help anyway.’
He pressed a button, kiling the connection. ‘You probably caught the gist of that.’
‘They’ve no record of who authorised the clear-out?’
‘Quite so, Brian. The documentation is all in order, but for the little matter of a signature. They can’t understand it.’
‘Any handwriting to go on?’
‘The chitty Andrew showed me was typed.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
‘That Mr Hyde seems to have friends everywhere. In the council, for starters, but probably in the police, too. Not to mention several less savoury institutions.’
‘What now?’
‘Those pictures. What else is there to go on?’
They studied each frame closely, taking their time, pointing out this or that blur or detail, trying ideas out on one another. It was a painstaking business. And throughout Rebus was muttering to himself about Ronnie McGrath’s final words to Tracy, about how they had been the key throughout. The triple meaning: make yourself scarce, beware a man called Hyde, and I’ve hidden something away. So clever. So compact. Almost too clever for Ronnie. Maybe the meanings had been there without his realising it himself….
At the end of ninety minutes, Rebus threw the final photograph down onto the floor. Holmes was half lying along the settee, rubbing his forehead with one hand as
he held up one of the pictures in the other, his eyes refusing to focus any longer.
‘It’s no use, Brian. No use at all. I can’t make sense out of any of them, can you?’
‘Not a lot,’ Holmes admitted. ‘But I take it Hyde wanted - wants - these pictures badly.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning he knows they exist, but he doesn’t know how crude they are. He thinks they show something they don’t.’
‘Yes, but what? I’ll tell you something, Ronnie McGrath had bruises on his body the night he died.’
‘Not surprising when you remember that someone dragged his body down the stairs.’
‘No, he was already dead then. This was before. His brother noticed, Tracy noticed, but nobody ever asked. Somebody said something to me about rough trade.’ He pointed towards the scattering of snapshots. ‘Maybe this is what they meant.’
‘A boxing match?’
‘An illegal bout. Two unmatched kids knocking blue hell out of one another.’
‘For what?’
Rebus stared at the wall, looking for the word he lacked. Then he turned to Holmes.
‘The same reason men set up dog fights. For kicks.’
‘It all sounds incredible.’
‘Maybe it is incredible. The way my mind is just now, I could believe bombers have been found on the moon.’ He stretched. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly eight. Aren’t you supposed to be going to Malcolm Lanyon’s party?’
Jesus!’ Rebus sprang to his feet. ‘I’m late. I forgot all about it.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to get ready. There’s not much we
can do about this.’ Holmes gestured towards the photographs. ‘I should visit Nell anyway.’
‘Yes, yes, off you go, Brian.’ Rebus paused. ‘And thanks.’
Holmes smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
‘One thing,’ Rebus began.
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t have a clean jacket. Can I borrow yours?’
It wasn’t a great fit, the sleeves being slightly too long, the chest too small, but it wasn’t bad either. Rebus tried to seem casual about it all as he stood on Malcolm Lanyon’s doorstep. The door was opened by the same stunning Oriental who had been by Lanyon’s side at The Eyrie. She was dressed in a low-cut black dress which barely reached down to her upper thighs. She smiled at Rebus, recognising him, or at least pretending to do so.
‘Come in.’
‘I hope I’m not late.’
‘Not at all. Malcolm’s parties aren’t run by the clock. People come and go as they please.’ Her voice had a cool but not unpleasant edge to it. Looking past her, Rebus was relieved to see several male guests wearing lounge suits, and some wearing sports jackets. Lanyon’s personal (Rebus wondered just how personal) assistant led him into the dining room, where a barman stood behind a table laden with bottles and glasses.
The doorbell rang again. Fingers touched Rebus’s shoulder. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said.
