Hyde. What had Ronnie said to Tracy the night he’d died? Hide, he’s after me? Yes, and James had given him the name, too: not hide but H-y-d-e.
Hyde!
Rebus whooped. Here was a connection, no matter how tenuous. A connection between Ronnie and James Carew. Something more than a fleeting business transaction on Calton Hill. A name. He hurried through the other pages. There were three more mentions of Hyde, always in the late evening (when Calton Hill was starting its trade), always on a Friday. Sometimes the second Friday of the month, sometimes the third. Four mentions in the course of six months.
‘Anything?’ It was McCall, leaning over Rebus’s shoulder for a peek.
‘Yes,’ Rebus said. Then he changed his mind. ‘No, not
really, Tony. Just an old diary, but the bugger wasn’t much of a writer.’
McCall nodded and moved away. He was more interested in the hi-fi system.
‘The old guy had taste,’ McCall said, scrutinising it. ‘linn turntable. Know how much one of those costs, John? Hundreds. They’re not showy. They’re just bloody good at what they do.’
‘A bit like us then,’ said Rebus. He was thinking of pushing the diary into his trousers. It wasn’t allowed, he knew. And what good would it do him? But with Tony McCall’s back turned so conveniently. .. . No, no, he couldn’t. He threw it noisily back into its drawer, shut the drawer again and locked it. He handed the key to McCall, who was still squatting in front of the hi-fi.
‘Thanks, John. Nice piece of equipment this, you know.’
‘I didn’t know you were interested in all that stuff.’
‘Since I was a kid. Had to get rid of my system when we got married. Too noisy.’ He straightened. ‘Are we going to find any answers here, do you think?’
Rebus shook his head. T think he kept all his secrets in his head. He was a very private man, after all. No, I think he’s taken the answers with him to the grave.’
‘Oh, well. Makes it nice and clear-cut then, doesn’t it?’
‘Clear as crystal, Tony,’ said Rebus.
What was it the old man, Vanderhyde, had said? Something about muddying the water. Rebus had the gnawing feeling that the solution to these many conundrums was a simple one, as crystal clear as one could wish. The problem was that extraneous stories were being woven into the whole. Do I mix my metaphors? Very well then. I mix my metaphors. All that counted was getting to the bottom of the pool, muddied or no, and bringing up that tiny cache of treasure called the truth.
He knew, too, that the problem was one of classification. He had to break the interlinked stories into separate threads, and work from those. At the moment, he was guilty of trying to weave them all into a pattern, a pattern that might not be there. By separating them all, maybe he’d be in with a chance of solving each.
Ronnie committed suicide. So did Carew. That gave them a second thing in common to add to the name of Hyde. Some client of Carew’s perhaps? Buying a substantial piece of property with money made through the dealing of hard drugs? That would be a link, for sure. Hyde. The name couldn’t be real. How many Hydes were there ia the Edinburgh directory? It could always be an assumed name. Male prostitutes seldom used their own names, after all. Hyde. Jekyll and Hyde. Another coincidence: Rebus had been reading Stevenson’s book the night Tracy had visited. Maybe he should be looking for someone called Jekyll? Jekyll, the respectable doctor, admired by society; Hyde, his alter ego, small and brutish, a creature of the night. He remembered the shadowy forms he’d encountered by Calton Hill. . . . Could the answer be so obvious?
He parked in the only vacant bay left outside Great London Road station and climbed the familiar steps. They seemed to grow larger with the passing years, and he could swear there were more of them now than there had been when he’d first come to this place, all of - what was it? - six years ago? That wasn’t so long in the span of a man’s life, was it? So why did it feel so bloody Sisyphean?
‘Hello, Jack,’ he said to the desk sergeant, who watched him walk past without the usual nod of the head. Strange, Rebus thought. Jack had never been a cheery bugger, but he’d usually had the use of his neck muscles. He was famous for his slight bow of the head, which he could make mean anything from approbation to insult.
But today, for Rebus, nothing.
Rebus decided to ignore the slight, and went upstairs. Two constables, in the act of coming down, fell quiet as they passed him. Rebus began to redden, but kept walking, sure now that he had forgotten to zip his fly, or had somehow contrived to get a smudge on his nose. Something like that. He’d check in the privacy of his office.
Holmes was waiting for him, seated in Rebus’s chair, at Rebus’s desk, some property details spread across the tabletop. He began to rise as Rebus entered, gathering together the sheets of paper like a kid caught with a dirty book.
‘Hello, Brian.’ Rebus took off his jacket, hanging it on the back of the door. ‘Listen, I want you to get me the names and addresses of all Edinburgh inhabitants whose names are Jekyll or Hyde. I know that may sound daft, but just do it. Then -’
‘I think you should sit down, sir,’ said Holmes tremulously. Rebus stared at him, saw the fear in the young man’s eyes, and knew that the worst had. happened.
Rebus pushed open the door of the interview room. His face was the colour of pickled beetroot, and Holmes, following, feared that his superior was about to suffer a coronary. There were two CID men in the room, both in their shirtsleeves as though after a hard session. They turned at Rebus’s entrance, and the one who was seated rose as if for combat. On the other side of the table, the weasel-faced teenager known to Rebus as ‘James’ actually squealed, and flew to his feet, knocking the chair with a clatter onto the stone floor.
‘Don’t let him near me!’ he yelled.
‘Now, John -’ started one detective, a Sergeant Dick. Rebus held up a hand to show that he was not here to cause violence. The detectives eyed one another, not sure
whether to believe him. Then Rebus spoke, his eyes on the teenager.
