‘Can I come in?’
‘I suppose so.’ Rebus felt no real enthusiasm, but left the door open for the young detective to follow him through to the living room if he so desired. He so desired, following Rebus with mock heartiness.
‘I was just looking at a flat near Tollcross, and thought I’d-’
‘Skip the excuses, Brian. You’re checking up on me. Sit down and tell me what’s been happening in my absence.’ Rebus checked his watch while Holmes seated himself. ‘An absence, for the record, of just under two hours.’
‘Ach, I was concerned, that’s all.’
Rebus stared at him. Simple, direct, and to the point. Maybe Rebus could learn something from Holmes after all.
‘It’s not Farmer’s orders then?’
‘Not at all. And as it happens, I did have a flat to look at.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Ghastly beyond speech. Cooker in the living room, shower in a wee cupboard. No bath, no kitchen.’
‘How much did they want for it? No, on second thoughts don’t tell me. It would just depress me.’
‘It certainly depressed me.’
‘You can always make an offer on this place when they throw me inside for corrupting a minor.’
Holmes looked up, saw that Rebus was smiling, and gave a relieved grin.
‘The guy’s story’s already coming apart at the seams.’
‘Did you ever doubt it?’
‘Of course not. Anyway, I thought these might cheer you up.’ Holmes brandished a large manilla envelope, which had been discreetly tucked inside his cord jacket. Rebus hadn’t seen this cord jacket before, and supposed it to be the Detective Constable’s flat-buying uniform.
‘What are they?’ said Rebus, accepting the packet.
‘Pics. Last night’s raid. Thought you might be interested;
Rebus opened the envelope and withdrew a set of ten-by-eight black and whites. They showed the more or less blurred shapes of men scrambling across waste ground. What light there was had about it a halogen starkness,
sending up huge black shadows and capturing some faces in chalky states of shock and surprise.
‘Where did you get these?’
‘That DS Hendry sent them across with a note sympathising over Nell. He thought these might cheer me up.’
‘I told you he was a good bloke. Any idea which one of these goons is the DJ?’
Holmes leapt from his seat and crouched beside Rebus, who was holding a photograph at the ready.
‘No,’ Holmes said, ‘there’s a better shot of him.’ He thumbed through the set until he found the picture he was looking for. ‘Here we are. That one there. That’s McCallum.’
Rebus studied the fuzzy semblance before him. The look of fear, so distinct against the blurred face, could have been drawn by a child. Wide eyes and a mouth puckered into an ‘0?, arms suspended as though between rapid flight and final surrender.
Rebus smiled a smile that reached all the way up to his eyes.
‘You’re sure this is him?’
‘One of the PCs at the station recognised him. He said he once got McCallum to sign an autograph for him.’
‘I’m impressed. Shouldn’t think he’ll be signing too many more though. Where are they holding him?’
‘Everybody they arrested has gone to Dunfermline nick’.
‘That’s nice for them. By the by, did they nab the ringleaders?’
‘Each and every one. Including Brightman. He was the boss.’
‘Davy Brightman? The scrappie?’
‘That’s him.’
‘I played against that bugger at football a couple of times when I was at school. He played left back for his team when I was on the wing for ours. He gave me a good studding one match.’
‘Revenge is sweet,’ said Holmes.
‘It is that, Brian.’ Rebus was studying the photograph again. ‘It is that.’
‘Actually, a couple of the punters did scarper apparently, but they’re all on film. The camera never lies, eh, sir?’
Rebus began to sift through the other pictures. ‘A powerful tool, the camera,’ he said. His face suddenly changed.
‘Sir? Are you all right?’
