The Travelling Companion by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

identical to Alice’s. Pushing open the shutters, I looked down onto the courtyard and saw a familiar flash of color. Alice was heading for the street.
    I studied Charlotte a final time, knowing there was nothing to be done, then ran to the stairs, barging past the hotelier, who was on the way up. I crossed the courtyard, scanning the pavement to left and right. Making a decision, I started running again. I didn’t know Alice’s address or even her surname. Would she head for the Seine and the derelicts we had shared our wine with? Or to the bookshop, where she could wait for me on my infested alcove bed? Bars and cafes and the usual landmarks … We had criss-crossed the city, making it our own.
    But there was only one destination I could think of—Turk’s apartment.
    She wasn’t outside, nor was she seated on the stairs. I climbed to the top floor and tried the door—locked, as before. But this time when I hit it with my fist, there were sounds from inside. Benjamin Turk opened the door and studied me from head to foot.
    â€œIt looks to me as though you’re finally ready,” he said with a thin smile, ushering me in.
    â€œHave you seen Alice?” I demanded.
    â€œForget about her,” he said, his back to me as he hobbled towards the living-room. “I’ve laid everything out for you.” He was pointing towards the desk. Various documents lay there. “Took me some time and effort, but you’ll only begin to comprehend when you examine them.”
    â€œWhat are they?”
    â€œThe story of Edwin Hythe. Sit down. Read. I’ll fetch you a drink.”
    â€œI don’t want a drink.” But I realized that I did—I wanted the darkest wine in the largest glass imaginable. Turk seemed to understand this, and returned with a glass filled almost to the brim. I gulped it down, exhaling only afterwards.
    â€œDoes the wound hurt?” he was asking.
    I dabbed at my head. “No,” I said.
    â€œThen you should read.” He pulled over a chair so he could sit next to me, and while I focused on the various sheets of paper he explained the significance.
    â€œStevenson and Hythe were close friends as students, belonging to the same clubs and drinking in the same low dives late into the night. Then the murder of a prostitute is recorded in the newspaper and there’s a parting. Hythe disappears from Stevenson’s life. The murderer is never apprehended. When Stevenson writes a novel about just such a woman, his wife persuades him it is not going to be good for his reputation. But Hythe, too, hears about it, and makes his way to Bournemouth. He comes from money so he stays at the best hotel in town, a hotel that keeps impeccable records.” He tapped the photocopied sheet showing Hythe’s signature in the guest book, along with the duration of his stay. “It’s fairly obvious that Hythe was the killer and that Stevenson was either a witness or else was privy to his friend’s confession. The golden young man Stevenson had known in Edinburgh was by now a dissolute figure, in trouble with creditors, disowned by his family, earning a living of sorts from any number of illegal activities.” He tapped a series of court reports and newspaper stories. “Pimping, trafficking, receiving stolen goods … And with a temper on him. One arrest talks of the superhuman rage of the man after too much drink had been taken.” Turk paused. “And when Hythe left Bournemouth, Stevenson sat down and wrote Jekyll and Hyde in three days. Not the version we know, but one set in Edinburgh, where Hythe aka Hyde attacks and kills a harlot rather than trampling a child. Again, he was dissuaded from publishing it. Fanny knew what it would mean—people in Edinburgh would talk. They would remember the killing of the prostitute. They would know the name Hythe and point the finger from him to his close friend Robert Louis Stevenson.