by Ian Rankin
The interview room was stifling. Rebus had removed his jacket. Now he rolled up his sleeves before stubbing out the cigarette.
‘Okay, Charlie.’ The young man was soft now, pliable. It was time to ask some questions. ‘The night of the overdose, you were in the house with Ronnie, right?’
‘That’s right. For a little while.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Tracy was there. She was there when I left.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Some guy visited earlier in the evening. He didn’t stay long. I’d seen him with Ronnie before a couple of times. When they were together, they kept to themselves.’
‘Was this person his dealer, do you think?’
‘No. Ronnie could always get stuff. Well, up until recently. Past couple of weeks, he found it tough. They seemed pretty close, though. Really close, if you get my meaning.’
‘Go on.’
‘Close as in loving. As in gay.’
‘But Tracy …?’
‘Yeah, yeah, but what’s that supposed to prove, huh? You know how most addicts make their money.’
‘How? Theft?’
‘Yeah, theft, muggings, whatever. And doing a bit of business over by Calton Hill.’
Calton Hill, large, sprawling, lying to the east of Princes Street. Yes, Rebus knew all about Calton Hill, and about the cars which sat much of the night at the foot of it, along Regent Road. He knew about Calton Cemetery, too, about what went on there.…
‘You’re saying Ronnie was a rent boy?’ The phrase sounded ridiculous out loud. It was tabloid talk.
‘I’m saying he used to hang around there with a load of other guys, and I’m saying he always had money at the end of the night.’ Charlie swallowed. ‘Money and maybe a few bruises.’
‘Jesus.’ Rebus added this information to what was becoming a very grubby little dossier in his head. How far would you sink for a fix? The answer was: all the way. And then a little lower. He lit another cigarette.
‘Do you know this for a fact?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Was Ronnie from Edinburgh, by the way?’
‘Stirling.’
‘And his surname was –’
‘McGrath, I think.’
‘What about this guy he was so chummy with? Have you a name for him?’
‘He called himself Neil. Ronnie called him Neilly.’
‘Neilly? Did you get the impression they’d known one another for a while?’
‘Yeah, a goodish while. A nickname like that’s a sign of affection, right?’ Rebus studied Charlie with new admiration. ‘I don’t do psychology for nothing, Inspector.’
‘Right.’ Rebus checked that the small cassette recorder still had some tape left to run. ‘Give me a physical description of this Neil character, will you?’
‘Tall, skinny, short brown hair. Kind of spotty face, but always clean. Usually wore jeans and a denim jacket. Carried a big black holdall with him.’
‘Any idea what was in it?’
‘I got the feeling it was just clothes.’
‘Okay.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Let’s talk about the pentagram. Someone has been back to the house and added to it since these photographs were taken.’
Charlie said nothing, but did not look surprised.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
Charlie nodded.
‘How did you get in?’
‘Through the downstairs window. Those wooden slats couldn’t keep out an elephant. It’s like an extra door. Lots of people used to come into the house that way.’
‘Why did you go back?’
‘It wasn’t finished, was it? I wanted to add the symbols.’
‘And the message.’
Charlie smiled to himself. ‘Yes, the message.’
‘“Hello Ronnie”,’ Rebus quoted. ‘What’s that all about?’
‘Just what it says. His spirit’s still in the house, his soul’s still there. I was just saying hello. I had some paint left. Besides, I thought it might give somebody a fright.’
Rebus remembered his own shock at seeing the scrawl. He felt his cheeks redden slightly, but covered the fact with a question.
‘Do you remember the candles?’
Charlie nodded, but was becoming restless. Helping police with their inquiries was not as much fun as he had hoped.
‘What about your project?’ said Rebus, changing tack.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s on demonism, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘What aspect of demonism?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe the popular mythology. How old fears become new fears, that sort of thing.’
‘Do you know any of the covens in Edinburgh?’
‘I know people who claim to be in some of them.’
‘But you’ve never been along to one?’
‘No, worse luck.’ Charlie seemed suddenly to come to life. ‘Look, what is all this? Ronnie OD’d. He’s history. Why all the questions?’
‘What can you tell me about the candles?’
Charlie exploded. ‘What about the candles?’
Rebus was all calmness. He exhaled smoke before responding. ‘There were candles in the living room.’ He was getting close to telling Charlie something Charlie didn’t seem to know. All during the interview, he had been spiralling inwards towards this moment.
