‘Ach, I don’t know why I’m telling you, John. It’s not your problem, after all.’
‘I don’t mind listening.’
But Tony McCall seemed reluctant to go further. ‘How do you like this room?’ he asked instead.
‘It’s nice,’ Rebus lied. ‘A lot of thought’s gone into it.’
‘Yes.’ McCall sounded unconvinced. ‘A lot of money, too. See those little glass bauble things? You wouldn’t believe how much one of those can cost.’
‘Really?’
McCall was examining the room as though he were the visitor. ‘Welcome to my life,’ he said at last. ‘I think I’d rather have one of the cells down the station.’ He got up suddenly and walked across to Tommy’s chair, then crouched down in front of his brother, one of whose eyes was open but glazed with sleep. ‘You bugger,’ Tony McCall whispered. ‘You bugger, you bugger.’ And he bowed his head so as not to show the tears.
It was growing light as Rebus drove the four miles back to Marchmont. He stopped at an all night bakery and bought warm rolls and refrigerated milk. This was the time when he liked the city best, the peaceful camaraderie of early morning. He wondered why people couldn’t be happy with their lot. I’ve got everything I’ve never wanted and it isn’t enough. All he wanted now was sleep, and in his bed for a change rather than on the chair. He kept playing the scene over and over: Tommy McCall dead to the world, saliva on his chin, and Tony McCall crouched in front of him, body shaking with emotion. A brother was a terrible
thing. He was a lifelong competitor, yet you couldn’t hate him without hating yourself. And there were other pictures too: Malcolm Lanyon in his study, Saiko standing at the door, James Carew dead in his bed, Nell Stapleton’s bruised face, Ronnie McGrath’s battered torso, old Vander-hyde with his unseeing eyes, the fear in Calum McCal- lum’s eyes, Tracy with her tiny fists. . ..
If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.
Carew had stolen that line from somewhere . . . but where? Who cares, John, who cares? It would just be another bloody thread, and there were far too many of those already, knotted into an impenetrable tangle. Get home, sleep, forget.
One thing was for sure: he’d have some wild dreams.
Saturday
Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of
knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid
open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant.
In fact, he didn’t dream at all. And when he woke up, it was the weekend, the sun was shining, and his telephone was ringing.
‘Hello?’
‘John? It’s GUI.’
‘Oh, hello, Gill. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. What about you?’
‘Great.’ This was not a lie. He hadn’t slept so well in weeks, and there was not a trace of hangover within him.
‘Sorry to ring so early. Any progress on the smear?’
‘Smear?’
‘The things that kid was saying about you.’
‘Oh, that. No, I haven’t heard anything yet.’ He was thinking about lunch, about a picnic, about a drive in the country. ‘Are you in Edinburgh?’ he asked.
‘No, Fife.’
‘Fife? What are you doing there?’
‘Calum’s here, remember.’
‘Of course I remember, but I thought you were steering clear of him?’
‘He wanted to see me. Actually, that’s why I’m calling.’
‘Oh?’ Rebus wrinkled his brow, curious.
Calum wants to talk to you.’
‘To me? Why?’
“He’ll tell you that himself, I suppose. He just asked me
tell you.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Do you want me to talk to him?’
‘Can’t say I’m much bothered either way. I told him I’d pass on the message, and I told him it was the last favour he could expect from me.’ Her voice was as slick and cool as a slate roof in the rain. Rebus felt himself sliding down that roof, wanting to please her, wanting to help. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘and he said that if you sounded dubious, I was to tell you it’s to do with Hyde’s.’
‘Hydes?’ Rebus stood up sharply.
‘H-y-d-e-apostrophe-s.’
