested at Illegal Dog Fight or Suicide Shock of Estate Agent Giant. Well, something along those lines. Jim Stevens would have loved it, but then Jim Stevens was in London and married, by all accounts, to some girl half his age.
Rebus admired that kind of dangerous move. He had no admiration for James Carew: none. Watson was right in at least one respect: Carew had everything going for him, and Rebus was finding it difficult to believe that he would commit suicide solely because he had been spotted by a police officer on Calton Hill. No, that might have been the trigger, but there had to be something more. Something, perhaps, in the flat, or in the offices of Bowyer Carew on George Street.
James Carew owned a lot of books. A quick examination showed that they were for the most part expensive, impressive titles, but unread, their spines crackling as they were opened by Rebus for the first time. The top right hand section of the bookcase held several titles which
interested him more than the others. Books by Genet and Alexander Trocchi, copies of Forster’s Maurice and even Last Exit to Brooklyn. Poems by Walt Whitman, the text of Torchlight Trilogy. A mixed bag of predominantly gay reading. Nothing wrong in that. But their positioning in the bookshelves - right at the top and separated from the other titles - suggested to Rebus that here was a man ashamed of himself. There was no reason for this, not these days. . ..
Who was he kidding? AIDS had squeezed homosexuality back into the darker corners of society, and by keeping the truth a secret Carew had laid himself open to feelings of shame, and, therefore, to blackmail of all kinds.
Yes, blackmail. Suicides were occasionally victims of blackmail who could see no way out of their dilemma. Just maybe there would be some evidence, a letter or a note or something. Anything. Just so Rebus could prove to himself he wasn’t completely paranoid.
Then he found it.
In a drawer. A locked drawer, to be sure, but the keys were in Carew’s trousers. He had died in his pyjamas, and his other clothes had not been taken away with the corpse. Rebus got the keys from the bedroom and headed back to the desk in the living room. A gorgeous writing desk, antique for sure: its surface was barely large enough to accommodate a sheet of A4 paper and an elbow. What had been once a useful piece of furniture now found itself an ornament in a rich man’s apartment. Rebus opened the drawer carefully and drew out a leather-bound desk diary. A page a day, the pages large. Not a diary for appointments, not locked away in darkness like that. A personal diary then. Eagerly, Rebus flipped it open. His disappointment was immediate. The pages were blank for the most part. A line or two of pencil per page was as much as there was.
Rebus cursed.
All right, John. It’s better than nothing. He rested at one of the pages with some writing on it. The pencil marking was faint, neatly written. ‘Jerry, 4pm’. A simple appointment. Rebus flipped to the day on which they had all met for lunch at The Eyrie. The page was blank. Good. That meant the appointments weren’t of the business lunch variety. There weren’t many of them. Rebus felt sure that Carew’s diary at his office would be crammed. This was a much more private affair.
‘Lindsay, 6.30.’
‘Marks, 11am.’ An early start that day, and what about that name: two individuals, each named Mark? Or one individual whose surname was Marks? Maybe even the department store . . .? The other names ? Jerry, Lindsay - were androgynous, anonymous. He needed a telephone number, a location.
He turned another page. And had to look twice at what was written there. His finger ran along the letters.
‘Hyde, 10pm.’
