Hide And Seek (23 page)

But would she know the librarian?

A bell rang out, drilling into her the fact that visiting hours were coming to an end. She hurried to the next ward, wondering: what if the librarian’s in a private room? Or in another hospital? Or....

No! There she was! Tracy stopped dead, turned in a half-circle, and walked to the far end of the ward. Visitors were saying their goodbyes and take cares to the patients. Everybody looked relieved, both visitors and visited. She mingled with them as they put chairs back into stacks and donned coats, scarves, gloves. Then she paused and looked back towards the librarian’s bed. There were flowers all around it, and the single visitor, a man, was leaning over the librarian to kiss her lingeringly on the forehead. The librarian squeezed the man’s hand and.... And the man looked familiar to Tracy. She’d seen him before.... At the police station! He was some friend of Rebus’s, and he was a policeman! She remembered him checking on her while she was being held in the cells.

Oh Jesus, she’d attacked a policeman’s wife!

She wasn’t sure now, wasn’t sure at all. Why had she come? Could she go through with it now? She walked with one family out of the ward, then rested against the wall in the corridor outside. Could she? Yes, if her nerve held. Yes, she could.

She was pretending to examine a drinks vending machine when Holmes sauntered through the swinging ward doors and walked slowly down the corridor away from her. She waited a full two minutes, counting up to one hundred and twenty. He wasn’t coming back. He hadn’t forgotten anything. Tracy turned from the vending machine and made for the swing doors.

For her, visiting time was just beginning.

She hadn’t even reached the bed when a young nurse stopped her.

‘Visiting hour’s finished now,’ the nurse said.

Tracy tried to smile, tried to look normal; it wasn’t easy for her, but lying was.

‘I just lost my watch. I think I left it at my sister’s bed.’ She nodded in Nell’s direction. Nell, hearing the conversation, had turned towards her. Her eyes opened wide as she recognised Tracy.

‘Well, be as quick as you can, eh?’ said the nurse, moving away. Tracy smiled at the nurse, and watched her push through the swing doors. Now there were only the patients in their beds, a sudden silence, and her. She approached Nell’s bed.

‘Hello,’ she said. She looked at the chart attached to the end of the iron bedstead. ‘Nell Stapleton,’ she read.

‘What do you want?’ Nell’s eyes showed no fear. Her voice was thin, coming from the back of her throat, her nose having no part in the process.

‘I want to tell you something,’ Tracy said. She came close to Nell, and crouched on the floor, so that she would be barely visible from the doors of the ward. She thought this made her look as though she were searching for a lost watch.

‘Yes?’

Tracy smiled, finding Nell’s imperfect voice amusing. She sounded like a puppet on a children’s programme. The smile vanished quickly, and she blushed, remembering that the reason she was here was because
she
was responsible for this woman being here at all. The plasters across the nose, the bruising under the eyes: all her doing.

‘I came to say I’m sorry. That’s all, really. just, I’m sorry.’

Nell’s eyes were unblinking.

‘And,’ Tracy continued, ‘well ... nothing.’

‘Tell me,’ said Nell, but it was too much for her. She’d done most of the talking while Brian Holmes had been in, and her mouth was dry. She turned and reached for the jug of water on the small cupboard beside the bed.

‘Here, I’ll do that.’ Tracy poured water into a plastic beaker, and handed it to Nell, who sipped, coating the inside of her mouth. ‘Nice flowers,’ said Tracy.

‘From my boyfriend,’ said Nell, between sips.

‘Yes, I saw him leaving. He’s a policeman, isn’t he? I know he is, because I’m a friend of Inspector Rebus’s.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You do?’ Tracy seemed shocked. ‘So you know who I am?’

‘I know your name’s Tracy, if that’s what you mean.’

Tracy bit her bottom lip. Her face reddened again.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ Nell said.

‘Oh no.’ Tracy tried to sound nonchalant. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I was going to ask ...’

‘Yes?’ Tracy seemed keen for a change of subject.

‘What were you going to do in the library?’

This wasn’t quite to Tracy’s liking. She thought about it, shrugged, and said: ‘I was going to find Ronnie’s photographs.’

‘Ronnie’s photographs?’ Nell perked up. What little Brian had said during visiting hour had been limited to the progress of Ronnie McGrath’s case, and especially the discovery of some pictures at the dead boy’s house. What was Tracy talking about?

