Rebus’s voice was reduced to a whisper. ‘I’ve just had a revelation, Brian. A whatsit . . .? epiphany, is it?’
‘No idea, sir.’ Holmes was sure now that something inside his superior had snapped.
‘Epiphany, yes. I know where this has all been leading, Brian. I’m sure of it. That bastard on Calton Hill said something about pictures, some pictures everybody was interested in. They’re Ronnie’s pictures.’
‘What? The ones in his bedroom?’
‘No, not those.’
‘The ones at Hutton’s studio then?’
‘Not quite. No, I don’t know exactly where these particular pictures are, but I’ve got a bloody good idea. “Hide” can be a noun, Brian. Come on.’
‘Where?’ Holmes watched as Rebus sprang from his chair, heading for the door. He started to collect the photographs, which Rebus had let fall from his hands.
‘Never mind those,’ Rebus ordered, slipping on a jacket.
‘But where the hell are we going?’
‘You just answered your own question,’ Rebus said, turning back to grin at Holmes. ‘That’s exactly where we’re going.’
‘But where?’
‘To hell, of course. Come on.’
It was turning cold. The sun had just about tired itself out,
and was retiring from the contest. The clouds were sticking-plaster pink. Two great final sunbeams shone down like torchlight upon Pilmuir, and picked out just the one building, leaving the other houses in the street untouched. Rebus sucked in breath. He had to admit, it was quite a sight.
‘Like the stable at Bethlehem,’ said Holmes.
‘A damned queer stable,’ Rebus retorted. ‘God’s got a funny sense of humour if this is His idea of a joke.’
‘You did say we were going to hell.’
‘I wasn’t expecting Cecil B. DeMille to be in on it though. What’s going on there?’
Almost hidden by the day’s last gasp of sunlight, a van and a hire skip were parked directly in front of Ronnie’s house.
‘The council?’ Holmes suggested. ‘Probably cleaning the place up.’
‘Why, in God’s name?’
‘There’s plenty that need housing,’ Holmes replied. Rebus wasn’t listening. As the car pulled to a stop, he was out and walking briskly towards the skip. It was filling up with the detritus of the squat’s interior. There were sounds of hammering from within. In the back of the van, a workman supped from a plastic cup, his thermos clutched in his other hand.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ Rebus demanded.
The workman blew on the contents of his cup, then took another swig before replying. ‘Me, I suppose.’ His eyes were wary. He could smell authority a mile off. ‘This is a legitimate tea-break.’
‘Never mind that. What’s going on?’
‘Who wants to know.’
‘CID wants to know.’
He looked hard at Rebus’s harder face, and made up his mind instantly. ‘Well, we got word to come and clean this place up. Make it habitable.’
‘On whose orders?’
‘I don’t know. Somebody’s. We just take the chitty and go do the job.’
‘Right.’ Rebus had turned from the man and was walking up the path to the front door. Holmes, having smiled apologetically at the foreman, followed. In the living room, two workmen in overalls and thick red rubber gloves were whitewashing the walls. Charlie’s pentagram had already been covered, its outline barely visible through the drying layer of paint. The men looked towards Rebus, then to the wall.
‘We’ll cover it up next coat,’ said one. ‘Don’t worry yourself about that.’
Rebus stared at the man, then marched past Holmes out of the room. He started to climb the stairs, and turned into Ronnie’s bedroom. Another workman, much younger than the two downstairs, was gathering Ronnie’s few belongings together into a large black plastic bag. As Rebus entered the room, the boy was caught, frozen, stuffing one of the paperbacks into the pocket of his overalls.
Rebus pointed to the book.
‘There’s a next of kin, son. Put it in the bag with the rest.’
Something about his tone persuaded the teenager to obey.
‘Come across anything else interesting?’ Rebus asked now, hands in pockets, approaching the teenager.
‘Nothing,’ the boy said, guiltily.
‘In particular,’ Rebus went on, as though the teenager had not spoken, ‘photographs. Maybe just a few, maybe a whole packet. Hmm?’
