Hide And Seek by Ian Rankin Page A

would attract his attention. But soon enough he had tired, and now it was merely routine. What’s more, his arms were aching from all that page turning.
    ‘May,’ the youth explained. ‘These are the May editions.’
    ‘Right, thanks.’
    ‘Finished with June?’
    ‘Yes, thanks.’
    The youth nodded, buckled shut two leather straps on the open end of the bound file, and heaved the whole up into his arms, shuffling out of the room. Here we go again, thought Holmes, unbuckling this latest batch of old news and space fillers.
    Rebus had been wrong. There had been no old retainer to act as a computer memory, and no computer either. So it was down to hard graft and page turning, looking for photographs of familiar places, made fresh through the use of odd camera angles. Why? He didn’t know even that yet, and the thought frustrated him. He’d find out later this afternoon hopefully, when he met with Rebus. There was a shuffling sound again as the youth re-entered, arms dangling now, jaw hanging.
    ‘So why didn’t you do the same as your friends?’ Holmes said conversationally.
    ‘You mean go in for banking?’ The youth wrinkled his nose. ‘Wanted something different. I’m learning journalism. Got to start somewhere, haven’t you?’
    Indeed you have, thought Holmes, turning another page. Indeed you have.

    ‘Well, it’s a start,’ said McCall, rising. They were crumpling their used napkins, tossing them onto the dishevelled tablecloth. What had once been pristine was now covered with breadcrumbs and splashes of wine, a dark patch of butter, a single dripped coffee stain. Rebus felt woozy as he pulled himself out of the chair. And full. His tongue was furred from too much wine and coffee, and that cognac - Christ! Now these men were about to go back to work, or so they claimed. Rebus, too. He had a meeting at three with Holmes, didn’t he? But it was already gone three. Oh well, Holmes wouldn’t complain. Couldn’t complain, thought Rebus smugly.
    ‘Not a bad spread that,’ said Carew, patting his girth.
    Rebus couldn’t be sure whether this, or the food itself, was the spread he meant.
    ‘And we covered a lot of ground,’ said Watson, ‘let’s not forget that.’
    ‘Indeed not,’ said McCall. ‘A very useful meeting.’
    Andrews had insisted on paying the bill. A good three figures’ worth by Rebus’s hasty calculation. Andrews was studying the bill now, lingering over each item as though checking it against his own mental price list. Not only a businessman, thought Rebus unkindly, but a bloody good Scot. Then Andrews called over the brisk maitre d’ and told him quietly about one item for which they had been overcharged. The maitre d’ took Andrews’ word for it, and altered the bill there and then with his own ballpoint pen, apologising unreservedly.
    The restaurant was just beginning to empty. A nice lunch hour over for all the diners. Rebus felt sudden guilt overwhelm him. He had just eaten and drunk his share of about two hundred pounds. Forty quid’s worth, in other words. Some had dined better, and were noisily, laughingly making their way out of the dining room. Old stories, cigars, red faces. McCall put an unwelcome arm around Rebus’s back, nodding towards the leavetaking.
    ‘If there were only fifty Tory voters left in Scotland, John, they’d all be in this room.’
    ‘I believe it,’ said Rebus.
    Andrews, turning from the maitre d‘, had heard them. ’I thought there were only fifty Tories left up here,’ he said.
    There, Rebus noted, were those quiet, confident smiles again. I have eaten ashes for bread, he thought. Ashes for bread. Cigar ash burned red all around him, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. But then McCall stumbled, and Rebus had to hold him up until he found his balance.
    ‘Bit too much to drink, Tommy?’ said Carew.
    ‘Just need a breath of air,’ said McCall. ‘John’ll help me, won’t you, John?’
    ‘Of course,’ said Rebus, glad of