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Ronnie hid them in the library.’

‘What were they exactly? I mean, why did he need to hide them?’

Tracy shrugged. ‘All he told me was that they were his life insurance policy. That’s exactly what he said, “life insurance policy”.’

‘And where exactly did he hide them?’

‘On the fifth floor, he said. Inside a bound volume of something called the
Edinburgh Review.
I think it’s a magazine.’

‘That’s right,’ said Nell, smiling, ‘it is.’

Thirty minutes later, he was being shown down an aisle on the fifth floor of Edinburgh University Library. The member of staff checked complicated decimal numbers exhibited at each stack, until, satisfied, she led him down one darkened row of large bound titles. At the end of the aisle, seated at a study desk by a large window, a student stared disinterestedly towards Holmes, a pencil crunching in his mouth. Holmes smiled sympathetically towards the student, who stared right through him.

‘Here we are,’ said the librarian.
‘Edinburgh Review
and
New Edinburgh Review.
It becomes “New” in 1969, as you can see. Of course, we keep the earlier editions in a closed environment. If you want those years specifically, it will take a little time — ’

‘No, these are fine, really. These are just what I need. Thank you.’

The librarian bowed slightly, accepting his thanks. ‘You will remember us all to Nell, won’t you?’ she said.

‘I’ll be talking to her later today. I won’t forget.’

With another bow, the librarian turned and walked back to the end of the stack. She paused there, and pressed a switch. Strip lighting flickered above Holmes, and stayed on. He smiled his thanks, but she was gone, her rubber heels squeaking briskly towards the lift.

Holmes looked at the spines of the bound volumes. The collection was not complete, which meant that someone had borrowed some of the years. A stupid place to hide something. He picked up 1971-72, held its spine by the forefingers of both his right and left hands, and rocked it. No scraps of paper, no photographs were shaken free. He put the volume back on the shelf and selected its neighbour, shook it, then replaced it.

The student at the study desk was no longer looking through him. He was looking at him, and doing so as if Holmes were mad. Another volume yielded nothing, then another. Holmes began to fear the worst. He’d been hoping for something with which to surprise Rebus, something to tie up all the loose ends. He’d tried contacting the Inspector, but Rebus wasn’t to be found, wasn’t anywhere. He had vanished.

The photos made more noise than he’d expected as they slid from the sheaves and hit the polished floor, hit it with their glossy edges, producing a sharp crack. He bent and began to gather them up, while the student looked on in fascination. From what he could see of the images strewn across the floor, Holmes already felt disappointment curdling his elation. They were copies of the boxing match pictures, nothing more. There were no new prints, no revelations, no surprises.

Damn Ronnie McGrath for giving him hope. All they were was life insurance. On a life already forfeit.

He waited for the lift, but it was busy elsewhere, so he took the stairs, winding downwards steeply, and found himself on the ground floor, but in a part of the library he didn’t know, a sort of antiquarian bookshop corridor, narrow, with mouldering books stacked up against both walls. He squeezed through, feeling a sudden chill he couldn’t place, and found himself opening a door onto the main concourse. The librarian who had shown him around was back behind her desk. She saw him, and waved frantically. He obeyed the command and hurried forward. She picked up a telephone and pressed a button.

‘Call for you,’ she said, stretching across the desktop to hand him the receiver.

‘Hello?’ He was quizzical: who the hell knew he was here?

‘Brian, where in God’s name have you been?’ It was Rebus, of course. ‘I’ve been trying to find you everywhere. I’m at the hospital.’

Holmes’s heart deflated within his chest. ‘Nell?’ he said, so dramatically that even the librarian’s head shot up.

‘What?’ growled Rebus. ‘No, no, Nell’s fine. It’s just that she told me where to find you. I’m phoning from the hospital, and it’s costing me a fortune.’ In confirmation, the pips came, and were followed by the chankling of coins in a slot. The connection was re-established.

‘Nell’s okay,’ Brian told the librarian. She nodded, relieved, and turned back to her work.

‘Of course she is,’ said Rebus, having caught the words. ‘Now listen, there are a few things I want you to do. Have you got a pen and paper?’

Brian found them on the desk. He smiled, remembering the first telephone conversation he’d ever had with John Rebus, so similar to this, a few things to be done. Christ, so much had been done since....

‘Got that?’

Holmes started. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘My mind was elsewhere. Could you repeat that?’

