by Ian Rankin
‘Was there anything else you noticed about Ronnie?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, the state he was in.’
‘You mean the bruises?’
‘Yes.’
‘He often came back looking like that. Never talked about it.’
‘Got in a lot of fights, I suppose. Was he short-tempered?’
‘Not with me.’
Rebus sunk his hands into his pockets. A chill wind was whipping up off the water, and he wondered whether she was warm enough. He couldn’t help noticing that her nipples were very prominent through the cotton of her T-SHIRT.
‘Would you like my jacket?’ he asked.
‘Only if your wallet’s in it,’ she said with a quick smile.
He smiled back, and offered a cigarette instead, which she accepted. He didn’t take one for himself. There were only three left out of the day’s ration, and the evening stretched ahead of him.
‘Do you know who Ronnie’s dealer was?’ he asked casually, helping her to light the cigarette. With her head tucked into his open jacket, the lighter shaking in her hand, she shook her head. Eventually, the windbreak worked, and she sucked hard at the filter.
‘I was never really sure,’ she said. ‘It was something else he didn’t talk about.’
‘What did he talk about?’
She thought about this, and smiled again. ‘Not much, now you mention it. That was what I liked about him. You always felt there was more to him than he was letting on.’
‘Such as?’
She shrugged. ‘Might have been anything, might have been nothing.’
This was harder work than Rebus had anticipated, and he really was getting cold. It was time to speed things up.
‘He was in the bedroom when you found him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the squat was empty at the time?’
‘Yes. Earlier on, there’d been a few people there, but they’d all gone. One of them was up in Ronnie’s room, but I didn’t know him. Then there was Charlie.’
‘You mentioned him on the telephone.’
‘Yes, well, when I found Ronnie, I went looking for him. He’s usually around somewhere, in one of the other squats or in town doing a bit of begging. Christ, he’s strange.’
‘In what way?’
‘Didn’t you see what was on the living-room wall?’
‘You mean the star?’
‘Yes, that was Charlie. He painted it.’
‘He’s keen on the occult then?’
‘Mad keen.’
‘What about Ronnie?’
‘Ronnie? Jesus, no. He couldn’t even stand to watch horror films. They scared him.’
‘But he had all those horror books in his bedroom.’
‘That was Charlie, trying to get Ronnie interested. All they did was give him more nightmares. And all those did was push him into taking more smack.’
‘How did he finance his habit?’ Rebus watched a small boat come gliding through the mist. Something fell from it into the water, but he couldn’t tell what.
‘I wasn’t his accountant.’
‘Who was?’ The boat was turning in an arc, slipping further west towards Queensferry.
‘Nobody wants to know where the money comes from, that’s the truth. It makes you an accessory, doesn’t it?’
‘That depends.’ Rebus shivered.
‘Well, I didn’t want to know. If he tried to tell me, I put my hands over my ears.’
‘He’s never had a job then?’
‘I don’t know. He used to talk about being a photographer. That’s what he’d set his heart on when he left school. It was the only thing he wouldn’t pawn, even to pay for his habit.’
Rebus was lost. ‘What was?’
‘His camera. It cost him a small fortune, every penny saved out of his social security.’
Social security: now there was a phrase. But Rebus was sure there had been no camera in Ronnie’s bedroom. So add robbery to the list.
‘Tracy, I’ll need a statement.’
She was immediately suspicious. ‘What for?’
‘Just so I’ve got it on record, so we can do something about Ronnie’s death. Will you help me do that?’
It was a long time before she nodded. The boat had disappeared. There was nothing floating in the water, nothing left in its wake. Rebus put a hand on Tracy’s shoulder, but gently.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘The car’s this way.’
After she had made her statement, Rebus insisted on driving her home, dropping her several streets from her destination but knowing her address now.
‘Not that I can swear to be there for the next ten years,’ she had said. It didn’t matter. He had given her his work and home telephone numbers. He was sure she would keep in touch.
