Hide And Seek

Nell was more intelligent than Holmes. Or, as he liked to think, they were more intelligent than one another in different ways. Nell could crack the Guardian cryptic crossword in under quarter of an hour on a good day. But she had trouble with arithmetic and remembering names: both strengths possessed by Holmes. People said they looked good together in public, looked comfortable with one another, which was probably true. They felt good together, too, living as they did by several simple rules: no talk of marriage, no thoughts of children, no hinting at living together, and definitely no cheating.

Nell worked as a librarian at Edinburgh University, a vocation Holmes found handy. Today, for example, he had asked her to find him some books on the occult. She had done even better, locating a thesis or two which he could read on the premises if he wished. She also had a printed bibliography of relevant materials, which she handed to him in the pub when they met that evening.

The Bridge of Sighs was at a mid-week and mid-evening cusp, as were most of the city centre bars. The just-one-after-work brigade had slung their jackets over their arms and headed off, while the revitalised night-time crowd had yet to catch their buses from the housing estates into the middle of town. Nell and Holmes sat at a comer table, away from the video games, but a bit too close to one of the hi-fi system’s loudspeakers. Holmes, at the bar to buy another half for himself, an orange juice and Perrier for Nell, asked if the volume could be turned down.

‘Sorry, can’t. The customers like it.’

‘We are the customers,’ Holmes persisted.

‘You’ll have to speak to the manager.’

‘Fine.’

‘He’s not in yet.’

Holmes shot the young barmaid a filthy look before turning towards his table. What he saw made him pause. Nell had opened his briefcase and was examining the photograph of Tracy.

‘Who is she?’ Nell said, closing the case as he placed her drink on the table.

‘Part of a case I’m working on,’ he said frostily, sitting down. ‘Who said you could open my briefcase?’

‘Rule seven, Brian. No secrets.’

‘All the same — ’

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’

‘What? I haven’t really — ’

‘I’ve seen her around the university.’

He was interested now. ‘You have?’

‘Mmm. In the library cafeteria. I remember her because she always seemed a little bit older than the other students she was with.’

‘She’s a student then?’

‘Not necessarily. Anybody can go into the cafe. It’s students only in the library itself, but I can’t recall having seen her there. Only in the cafe. So what’s she done?’

‘Nothing, so far as I know.’

‘So why is there a nude photo of her in your briefcase?’

‘It’s part of this thing I’m doing for Inspector Rebus.’

‘You’re collecting dirty pictures for him.’

She was smiling now, and he smiled too. The smile vanished as Rebus and McCall walked into the pub, laughing at some shared joke as they made for the bar. Holmes didn’t want Rebus and Nell to meet. He tried very hard to leave his police life behind him when he was spending the evening with her — favours such as the occult booklist notwithstanding. He was also planning to keep Nell very much up his sleeve, so that he could have a booklist ready to hand should Rebus ever need such a thing.

Now it looked as though Rebus was going to spoil everything. And there was something else, another reason he didn’t want Rebus to come sauntering across to their table. He was afraid Rebus would call him ‘Shoeleather’.

He kept his eyes to the table as Rebus took in the bar with a single sweep of his head, and was relieved when the two senior officers, drinks purchased, wandered off towards the distant pool table, where they started another argument about who shouldn’t and should provide the two twenty-pence pieces for the game.

‘What’s wrong?’

Nell was staring at him. To do so, she had brought herself to his level, her head resting against the table.

‘Nothing.’ He turned towards her, offering the rest of the room a hard profile. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘Good, me too.’

‘I thought you said you’d eaten.’

‘Not enough. Come on, I’ll treat you to an Indian.’

‘Let me finish my drink first.’ She did so in three swallows, and they left together, the door swinging shut silently behind them.

‘Heads or tails?’ Rebus asked McCall, flipping a coin.

‘Tails.’

Rebus examined the coin. ‘Tails it is. You break.’

As McCall angled his cue down onto the table, closing one eye as he concentrated on the distant triangle of balls, Rebus stared at the door of the bar. Fair enough, he supposed. Holmes was off duty, and had a girl with him, too. He supposed that gave him grounds for ignoring his senior officer. Perhaps there had been no progress, nothing to report. Fair enough again. But Rebus couldn’t help thinking that the whole thing was meant to be taken as a snub. He had given Holmes a mouthful earlier on, and now Holmes was sulking.

‘You to play, John,’ said McCall, who had broken without potting.

‘Right you are, Tony,’ said Rebus, chalking the tip of his cue. ‘Right you are.’

McCall came to Rebus’s side as he was making ready to play.

‘This must be just about the only straight pub in the whole street,’ he said quietly.

‘Do you know what homophobia means, Tony?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, John,’ said McCall, straightening up and watching Rebus’s chosen ball miss the pocket. ‘I mean, each to his own and all that. But some of those pubs and clubs….’

‘You seem to know a lot.’

‘No, not really. It’s just what I hear.’

‘Who from?’

McCall potted one striped ball, then another. ‘Come on, John. You know Edinburgh as well as I do. Everybody knows the gay scene here.’

‘Like you said, Tony, each to his own.’ A voice suddenly sounded in Rebus’s mind: you’re the brother I never had. No, no, shut that out. He’d been there too often before. McCall missed on his next shot and Rebus approached the table.

‘How come,’ he said, completely miscuing, ‘you can drink so much and play so well?’

McCall chuckled. ‘Alcohol cures the shakes,’ he said. ‘So finish that pint and I’ll buy you another. My treat.’

James Carew felt that he deserved his treat. He had sold a substantial property on the outskirts of Edinburgh to the financial director of a company new to Scotland, and a husband and wife architects’ partnership — Scottish in origin, but now relocating from Sevenoaks in Kent — had just made a rather better offer than expected for an estate of seven acres in the Borders. A good day. By no means the best, but nevertheless worthy of celebration.

Carew himself owned a pied d terre in one of the loveliest of the New Town’s Georgian streets, and a farmhouse with some acreage on the Isle of Skye. These were good days for him. London was shifting north, it seemed, the incomers brimming with cash from properties sold in the south-east, wanting bigger and better and prepared to pay.

He left his George Street offices at six thirty, and returned to his split-level flat. Flat? It seemed an insult to term it such: five bedrooms, living room, dining room, two bathrooms, adequate kitchen, walk-in cupboards the size of a decent Hammersmith bedsit…. Carew was in the right place, the only place, and the time was right, too. This