There was an audible sound of mixed anger and excitement from the receiver. Then Rebus started again, and this time Brian Holmes heard every word.

‘Hey!’

‘If you’ll just come with us, miss.’

They sounded like security men, policemen even, so she didn’t resist. Maybe Nell Stapleton’s boyfriend wanted to see her, to give her a good kicking. She didn’t care. They were taking her towards the hospital entrance, so she didn’t resist. Not until it was too late.

At the last moment, they stopped short, turned her, and pushed her into the back of an ambulance.

‘What’s — ! Hey, come on!’ The doors were closing, locking, leaving her alone in the hot, dim interior. She thumped on the doors, but the vehicle was already moving off. As it pulled away, she was thrown against the doors, then back onto the floor. When she had recovered herself, she saw that the ambulance was an old one, no longer used for its original purpose. Its insides had been gutted, making it merely a van. The windows had been boarded over, and a metal panel separated her from the driver. She clawed her way to this panel and began hitting it with her fists, teeth gritted, yelling from time to time as she remembered that the two men who had grabbed her at the gates were the same two men who’d been following her that day on Princes Street, that day she’d run to John Rebus.

‘Oh God,’ she murmured, ‘oh God, oh God.’

They’d found her at last.

He tugged at the black bow tie around his throat. The whole outfit, dinner jacket, shirt, bow tie and patent shoes, had been hired earlier in the day from a shop on George Street. He felt like an idiot, but had to admit that, examining himself in his bathroom mirror, he looked pretty sharp. He wouldn’t be too out of place in an establishment like Finlay’s of Duke Terrace.

The door was opened by a beaming woman, young, dressed exquisitely, and greeting him as though wondering why he didn’t come more often.

‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘Will you come in?’

He would, he did. The entrance hall was subtle. Cream paint, deep pile carpeting, a scattering of chairs which might have been designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, high backs and looking extraordinarily uncomfortable to sit in.

‘I see you’re admiring our chairs,’ the woman said.

‘Yes,’ Rebus answered, returning her smile. ‘The name’s Rebus, by the way. John Rebus.’

‘Ah yes. Finlay told me you were expected. Well, as this is your first visit, would you like me to show you around?’

‘Thank you.’

‘But first, a drink, and the first drink is always on the house.’

Rebus tried not to be nosey, but he was a policeman after all, and not being nosey would have gone against all that he held most dear. So he asked a few questions of his hostess, whose name was Paulette, and pointed to this and that part of the gaming club, being shown the direction of the cellars (‘Finlay has their contents insured for quarter of a million’), kitchen (‘our chef is worth his weight in Beluga’), and guest bedrooms (‘the judges are the worst, there are one or two who always end up sleeping here, too drunk to go home’). The lower ground floor housed the cellars and kitchen, while the ground floor comprised a quiet bar area, and the small restaurant, with cloakrooms and an office. On the first floor, up the carpeted staircase and past the collection of eighteenth-and nineteenth-century Scottish paintings by the likes of Jacob More and David Allan, was the main gaming area: roulette, blackjack, a few other tables for card games, and one table given over to dice. The players were businessmen, their bets discreet, nobody losing big or winning big. They held their chips close to them.

Paulette pointed out two closed rooms.

‘Private rooms, for private games.’

‘Of what?’

‘Poker mainly. The serious players book them once a month or so. The games can go on all night.’

‘Just like in the movies.’

‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘Just like the movies.’

The second floor consisted of the three guest bedrooms, again locked, and Finlay Andrews’ own private suite.

‘Off limits, of course,’ Paulette said.

‘Of course,’ Rebus concurred, as they started downstairs again.

So this was it: Finlay’s Club. Tonight was quiet. He had seen only two or three faces he recognised: an advocate, who did not acknowledge him, though they’d clashed before in court, a television presenter, whose dark tan looked fake, and Farmer Watson.

‘Hello there, John.’ Watson, stuffed into suit and dress shirt, looked like nothing more than a copper out of uniform. He was in the bar when Paulette and Rebus went back in, his hand closed around a glass of orange juice, trying to look comfortable but instead looking distinctly out of place.

‘Sir.’ Rebus had not for one moment imagined that Watson, despite the threat he had made earlier, would turn up here. He introduced Paulette, who apologised for not being around to greet him at the door.