‘One last thing,’ he said, as she was about to close the car door. She leaned in from the pavement. ‘Ronnie kept shouting “They’re coming.” Who do you think he meant?’
She shrugged. Then froze, remembering the scene. ‘He was strung out, Inspector. Maybe he meant the snakes and spiders.’
Yes, thought Rebus, as she closed the door and he started the car. And then maybe he meant the snakes and spiders who’d supplied him.
Back at Greater London Road station, there was a message that Chief Superintendent Watson wanted to see him. Rebus called his superior’s office.
‘I’ll come along now, if I may.’
The secretary checked, and confirmed that this would be okay.
Rebus had come across Watson on many occasions since the superintendent’s posting had brought him from the far north to Edinburgh. He seemed a reasonable man, if just a little, well, agricultural for some tastes. There were a lot of jokes around the station already about his Aberdonian background, and he had earned the whispered nickname of ‘Farmer’ Watson.
‘Come in, John, come in.’
The Superintendent had risen from behind his desk long enough to point Rebus in the vague direction of a chair. Rebus noticed that the desk itself was meticulously arranged, files neatly piled in two trays, nothing in front of Watson but a thick, newish folder and two sharp pencils. There was a photograph of two young children to one side of the folder.
‘My two,’ Watson explained. ‘They’re a bit older than that now, but still a handful.’
Watson was a large man, his girth giving truth to the phrase ‘barrel-chested’. His face was ruddy, hair thin and silvered at the temples. Yes, Rebus could picture him in galoshes and a trout-fishing hat, stomping his way across a moor, his collie obedient beside him. But what did he want with Rebus? Was he seeking a human collie?
‘You were at the scene of a drugs overdose this morning.’ It was a statement of fact, so Rebus didn’t bother to answer. ‘It should have been Inspector McCall’s call, but he was … well, wherever he was.’
‘He’s a good copper, sir.’
Watson stared up at him, then smiled. ‘Inspector McCall’s qualities are not in question. That’s not why you’re here. But your being on the scene gave me an idea. You probably know that I’m interested in this city’s drugs problem. Frankly, the statistics appal me. It’s not something I’d encountered in Aberdeen, with the exception of some of the oil workers. But then it was mostly the executives, the ones they flew in from the United States. They brought their habits, if you’ll pardon the pun, with them. But here — ’ He flicked open the folder and began to pick over some of the sheets. ‘Here, Inspector, it’s Hades. Plain and simple.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you a churchgoer?’
‘Sir?’ Rebus was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
‘It’s a simple enough question, isn’t it? Do you go to church?’
‘Not regularly, sir. But sometimes I do, yes.’ Like yesterday, Rebus thought. And here again he felt like fleeing.
‘Someone said you did. Then you should know what I’m talking about when I say that this city is turning into Hades.’ Watson’s
face was ruddier than ever. ‘The Infirmary has treated addicts as young as eleven and twelve. Your own brother is serving a prison sentence for dealing in drugs.’ Watson looked up again, perhaps expecting Rebus to look shamed. But Rebus’s eyes were a fiery glare, his cheeks red not with embarrassment.
‘With respect, sir,’ he said, voice level but as taut as a wire, ‘what has this got to do with me?’
‘Simply this.’ Watson closed the folder and settled back in his chair. ‘I’m putting into operation a new anti-drugs campaign. Public awareness and that sort of thing, coupled with funding for discreet information. I’ve got the backing, and what’s more I’ve got the money. A group of the city’s businessmen are prepared to put fifty thousand pounds into the campaign.’
‘Very public-spirited of them, sir.’
Watson’s face became darker. He leaned forward in his chair, filling Rebus’s vision. ‘You better bloody believe it,’ he said.
‘But I still don’t see where I — ’
‘John.’ The voice was anodyne now. ‘You’ve had … experience. Personal experience. I’d like you to help me front our side of the campaign.’
