‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘Right. Get down to the van and bring up a crowbar or something. I want these floorboards up.’
‘Eh?’
‘You heard me, son. Do it.’
Holmes just stood and watched in silent appreciation. Rebus seemed to have grown in physical stature, becoming broader, taller. Holmes couldn’t quite fathom the trick: maybe it had something to do with the hands in the pockets, the way the elbows jarred outwards, lending apparent substance to the frame. Whatever it was, it worked. The young workman stumbled out of the door and down the stairs.
‘You’re sure they’ll be here?’ said Holmes quietly. He tried to keep his tone level, not wishing to sound too sceptical. But Rebus was way past that stage. In Rebus’s mind, the photographs were already in his hand.
‘I’m certain, Brian. I can smell them.’
‘You’re sure that’s not just the bathroom?’
Rebus turned and looked at him, as though seeing him for the very first time. ‘You might have a point, Brian. You just might.’
Holmes followed Rebus to the bathroom. As Rebus kicked open the door, the stench embraced both men, arching them forward in a convulsive fit of gagging. Rebus brought a handkerchief from his pocket, pushed it to his face, and leaned towards the door handle, pulling the door shut again.
‘I’d forgotten about that place,’ he said. Then: ‘Wait here.’
He returned with the foreman, a plastic dustbin, a shovel, and three small white face-masks, one of which he handed to Holmes. An elasticated band held the cardboard snout in place, and Holmes breathed deeply, testing the apparatus. He was just about to say something about the smell still being noticeable, when Rebus toed open the
door again, and, as the foreman angled an industrial lamp into the bathroom, walked over the threshold.
Rebus pulled the dustbin to the rim of the bath and left it there, gesturing for the lamp to be shone into the bath itself. Holmes nearly fell backwards out of the room. A fat rat, caught in the act of feasting upon the rotten contents of the bath, squealed, red eyes burning directly into the light. Rebus swung the shovel down and cut the animal in two neat halves. Holmes spun from the room and, lifting the mask, retched against the damp wall. He tried taking gulps of air, but the smell was overpowering, the nausea returning in quickening floods.
Back inside the room, the foreman and Rebus exchanged a smile which wrinkled their eyes above the face- masks. They had seen worse than this - much worse - in their time. Then, neither man naive enough to want to linger, they set to work, the foreman holding the lamp while Rebus shovelled the contents of the bath slowly into the dustbin. The mess of raw sewage ran slickly from the shovel, spattering Rebus’s shirt and trousers. He ignored it, ignored everything but the task at hand. He had done dirtier jobs in the Army, dirtier jobs by far during his failed training in the SAS. This was routine. And at least here there was some purpose to the task, some end in view.
Or so he hoped.
Holmes meantime was wiping his moist eyes with the back of his hand. Through the open door he could see the progress being made, eerie shadows cast across the wall and ceiling by the lamp, as one silhouette shovelled shit into a bin, filling it noisily. It was like a scene from some latter-day Inferno, lacking only the devils to goad the damned workers on. But these men looked, if not happy in their work, then at least .. . well, professional sprang to mind. Dear God, all he wanted was a flat to call his own. and the occasional holiday, and a decent car. And Nell, of course. This would make a funny story for her one day.
But the last thing he felt like doing was smiling.
Ian Rankin - Rebus 02 - Hide An
Then he heard the cackle of laughter, and, looking around him, it took several moments to realise that it was coming from the bathroom, that it was John Rebus’s laugh, and that Rebus was dipping his hand into the mess, drawing it out again with something clinging to it. Holmes didn’t even notice the thick rubberised gloves which protected Rebus up to his elbows. He simply turned and walked downstairs on brittle legs.
‘Got you!’ Rebus cried.
‘There’s a hose outside,’ the foreman said.
‘Lead on,’ said Rebus, shaking the packet free of some of its clots. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’
‘The name’s MacBeth,’ the foreman called back, heading for the stairway.
In the cool, fresh air, they hosed down the package, standing it up against the front wall of the house as they did so. Rebus peered at it closely. A red plastic bag, like the carrier from a record shop, had been wrapped around some cloth, a shirt or the like. The whole had been stuck down with a roll’s worth of sellotape, then tied with string, knotted resolutely in the middle.
‘Clever little tyke, weren’t you, Ronnie?’ Rebus said to himself as he picked up the package. ‘Cleverer than they could ever have thought.’
At the van, he threw down the rubber gloves, shook the foreman’s hand, and exchanged the names of local watering holes with him, making promises of a drink, a nippy sweetie some night in the future. Then he headed for the car, Holmes following sheepishly. All the way back to Rebus’s flat, Holmes didn’t once dare to suggest that they open a window and let in some fresh air.
Rebus was like a child on a birthday morning who has just found his surprise. He clutched the parcel to him, staining his shirt even more, yet seemed loath to open it.
Now that he possessed it, he could forestall the revelation. It would happen; that was all that mattered.
When they arrived at the flat, however, Rebus’s mood changed again, and he dashed to the kitchen for some