Watson waved aside her apology, revolving his glass. ‘I was well enough taken care of,’ he said. They sat at a vacant table. The chairs here were comfortable and well padded, and Rebus felt himself relax. Watson, however, was looking around keenly.

‘Finlay not here?’ he asked.

‘He’s somewhere around,’ said Paulette. ‘Finlay’s always around.’

Funny, thought Rebus, that they hadn’t bumped into him on their tour.

‘What’s the place like then, John?’ Watson asked.

‘Impressive,’ Rebus answered, accepting Paulette’s smile like praise from a teacher to a doting pupil. ‘Very impressive. It’s much bigger than you’d think. Wait till you see upstairs.’

‘And there’s the extension, too,’ said Watson.

‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten.’ Rebus turned to Paulette.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘We’re building out from the back of the premises.’

‘Building?’ said Watson. ‘I thought it was a fait accompli?’

‘Oh no.’ She smiled again. ‘Finlay is very particular. The flooring wasn’t quite right, so he had the workmen rip it all up and start again. Now we’re waiting on some marble arriving from Italy.’

‘That must be costing a few bob,’ Watson said, nodding to himself.

Rebus wondered about the extension. Towards the back of the ground floor, past toilets, cloakroom, offices, walk-in cupboards, there must be another door, ostensibly the door to the back garden. But now the door to the extension, perhaps.

‘Another drink, John?’ Watson was already on his feet, pointing at Rebus’s empty glass.

‘Gin and fresh orange, please,’ he said, handing over the glass.

‘And for you, Paulette?’

‘No, really.’ She was rising from the chair. ‘Work to do. Now that you’ve seen a bit of the club, I’d better get back to door duties. If you want to play upstairs, the office can supply chips. A few of the games accept cash, but not the most interesting ones.’

Another smile, and she was gone in a flurry of silk and a glimpse of black nylon. Watson saw Rebus watching her leave.

‘At ease, Inspector,’ he said, laughing to himself as he headed for the bar where the barman explained that if he wanted drinks, he only had to signal, and an order would be taken at the gentlemen’s table and brought to them directly. Watson slumped back into his chair again.

‘This is the life, eh, John?’

‘Yes, sir. What’s happening back at base?’

‘You mean the little sodomite who made the complaint? He’s buggered off. Disappeared. Gave us a false address, the works.’

‘So I’m off the butcher’s hook?’

‘Just about.’ Rebus was about to remonstrate. ‘Give it a few more days, John, that’s all I’m asking. Time for it to die a natural death.’

‘You mean people are talking?’

‘A few of the lads have had a laugh about it. I don’t suppose you can blame them. In a day or so, there’ll be something else for them to joke about, and it’ll all be forgotten.’

‘There’s nothing to forget!’

‘I know, I know. It’s all some plot to keep you out of action, and this mysterious Mr Hyde’s behind it all.’

Rebus stared at Watson, his lips clamped shut. He could yell, could scream and shout. He breathed hard instead, and snatched at the drink when the waiter placed the tray on the table. He’d taken two gulps before the waiter informed him that he was drinking the other gentleman’s orange juice. His own gin and orange was the one still on the tray. Rebus reddened as Watson, laughing again, placed a five-pound note on the tray. The waiter coughed in embarrassment.

‘Your drinks come to six pounds fifty, sir,’ he told Watson.

‘Ye gods!’ Watson searched in his pocket for some change, found a crumpled pound note and some coins, and placed them on the tray.

‘Thank you, sir.’ The waiter lifted the tray and turned away before Watson had the chance to ask about any change that might be owing. He looked at Rebus, who was smiling now.

‘Well,’ Watson said, ‘I mean, six pounds fifty! That would feed some families for a week.’

‘This is the life,’ Rebus said, throwing the Superintendent’s words back at him.

‘Yes, well said, John. I was in danger of forgetting there can be more to life than personal comfort. Tell me, which church do you attend?’

‘Well, well. Come to take us all in, have you?’ Both men turned at this new voice. It was Tommy McCall. Rebus checked his watch. Eight thirty. Tommy looked as though he’d been to a few pubs en route to the club. He sat down heavily in what had been Paulette’s chair.

‘What’re you drinking?’ He snapped his fingers, and the waiter, a frown on his face, came slowly towards the table.

‘Sirs?’

Tommy McCall looked up at him. ‘Hello, Simon. Same again for the constabulary, and I’ll have the usual.’

