Hide And Seek

wardrobe nor quite fitting your figure. Therefore borrowed, am I right?’

Rebus applauded silently. ‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘I suppose that’s what makes you such a good lawyer.’

‘No, years and years of study are what have made me a good lawyer. But to be a known lawyer, well, that demands a few simple party tricks, such as the one I’ve just shown you.’

Lanyon walked past Rebus and stopped at the writing desk. He sifted through the papers.

‘Was there anything special you were interested in?’

‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘Just this room.’

Lanyon glanced towards him, smiling, not quite believing. ‘There are more interesting rooms in the house, but I keep those locked.’

‘Oh?’

‘One doesn’t want everyone to know just what paintings one has collected for example.’

‘Yes, I see.’

Lanyon sat at the desk now, and slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses. He seemed interested in the papers before him.

‘I’m James Carew’s executor,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to sort out, who will benefit from his will.’

‘A terrible business.’

Lanyon seemed not to understand. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, yes, tragic.’

‘I take it you were close to him?’

Lanyon smiled again, as though he knew this same question had been asked of several people at the party already. ‘I knew him fairly well,’ he said at last.

‘Did you know he was homosexual?’

Rebus had been hoping for a response. There was none, and he cursed having played his trump card so soon in the game.

‘Of course,’ Lanyon said in the same level voice. He turned towards Rebus. ‘I don’t believe it’s a crime.’

‘That all depends, sir, as you should know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As a lawyer, you must know that there are still certain laws….’

‘Yes, yes, of course. But I hope you’re not suggesting that James was involved in anything sordid.’

‘Why do you think he killed himself, Mr Lanyon? I’d appreciate your professional opinion.’

‘He was a friend. Professional opinions don’t count.’ Lanyon stared at the heavy curtains in front of his desk. ‘I don’t know why he committed suicide. I’m not sure we’ll ever know.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on that, sir,’ said Rebus, going to the door. He stopped, hand on the handle. ‘I’d be interested to know who will benefit from the estate, when you’ve worked it all out of course.’

Lanyon was silent. Rebus opened the door, closed it behind him, and paused on the landing, breathing deeply. Not a bad performance, he thought to himself. At the very least it was worthy of a drink. And this time he would toast — in silence — the memory of James Carew.

Nursemaid was not his favourite occupation, but he’d known all along that it would come to this.

Tommy McCall was singing a rugby song in the back of the car, while Rebus waved a hasty goodbye to Saiko, who was standing on the doorstep. She even managed a smile. Well, after all he was doing her a favour in quietly removing the loud drunkard from the premises.

‘Am I under arrest, John?’ McCall yelled, interrupting his song.

‘No, now shut up, for Christ’s sake!’

Rebus got into the car and started the engine. He glanced back one last time and saw Lanyon join Saiko on the doorstep. She seemed to be filling him in on events, and he was nodding. It was the first Rebus had seen of him since their confrontation in the library. He released the handbrake, pulled out of the parking space, and drove off.

‘Left here, then next right.’

Tommy McCall had had too much to drink, but his sense of direction seemed unimpaired. Yet Rebus had a strange feeling….

‘Along to the end of this road, and it’s the last house on the corner.’

‘But this isn’t where you live,’ Rebus protested.

‘Quite correct, Inspector. This is where my brother lives. I thought we’d drop in for a nightcap.’

‘Jesus, Tommy, you can’t just — ’

‘Rubbish. He’ll be delighted to see us.’

As Rebus pulled up in front of the house, he looked out of his side window and was relieved to see that Tony McCall’s living room was still illuminated. Suddenly, Tommy’s hand thrust past him and pushed down on the horn, sending a loud blare into the silent night. Rebus pushed the hand away, and Tommy fell back into his seat, but he’d done enough. The curtains twitched in the McCall living room, and a moment later a door to the side of the house opened and Tony McCall came out, glancing back nervously. Rebus wound down the window.

‘John?’ Tony McCall seemed anxious. ‘What’s the matter?’

But before Rebus could explain, Tommy was out of the car and hugging his brother.

‘It’s my fault, Tony. All mine. I just wanted to see you, that’s all. Sorry though, sorry.’

Tony McCall took the situation in, glanced towards Rebus as if to say I don’t blame you, then turned to his brother.

‘Well, this is very thoughtful of you, Tommy. Long time no see. You’d better come in.’

Tommy McCall turned to Rebus. ‘See? I told you there’d be a welcome waiting for us at Tony’s house. Always a welcome at Tony’s.’

‘You’d better come in, too, John,’ said Tony.

Rebus nodded unhappily.

Tony directed them through the hall and into the living room. The carpet was thick and yielding underfoot, the furnishings looking like a showroom display. Rebus was afraid to sit, for fear of denting one of the puffed-up cushions. Tommy, however, collapsed immediately into a chair.

‘Where’s the wee ones?’ he said.

‘In bed,’ Tony answered, keeping his voice low.

‘Ach, wake them up then. Tell them their Uncle Tommy’s here.’

Tony ignored this. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said.

Tommy’s eyes were already closing, his arms slumped either side of him on the arms of the chair. While Tony was in the kitchen, Rebus studied the room. There were ornaments everywhere: along the length of the mantelpiece, covering the available surfaces of the large wall-unit, arranged on the surface of the coffee table. Small plaster figurines, shimmering glass creations, holiday souvenirs. The arms and backs of chairs and sofa were protected by antimacassars. The whole room was busy and ill at ease. Relaxation would be almost impossible. He began to understand now why Tony McCall had been out walking in Pilmuir on his day off.

A woman’s head peered round the door. Its lips were thin and straight, eyes alert but dark. She was staring at the slumbering figure of Tommy McCall, but caught sight of Rebus and prepared a kind of smile. The door opened a little wider, showing that she was wearing a dressing gown. A hand clutched this tight around her throat as she began to speak.

‘I’m Sheila, Tony’s wife.’

‘Yes, hello, John Rebus.’ Rebus made to stand, but a nervous hand fluttered him back down.

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘Tony’s talked about you. You work together, don’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yes.’ Her attention was wandering, and she turned her gaze back to Tommy McCall. Her voice became like damp wallpaper. ‘Would you look at him. The successful brother. His own business, big house. Just look at him.’ She seemed about to launch into a speech on social injustice, but was interrupted by her husband, who was now