‘No, sir, really — ’
‘Good. That’s agreed then.’ Watson had already risen. Rebus tried to stand, too, but his legs had lost all power. He pushed against the armrests with his hands and managed to heave himself upright. Was this the price they were demanding? Public atonement for having a rotten brother? Watson was opening the door. ‘We’ll talk again, go through the details. But for now, try to tie up whatever you’re working on, casenotes up to date, that sort of thing. Tell me what you can’t finish, and we’ll find someone to take it off your hands.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus clutched at the proffered hand. It was like steel, cool, dry and crushing.
‘Goodbye, sir,’ Rebus said, standing in the corridor now, to a door that had already closed on him.
That evening, still numb, he grew bored with television and left his flat, planning to drive around a bit, no real destination in mind. Marchmont was quiet, but then it always was. His car sat undisturbed on the cobbles outside his tenement. He started it up and drove, entering the centre of town, crossing to the New Town. At Canonmills he stopped in the forecourt of a petrol station and filled the car, adding a torch, some batteries, and several bars of chocolate to his purchases, paying by credit card.
He ate the chocolate as he drove, trying not to think of the next day’s cigarette ration, and listened to the car radio. Gill Templer’s lover, Calum McCallum, began his broadcast at eight thirty, and he listened for a few minutes. It was enough. The mock-cheery voice, the jokes so lame they needed wheelchairs, the predictable mix of old records and telephone-linked chatter…. Rebus turned the tuning knob until he found Radio Three. Recognising the music of Mozart, he turned up the volume.
He had always known that it would end here of course. He drove through the ill-lit and winding streets, threading his way further into the maze. A new padlock had been fitted to the door of the house, but Rebus had in his pocket a copy of the key. Switching on his torch, he walked quietly into the living room. The floor was bare. There was no sign that a corpse had lain there only ten hours before. The jar of syringes had gone, too, as had the candlesticks. Ignoring the far wall, Rebus left the room and headed upstairs. He pushed open the door of Ronnie’s bedroom and walked in, crossing to the window. This was where Tracy said she had found the body. Rebus squatted, resting on his toes, and shone the torch carefully over the floor. No sign of a camera. Nothing. It wasn’t going to be made easy for him, this case. Always supposing there was a case.
He only had Tracy’s word for it, after all.
He retraced his steps, out of the room and towards the stairwell. Something glinted against the top step, right in at the corner of the stairs. Rebus picked it up and examined it. It was a small piece of metal, like the clasp from a cheap brooch. He pushed it into his pocket anyway and took another look at the staircase, trying to imagine Ronnie regaining consciousness and making his way to the ground floor.
Possible. Just possible. But to end up positioned like that …? Much less feasible.
And why bring the jar of syringes downstairs with him? Rebus nodded to himself, sure that he was wandering the maze in something like the right direction. He went downstairs again and into the living room. It had a smell like the mould on an old jar of jam, earthy and sweet at the same time. The earth sterile, the sweetness sickly. He went over to the far wall and shone his torchlight against it.
Then came up short, blood pounding. The circles were still there, and the five-pointed star within them. But there were fresh additions, zodiac signs and other symbols between the two circles, painted in red. He touched the paint. It was tacky. Bringing his fingers away, he shone the torch further up the wall, and read the dripping message:
HELLO RONNIE
Superstitious to his core, Rebus turned on his heels and fled, not bothering to relock the door behind him. Walking briskly towards his car, his eyes turned back in the direction of the house, he fell into someone, and stumbled. The other figure fell awkwardly, and was slow to rise. Rebus switched on his torch, and confronted a teenager, eyes sparkling, face bruised and cut.
‘Jesus, son,’ he whispered, ‘what happened to you?’
‘I got beat up,’ the boy said, shuffling away on a painful leg.
Rebus made the car somehow, his nerves as thin as old shoelaces. Inside, he locked the door and sat back, closing his eyes, breathing hard. Relax, John, he told himself. Relax. Soon, he was even able to smile at his momentary lapse of courage. Tomorrow he’d come back. In daylight.
He’d seen enough for now.
Tuesday
I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred.
