‘Rico, it looks like I won’t be needing you after all.’
In the end, Rico helped load the boot.
Rebus sat alone in his flat, having paid Rico off and dropped him back in the town centre. One of the binbags had contained nothing but empty tins, bags and boxes, and now it sat outside the main door of Rebus’s tenement. But the other three sat open in the middle of Rebus’s living room. He emptied the first bag on to the floor. Strands of white paper fell in a shivering heap. Rebus picked up one strand. It was the length of an A4 sheet and no more than two millimetres wide. He’d heard stories that shredded documents could be reconstructed. All it took was patience: colossal patience. He was sure there were clever ways of doing it — UV analysis or watermark-matching or batch-sorting — but all he had were his eyes. He couldn’t just march into Howdenhall and drop the stuff off. Too many questions would be asked. He sat on the floor, picked up a few strands, and tried putting them together.
It took him about four minutes to realise the job was impossible.
He sat there smoking a cigarette, staring at the strands. They might tell him everything he needed to know. He finished the cigarette, poured himself a drink, and tried again. It took him a while to lose his temper. He dragged the kitchen table through and sat at it. Then he brought the anglepoise lamp through from his bedroom and plugged it in. The machine had jammed; there was a chance not all the strips had been separated completely.
He didn’t find as many as two strips still joined at any one point.
He swore for a while and walked around the flat, emptied the coffee jar and set it back under the radiator, then put his coat on and went to buy cigarettes and whisky. The corner shop was closed when he reached it. His watch said eleven-fifteen; he couldn’t believe it was so late.
He walked on to the nearest pub and waded through the smoky, shouting throng. The barmaid gave him change for the cigarette machine but couldn’t sell him a carry-out: it was after last orders. She told him about a licensed chip shop he could try, but it was a car-run away, so he walked briskly back to the flat and sought out untried bottles. There was a quarter of Bacardi for emergency dispensation should he ever manage to drag a woman as far as his bedroom. The thought of neat Bacardi repelled him only slightly more than the thought of mixing it with anything.
Which means, he thought, I can’t be an alcoholic.
He unscrewed the top from the Bacardi anyway and sniffed it, then screwed it back on. He’d have to be a lot more desperate … say, come four in the morning. Then he remembered the freezer. He opened it up and chipped away at the ice until he’d broken through to two trays of ice cubes, a single fish finger … and a small bottle. It was Polish vodka; a neighbour had given it to him after a trip home to Lodz; a present for feeding the cat for a week.
Rebus found a glass, filled it, and belatedly toasted Solidarity before draining it. The stuff was as smooth as anything he’d ever tried. A third of a litre of eighty-four proof. He took glass and bottle into the living room and put
He got back into the game, then decided to leave the first bag and start on the second. He filled the first bag back up, then dumped bag two on to the floor.
And his doorbell rang.
It was a little after midnight.
The main door was sometimes left unlocked. No need for visitors, welcome or not, to announce their presence until they were outside the door of the flat.
At this time on a Thursday night?
Rebus looked at the mess on the floor, then went out into the hall and tiptoed to the front door, just as the bell rang again. He could hear two voices at least, little more than murmurs. Suddenly, fingers pushed open his letterbox. Rebus stood to the side of the door, back pressed to the wall.
‘Maybe he leaves the lights on when he’s out.’
‘Aye, and maybe he’s half-shot and sleeping it off.’
Rebus turned the snib silently and yanked open the door. Siobhan Clarke, who’d been peering through the letterbox, stood up, but Rebus’s eyes were on Brian Holmes.
‘Half-shot, is it, Brian? I’m glad you hold me in such high regard.’
Holmes just shrugged. ‘It’s what I’d do on holiday.’
Rebus filled the doorway, his arms folded. ‘So what are you doing: canvassing, polling, or maybe you were just passing?’
‘We were working,’ Brian Holmes explained. ‘We went to get something to eat afterwards, and when we ran out of interesting topics, the conversation came round to you.’
‘What about me?’
‘We wondered,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ‘what the hell’s going on.’
Rebus smiled. ‘You and me both.’ He stood back from the doorway. ‘You better come in. You’re the first to arrive; I haven’t even got the party snacks out.’ He noticed a brown carrier bag on the landing behind Brian Holmes.
‘We brought our own party with us.’ When Holmes picked up the bag, Rebus heard cans and bottles collide.
‘You’re always welcome here, Brian,’ Rebus said, leading them indoors.
They sat in the living room, staring at the pile of paper strips. Siobhan Clarke took a gulp of coffee.
‘You
Rebus shook his head. ‘A public service; I saved the binmen a job.’
Holmes looked to Siobhan. ‘We did say we were coming here to help.’
‘Yes, but this lot …?’ She flapped her arms. ‘I doubt the “Blue Peter” appeal could sort this lot out. Talk about shreds of evidence.’
Rebus held up a pacifying hand. ‘Look, this is my problem, not yours. I won’t be disappointed if you scurry off home. In fact, it would be better for you if you did.’
‘We know,’ said Holmes.
Rebus looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
Siobhan Clarke explained. ‘The Farmer spoke to us this afternoon. Basically, he warned us off. He said you were on leave, but he didn’t think that would stop you sticking your nose in.’ She looked up. ‘His words, not mine.’
‘We’ve been given new duties,’ Brian Holmes added. ‘Desk work, restructuring the filing system prior to full computerisation.’
‘To keep you busy?’
‘Yes.’
‘And away from me?’
They both nodded.
‘So naturally you come straight here?’ Rebus got to his feet. ‘You could be fucking up both your careers!’
‘I’m not in CID to sort through a lot of old paperwork,’ Siobhan Clarke retorted. Then she realised what she’d said, looked at the mound of shredded paper in front of her, and laughed.
They all did.
They hit lucky with the third bag.
‘Look,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ‘it’s not just white paper.’
Rebus took a strip from her: yellow card. ‘Files,’ he said. ‘They shredded the folders as well!’
‘Must be some machine,’ Brian Holmes added.
‘That’s a bloody good point, Brian.’
The folders were a breakthrough. The problem with the paper was that there was so much of it. There wasn’t nearly so much card, and what there was could be grouped by colour. The front of each file had a white printed label, and these were what Rebus wanted. He wanted the reconstructed labels.
But even knowing what they were looking for, it took time and effort. Rebus’s eyes were stinging, and he kept rubbing them, which only blurred his vision.