Rebus watched the waiter as McCall’s words sank in. That’s right, son, Rebus thought to himself, we’re the police. Now why should that fact frighten you so much? The waiter turned, seeming to read Rebus’s mind, and headed stiffly back to the bar.

‘So what brings you two here?’ McCall was lighting a cigarette, glad to have found some company and ready to make a night of it.

‘It was John’s idea,’ Watson said. ‘He wanted to come, so I fixed it with Finlay, then reckoned I might as well come along, too.’

‘Quite right.’ McCall looked around him. ‘Nobody much in tonight though, not yet leastways. The place is usually packed to the gunnels with faces you’d recognise, names you’d know like you know your own. This is tame tonight.’

He had offered round his pack of cigarettes, and Rebus had taken one, which he now lit, inhaling gratefully, regretting it immediately as the smoke mixed with the alcohol fumes in his chest. He needed to think fast and hard. Watson and now McCall: he had planned on dealing with neither.

‘By the way, John,’ Tommy McCall said, ‘thanks for the lift last night.’ His tone made the subtext clear to Rebus. ‘Sorry if it was any trouble.’

‘No trouble, Tommy. Did you sleep well?’

‘I never have trouble sleeping.’

‘Me neither,’ interrupted Farmer Watson. ‘The benefits of a clear conscience, eh?’

Tommy turned to Watson. ‘Shame you couldn’t get to Malcolm Lanyon’s party. We had a pretty good time, didn’t we, John?’

Tommy smiled across at Rebus, who smiled back. A group at the next table were laughing at some joke, the men drawing on thick cigars, the women playing with their wrist jewellery. McCall leaned across towards them, hoping perhaps to share in the joke, but his shining eyes and uneven smile kept him apart from them.

‘Had many tonight, Tommy?’ Rebus asked. McCall, hearing his name, turned back to Rebus and Watson.

‘One or two,’ he said. ‘A couple of my trucks didn’t deliver on time, drivers on the piss or something. Lost me two big contracts. Drowning my sorrows.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Watson said with sincerity. Rebus nodded agreement, but McCall shook his head theatrically. ,

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of selling the business anyway, retiring while I’m still young. Barbados, Spain, who knows. Buy a little villa.’ His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘And guess who’s interested in buying me out? You’ll never guess in a million years. Finlay.’

‘Finlay Andrews?’

‘The same.’ McCall sat back, drew on his cigarette, blinking into the smoke. ‘Finlay Andrews.’ He leaned forward again confidentially. ‘He’s got a finger in quite a few pies, you know. It’s not just this place. He’s got this and that directorship, shares here there and everywhere, you name it.’

‘Your drinks.’ The waiter’s voice had more than a note of disapproval in it. He seemed to want to linger, even after McCall had pitched a ten-pound note onto the tray and waved him away.

‘Aye,’ McCall continued after the waiter had retreated. ‘Fingers in plenty of pies. All strictly above board, mind. You’d have a hellish job proving otherwise.’

‘And he wants to buy you out?’ Rebus asked.

McCall shrugged. ‘He’s made a good price. Not a great price, but I won’t starve.’

‘Your change, sir.’ It was the waiter again, his voice cold as a chisel. He held the salver out towards McCall, who stared up at him.

‘I didn’t want any change,’ he explained. ‘It was a tip. Still,’ he winked at Rebus and Watson, scooping the coins from the tray, ‘if you don’t want it, son, I suppose I might as well have it back.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Rebus loved this. The waiter was giving McCall every kind of danger signal there was, but McCall was too drunk or too naive to notice. At the same time, Rebus was aware of complications which might be about to result from the presence of Superintendent Watson and Tommy McCall at Finlay’s, on the night Finlay’s erupted.

There was a sudden commotion from the entrance hall, raised voices, boisterous rather than angry. And Paulette’s voice, too, pleading, then remonstrative. Rebus glanced at his watch again. Eight fifty. Right on time.

‘What’s going on?’ Everybody in the bar was interested, and a few had risen from their seats to investigate. The barman pushed a button on the wall beside the optics, then made for the hall. Rebus followed. Just inside the front door Paulette was arguing with several men, dressed in business suits but far the worse for wear. One was telling her that she couldn’t refuse him, because he was wearing a tie. Another explained that they were in town for the evening and had heard about the club from someone in a bar.