Hide And Seek (21 page)

Taking the coffee from Holmes, he rolled his eyes, exhibiting disbelief at the stupidity of the person on the other end of the telephone.

‘Who is it?’ Holmes mouthed silently.

‘The council,’ said Rebus aloud. ‘I got a name and an extension number from Andrew.’

‘Who’s Andrew?’

‘Andrew MacBeth, the foreman. I want to find out who authorised the cleaning out of ’the house. A bit of a coincidence that, don’t you think? Cleaning it out just as we were about to do a bit of poking around.’ He turned his attention to the handset. ‘Yes? That’s right. Oh, I see.’ He looked at Holmes, his eyes betraying nothing. ‘How might that have happened?’ He listened again. ‘Yes, I see. Oh yes, I agree, it does seem a bit curious. Still, these things happen, eh? Roll on computerisation. Thanks for your help anyway.’

He pressed a button, kiling the connection. ‘You probably caught the gist of that.’

‘They’ve no record of who authorised the clear-out?’

‘Quite so, Brian. The documentation is all in order, but for the little matter of a signature. They can’t understand it.’

‘Any handwriting to go on?’

‘The chitty Andrew showed me was typed.’

‘So, what are you saying?’

‘That Mr Hyde seems to have friends everywhere. In the council, for starters, but probably in the police, too. Not to mention several less savoury institutions.’

‘What now?’

‘Those pictures. What else is there to go on?’

They studied each frame closely, taking their time, pointing out this or that blur or detail, trying ideas out on one another. It was a painstaking business. And throughout Rebus was muttering to himself about Ronnie McGrath’s final words to Tracy, about how they had been the key throughout. The triple meaning: make yourself scarce, beware a man called Hyde, and I’ve hidden something away. So clever. So compact. Almost too clever for Ronnie. Maybe the meanings had been there without his realising it himself....

At the end of ninety minutes, Rebus threw the final photograph down onto the floor. Holmes was half lying along the settee, rubbing his forehead with one hand as he held up one of the pictures in the other, his eyes refusing to focus any longer.

‘It’s no use, Brian. No use at all. I can’t make sense out of any of them, can you?’

‘Not a lot,’ Holmes admitted. ‘But I take it Hyde wanted - wants - these pictures badly.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning he knows they exist, but he doesn’t know how crude they are. He thinks they show something they don’t.’

‘Yes, but what? I’ll tell you something, Ronnie McGrath had bruises on his body the night he died.’

‘Not surprising when you remember that someone dragged his body down the stairs.’

‘No, he was already dead then. This was before. His brother noticed, Tracy noticed, but nobody ever asked. Somebody said something to me about rough trade.’ He pointed towards the scattering of snapshots. ‘Maybe this is what they meant.’

‘A boxing match?’

‘An illegal bout. Two unmatched kids knocking blue hell out of one another.’

‘For what?’

Rebus stared at the wall, looking for the word he lacked. Then he turned to Holmes.

‘The same reason men set up dog fights. For kicks.’

‘It all sounds incredible.’

‘Maybe it is incredible. The way my mind is just now, I could believe bombers have been found on the moon.’ He stretched. ‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly eight. Aren’t you supposed to be going to Malcolm Lanyon’s party?’

‘Jesus!’ Rebus sprang to his feet. ‘I’m late. I forgot all about it.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to get ready. There’s not much we can do about this.’ Holmes gestured towards the photographs. ‘I should visit Nell anyway.’

‘Yes, yes, off you go, Brian.’ Rebus paused. ‘And thanks.’

Holmes smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

‘One thing,’ Rebus began.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t have a clean jacket. Can I borrow yours?’

‘I hope I’m not late.’

‘Not at all. Malcolm’s parties aren’t run by the clock. People come and go as they please.’ Her voice had a cool but not unpleasant edge to it. Looking past her, Rebus was relieved to see several male guests wearing lounge suits, and some wearing sports jackets. Lanyon’s personal (Rebus wondered just
how
personal) assistant led him into the dining room, where a barman stood behind a table laden with bottles and glasses.

The doorbell rang again. Fingers touched Rebus’s shoulder. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ said Rebus. He turned towards the barman. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he said. Then he turned again to watch her pass through the large hallway towards the main door.

‘Hello, John.’ A much firmer hand slapped Rebus’s shoulder. It belonged to Tommy McCall.

‘Hello, Tommy.’ Rebus accepted a drink from the barman, and McCall handed over his own empty glass for a refill.

‘Glad you could make it. Of course, it’s not quite as lively as usual tonight. Everyone’s a bit subdued.’

‘Subdued?’ It was true, the conversations around them were muted. Then Rebus noticed a few black ties.

‘I only came along because I thought James would have wanted it that way.’

‘Of course,’ Rebus said, nodding. He’d forgotten all about James Carew’s suicide. Christ, it had only happened this morning! It seemed like a lifetime ago. And all these people had been Carew’s friends or acquaintances. Rebus’s nostrils twitched.

‘Had he seemed depressed lately?’ he asked.

‘Not especially. He’d just bought himself that car, remember. Hardly the act of a depressed man!’

‘I suppose not. Did you know him well?’

‘I don’t think any of us knew him well. He kept himself pretty much to himself. And of course he spent a lot of time away from town, sometimes on business, sometimes staying on his estate.’

‘He wasn’t married, was he?’

Tommy McCall stared at him, then took a large mouthful of whisky. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe he ever was. It’s a blessing in a way.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ said Rebus, feeling the gin easing itself into his system. ‘But I still don’t understand why he would do it.’

‘It’s always the quiet ones though, isn’t it? Malcolm was just saying that a few minutes ago.’

Rebus looked around them. ‘I haven’t seen our host yet.’

‘I think he’s in the lounge. Shall I give you the tour?’

‘Yes, why not?’

‘It’s quite a place.’ McCall turned to Rebus. ‘Shall we start upstairs in the billiards room, or downstairs at the swimming pool?’

Rebus laughed and shook his empty glass. ‘I think the first place to visit is the bar, don’t you?’

He turned the heavy brass handle and slipped into the dimly lit library. In here there was a smell of old leather, a smell which took Rebus back to past decades - the ‘twenties, say, or perhaps the ’thirties. There was a lamp on the desktop, illuminating some papers there. Rebus was at the desk before he realised something: the lamp had not been lit on his first visit here. He turned and saw Lanyon, standing against the far wall with his arms folded, grinning.

‘Inspector,’ he said, his voice as rich as his tailoring. ‘What an interesting jacket that is. Saiko told me you’d arrived.’

Lanyon walked forward slowly and extended a hand, which Rebus took. He returned the firm grip.

‘I hope I’m not ...’ he began. ‘I mean, it was kind of you....’

‘Good lord, not at all. Is the Superintendent coming?’

Rebus shrugged his shoulders, feeling the jacket tight across his back.

‘No, well, never mind. I see that like me you are a studious man.’ Lanyon surveyed the shelves of books. ‘This is my favourite room in the whole house. I don’t know why I bother holding parties. It is expected, I suppose, and that’s why I do it. Also of course it is interesting to note the various permutations, who’s talking with whom, whose hand just happened to squeeze whose arm a touch too tenderly. That sort of thing.’

‘You won’t see much from here,’ Rebus said.

‘But Saiko tells me. She’s marvellous at catching that sort of thing, no matter how subtle people think they are being. For example, she told me about your jacket. Beige, she said, cord, neither matching the rest of your 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.

‘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.