scissors. Holmes meantime made his excuses and went to the bathroom, scrubbing his hands, bared arms, and face thoroughly. His scalp itched, and he wished he could throw himself into the shower and stand beneath it for an hour or two.
As he was coming out of the bathroom, he heard the sound from the kitchen. It was the antithesis of the laughter he had heard earlier, a kind of exasperated wail. He walked quickly to the kitchen, and saw Rebus standing there, head bowed, hands held out against the worktop as though supporting himself. The packet was open in front of him.
‘John? What’s wrong?’
Rebus’s voice was soft, suddenly tired. ‘They’re just pictures of a bloody boxing match. That’s all they are. Just bloody sports photos.’
Holmes came forward slowly, fearing noise and movement might crack Rebus completely.
‘Maybe,’ he suggested, peering over Rebus’s slumped shoulder, ‘maybe there’s somebody in the crowd. In the audience. This Hyde could be one of the spectators.’
‘The spectators are just a blur. Take a look.’
Holmes did. There were twelve or so photographs. Two featherweights, no love lost, were slugging it out. There was nothing subtle about the contest, but nothing unusual about it either.
‘Maybe it’s Hyde’s boxing club.’
‘Maybe,’ said Rebus, not really caring any more. He had been so sure that he would find the pictures, and so sure that they would prove the final, clinching piece of the puzzle. Why were they hidden away so carefully, so
cunningly? And so well protected. There had to be a reason.
‘Maybe,’ said Holmes, who was becoming irritating again, ‘maybe there’s something we’re missing. The cloth they’re wrapped in, the envelope . ..?’
‘Don’t be so bloody thick, Holmes!’ Rebus slammed a hand against the worktop, and immediately calmed. ‘Sorry. Jesus, sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ Holmes said coldly. ‘I’ll make some coffee or something. Then why don’t we take a good look at those snaps? Eh?’
‘Yes,’ Rebus said, pushing himself upright. ‘Good idea.’ He headed towards the door. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ He turned and smiled at Holmes. ‘I must stink to high heaven.’
‘A very agricultural smell, sir,’ Holmes said, smiling also. They laughed at the shared reference to Farmer Watson. Then Rebus went to have his shower, and Holmes made the coffee, jealous of the sounds from the bathroom. He took another look at the photographs, a close look, hoping for something, something he could use to impress Rebus with, to cheer Rebus up just a little.
The boxers were young, photographed from ringside or near as dammit. But the photographer - Ronnie McGrath presumably - hadn’t used a flash, depending instead upon the smoky lights above the ring. Consequently, neither boxers nor audience were recognisable as distinct individuals. Their faces were grainy, the outlines of the combatants themselves blurred with sluggish movement. Why hadn’t the photographer used a flash?
In one photo, the right-hand side of the frame was dark, cut off at an angle by something getting in the way of the lens. What? A passing spectator? Somebody’s jacket?
It struck Holmes with sudden clarity: the photographer’s jacket had got in the way, and it had done so because the photos were being taken surreptitiously, from beneath a
jacket. This would explain the poor quality of the photos, and the uneven angles of most of them. So there had to be a reason for them, and they had to be the clue Rebus was seeking. All they had to do now was discover just what kind of clue.
The shower became a drip, then died altogether. A few moments later, Rebus appeared clad only in a towel, holding it around his gut as he went to the bedroom to change. He was balancing with one foot poised above a trouser leg when Holmes burst in, waving the photographs.
‘I think I’ve got it!’ he exclaimed. Rebus looked up, surprised, then slipped on the trousers.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve worked it out, too. It came to me just now in the shower.’
‘Oh.’
‘So fetch us a coffee,’ said Rebus, ‘and let’s go into the living room and see if we’ve worked out the same thing. Okay?’
‘Right,’ said Holmes, wondering again why it was that he’d joined the police when there were so many more rewarding careers out there to be had.
When he arrived in the living room, carrying the two mugs of coffee, Rebus was pacing up and down, his telephone handset wedged against his ear.
‘Right,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll wait. No, no, I won’t call back. I said I’ll wait. Thank you.’
Taking the coffee from Holmes, he rolled his eyes, exhibiting disbelief at the stupidity of the person on the other end of the telephone.
‘Who is it?’ Holmes mouthed silently.
‘The council,’ said Rebus aloud. ‘I got a name and an extension number from Andrew.’
‘Who’s Andrew?’
‘Andrew MacBeth, the foreman. I want to find out who
authorised the cleaning out of the house. A bit of a coincidence that, don’t you think? Cleaning it out just as we were about to do a bit of poking around.’ He turned his attention to the handset. ‘Yes? That’s right. Oh, I see.’ He looked at Holmes, his eyes betraying nothing. ‘How might that have happened?’ He listened again. ‘Yes, I see. Oh yes, I agree, it does seem a bit curious. Still, these things happen, eh? Roll on computerisation. Thanks for your
