Hide And Seek

was correct? Rebus didn’t know. Nobody seemed to know. The picture still lacked meaning.

There was a knock on the door, and the door itself was pushed open by a constable carrying a mug of tea. The constable was Harry Todd. Rebus recognised him.

‘You get around a bit, son.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Todd, placing the tea on a corner of the desk, the only three square inches of wood visible from beneath a surface covering of paperwork.

‘Is it quiet tonight?’

‘The usual, sir. A few drunks. Couple of break-ins. Nasty car crash down near the docks.’

Rebus nodded, reaching for the tea. ‘Do you know another constable, name of Neil McGrath?’ Raising the mug to his lips, Rebus stared up at Todd, who had begun to blush.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I know him.’

‘Mm-hm.’ Rebus tested the tea, seeming to relish the bland flavour of milk and hot water. ‘Told you to keep an eye on me, did he?’

‘Sir?’

‘If you happen to see him, Todd, tell him everything’s fine.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Todd was turning to leave.

‘Oh, and Todd?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Don’t let me see you near me again, understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Todd was clearly downhearted. At the door, he paused, seeming to have a sudden plan that would ingratiate himself with his superior. Smiling, he turned back to Rebus.

‘Did you hear about the action across in Fife, sir?’

‘What action?’ Rebus sounded uninterested.

‘The dog fight, sir.’ Rebus tried hard to still look unmoved. ‘They broke up some dog fight. Guess who got arrested?’

‘Malcolm Rifkind?’ guessed Rebus. This deflated Todd totally. The smile left his face.

‘No, sir,’ he said, turning again to leave. Rebus’s patience was short.

‘Well who then?’ he snapped.

‘That disc jockey, Calum McCallum,’ Todd said, closing the door after him. Rebus stared at the door for a count of five before it struck home: Calum McCallum … Gill Templer’s lover!

Rebus raised his head and let out a roar which mixed laughter with a kind of twisted victory cry. And when he had stopped laughing, and was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, he looked towards the door again and saw that it was open. There was someone standing in the doorway, watching his performance with a look of puzzlement on their face.

It was Gill Templer.

Rebus checked his watch. It was nearly one in the morning.

‘Working the late shift, Gill?’ he said to cover his confusion.

‘I suppose you’ve heard,’ she said, ignoring him.

‘Heard what?’

She walked into the room, pushed some papers off the chair onto the floor, and sat down, looking exhausted. Rebus looked at all that paper slewed across the floor.

‘The cleaners come in in the morning anyway,’ he said. Then: ‘I’ve heard.’

‘Is that what all the screaming was about?’

‘Oh, that.’ Rebus tried to shrug it off, but could feel the blood tingling in his cheeks. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that was just something … well, something else….’

‘Not very convincing, Rebus, you bastard.’ Her words were tired. He wanted to buoy her up, tell her she was looking well or something. But it wouldn’t have been true and she would just scowl at him again. So he left it. She was looking drawn, not enough sleep and no fun left any more. She’d just had her world locked up in a cell somewhere in Fife. They would be photographing and fingerprinting it perhaps, ready to file it away. Her life, Calum McCallum.

Life was full of surprises.

‘So what can I do for you?’

She looked up at him, studying his face as though she wasn’t sure who he was or why she was here. Then she shook herself awake with a twitch of the shoulders.

‘It sounds corny, but I really was just passing. I dropped into the canteen for a coffee before going home, and then I heard — ’ She shivered again; the twitch which wasn’t quite a twitch. Rebus could see how fragile she was. He hoped she wasn’t going to shake apart. ‘I heard about Calum. How could he do that to me, John? Keep a secret like that? I mean, where’s the fun in watching dogs ripping each other — ’

‘That’s something you’ll have to ask him yourself, Gill. Can I get you some more coffee?’

‘Christ no, I’m going to find it hard enough getting to sleep as it is. Tell you what I would like though, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Name it.’

‘A lift home.’ Rebus was already nodding agreement. ‘And a hug.’

Rebus got up slowly, donned his jacket, put the pen and piece of paper in his pocket, and met her in the middle of the room. She had already risen from her chair, and, standing on reports to be read, paperwork to be signed, arrest statistics and the rest, they hugged, their arms strong. She buried her head in his shoulder. He rested his chin on her neck, staring at the closed door, rubbing her back with one hand, patting with the other. Eventually, she pulled away, head first, then chest, but still holding him with her arms. Her eyes were moist, but it was over now. She was looking a little better.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘I needed it as much as you did,’ said Rebus. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’

Friday

The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their grains in coquetry.

Someone was knocking on his door. An authoritarian knock, using the old brass knocker that he never cleaned. Rebus opened his eyes. The sun was streaming into his living room, a record’s run-out track crackling. Another night spent in the chair, fully clothed. He’d be as well selling the mattress in the bedroom. Would anyone buy a mattress without a bed-frame?

Knockity knock knock again. Still patient. Still waiting for him to answer. His eyes were gummy, and he pushed his shirt back into his trousers as he walked from the living room to the door. He felt not too bad, considering. Not stiff, no tightness in the neck. A wash and a shave, and he might even feel human.

He opened the door, just as Holmes was about to knock again.

‘Brian.’ Rebus sounded genuinely pleased.

‘Morning. Mind if I come in?’

‘Not at all. Is Nell okay?’

‘I phoned this morning. They say she had a good night.’

They were walking in the direction of the kitchen, Rebus leading. Holmes had imagined the flat would smell of beer and cigarettes, a typical bachelor pad. In fact, it was tidier than he’d expected, furnished with a modicum of taste. There were a lot of books. Rebus had never struck him as a reader. Mind you, not all the books looked as though they’d been read: bought with a rainy, dead weekend in mind. The weekend that never came.

Rebus pointed vaguely in the direction of kettle and cupboards.

‘Make us some coffee, will you? I’ll just take a quick shower.’

‘Right.’ Holmes thought that his news could probably wait. At least until Rebus was fully awake. He sought in vain for instant coffee, but found, in one cupboard, a vacuum pack of ground coffee, several months past its sell-by