Sleep did not come easy, but eventually, slumped in his favourite chair, a book propped open on his lap, he must have dozed off, because it took a nine o‘clock call to bring him to life.
His back, legs and arms were stiff and aching as he scrabbled on the floor for his new cordless telephone.
‘Yes?’
‘Lab here, Inspector Rebus. You wanted to know first thing.’
‘What have you got?’ Rebus slumped back into the warm chair, pulling at his eyes with his free hand, trying to engage their cooperation in this fresh and waking world. He glanced at his watch and realised just how late he’d slept.
‘Well, it’s not the purest heroin on the street.’
He nodded to himself, confident that his next question hardly needed asking. ‘Would it kill whoever injected it?’
The reply jolted him upright.
‘Not at all. In fact, it’s very clean, all things considered. A bit watered down from its pure form, but that’s not uncommon. In fact, it’s mandatory.’
‘But it would be okay to use?’
‘I imagine it would be very good to use.’
‘I see. Well, thank you.’ Rebus pressed the disconnect button. He had been so sure. So sure…. He reached into his pocket, found the number he needed, and pushed the seven digits quickly, before the thought of morning coffee could overwhelm him.
‘Inspector Rebus for Doctor Enfield.’ He waited. ‘Doctor? Fine thanks. How about you? Good, good. Listen, that body yesterday, the druggie on the Pilmuir Estate, any news?’ He listened. ‘Yes, I’ll hold.’
Pilmuir. What had Tony McCall said? It had been lovely once, a place of innocence, something like that. The old days always were though, weren’t they? Memory smoothed the comers, as Rebus himself knew well.
‘Hello?’ he said to the telephone. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Paper was rustling in the background, Enfield’s voice dispassionate.
‘Bruising on the body. Fairly extensive. Result of a heavy fall or some kind of physical confrontation. The stomach was almost completely empty. HIV negative, which is something. As for the cause of death, well….’
> ‘The heroin?’ Rebus prompted.
‘Mmm. Ninety-five percent impure.’
‘Really?’ Rebus perked up. ‘What had it been diluted with?’
‘Still working on that, Inspector. But an educated guess would be anything from ground-up aspirin to rat poison, with the emphasis strictly on rodent control.’
‘You’re saying it was lethal?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Whoever sold the stuff was selling euthanasia. If there’s more of it about … well, I dread to think.’
More of it about? The thought made Rebus’s scalp tingle. What if someone were going around poisoning junkies? But why the one perfect packet? One perfect, one as rotten as could be. It didn’t make sense.
‘Thanks, Doctor Enfield.’
He rested the telephone on the arm of the chair. Tracy had been right in one respect at least. They had murdered Ronnie. Whoever ‘they’ were. And Ronnie had known, known as soon as he’d used the stuff…. No, wait…. Known before he’d used the stuff? Could that be possible? Rebus had to find the dealer. Had to find out why Ronnie had been chosen to die. Been, indeed, sacrificed….
It was Tony McCall’s backyard. All right, so he had moved out of Pilmuir, had eventually bought a crippling mortgage which some people called a house. It was a nice house, too. He knew this because his wife told him it was. Told him continually. She couldn’t understand why he spent so little time there. After all, as she told him, it was his home too.
Home. To McCall’s wife, it was a palace. ‘Home’ didn’t quite cover it. And the two children, son and daughter, had been brought up to tiptoe through the interior, not leaving crumbs or fingerprints, no mess, no breakages. McCall, who had lived a bruising childhood with his brother Tommy, thought it unnatural. His children had grown up in fear and in a swaddling of love — a bad combination. Now Craig was fourteen, Isabel eleven. Both were shy, introspective, maybe even a bit strange. Bang had gone McCall’s dream of a professional footballer for a son, an actress for a daughter. Craig played chess a lot, but no physical sports. (He had won a small plaque at school after one tournament. McCall had tried to learn to play after that, but had failed.) Isabel liked knitting. They sat in the too-perfect living room created by their mother, and were almost silent. The clack-clack of needles; the soft movement of chess pieces.