‘That’s right. Big candles. Ronnie got them from some shop that specialises in candles. He liked candles. They gave the place ambience.’
‘Tracy found Ronnie in his bedroom. She thinks he was already dead.’ Rebus’s voice became lower still, and as flat as the desktop. ‘But by the time she’d phoned us, and an officer had turned up at the house, Ronnie’s body had been moved downstairs. It was laid out between two candles, which had been burnt down to nothing.’
‘There wasn’t much left of those candles anyway, not when I left.’
‘You left when?’
‘Just before midnight. There was supposed to be a party somewhere on the estate. I thought I might get invited in.’
‘How long would the candles have burned for?’
‘An hour, two hours. God knows.’
‘How much smack did Ronnie have?’
‘Christ, I don’t know.’
‘Well, how much would he normally use at any one time?’
‘I really don’t know. I’m not a user, you know. I hate all that stuff. I’ve got two friends who were in my sixth form. They’re both in private clinics.’
‘That’s nice for them.’
‘Like I said, Ronnie hadn’t been able to find any stuff for days. He was a bit whacked out, just about to fall right over the edge. Then he came back with some. End of story.’
‘Isn’t there much about then?’
‘So far as I know, there’s plenty, but don’t bother asking for names.’
‘So if there’s plenty, how come Ronnie was finding it so hard?’
‘God knows. He didn’t know himself. It was like he’d suddenly become bad news. Then he was good news again, and he got that packet.’
It was time. Rebus picked an invisible thread from his shirt.
‘He was murdered,’ he said. ‘Or as good as.’
Charlie’s mouth opened. The blood drained from his face, as though a tap had been opened somewhere. ‘What?’
‘He was murdered. His body was full of rat poison. Self-inflicted, but supplied by someone who probably knew it was lethal. A lot of work was then done to manoeuvre his body into some kind of ritualistic position in the living room. Where your pentagram is.’
‘Now wait –’
‘How many covens are there in Edinburgh, Charlie?’
‘What? Six, seven, I don’t know. Look –’
‘Do you know them? Any of them? I mean know them personally?’
‘Christ, man, you’re not going to pin this on me!’
�
��Why not?’ Rebus stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Because it’s crazy.’
‘Seems to me it all fits, Charlie.’ String him out, Rebus was thinking. He’s already stretched to snapping point. ‘Unless you can convince me otherwise.’
Charlie walked to the door purposefully, then paused.
‘Go on,’ Rebus called, ‘it’s not locked. Walk out of here if you like. Then I’ll know you had something to do with it.’
Charlie turned. His eyes seemed moist in the hazy light. A sunbeam from the barred window, penetrating the frosted glass, caught motes of dust and turned them into slow-motion dancers. Charlie moved through them as he returned to the desk.
‘I didn’t have anything to do with it, honest.’
‘Sit down,’ said Rebus, a kindly uncle now. ‘Let’s talk some more.’
But Charlie didn’t like uncles. Never had. He placed his hands on the desk and leaned down, looming over Rebus. Something had hardened somewhere within him. His teeth when he spoke glistened with venom.
‘Go to hell, Rebus. I see what you’re up to, and I’m damned if I’m going to play along. Arrest me if you like, but don’t insult me with cheap tricks. I did those in my first term.’
Then he walked, and this time opened the door, and left it open behind him. Rebus got up from the desk, switched off the recorder, took out the tape and, pushing it into his pocket, followed. By the time he reached the entrance hall, Charlie had gone. He approached the desk. The duty sergeant looked up from his paperwork.
‘You just missed him,’ he said.
Rebus nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘He didn’t look too happy.’
‘Would I be doing my job if they all left here laughing and holding their sides?’
The sergeant smiled. ‘I suppose not. So what can I do for you?’
‘The Pilmuir overdose. I’ve got a name for the corpse. Ronnie McGrath. Originally from Stirling. Let’s see if we can find his parents, eh?’
The sergeant scribbled the name onto a pad. ‘I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear how their son is doing in the big city.’
‘Yes,’ said Rebus, staring towards the front door of the police station. ‘I’m sure they will.’
John Rebus’s flat was his castle. Once through the door, he would pull up the drawbridge and let his mind go blank, emptying himself of the world for as long as he could. He would pour himself a drink, put some tenor sax music on the cassette machine, and pick up a book. Many weeks ago, in a crazed state of righteousness, he had put up shelves along one wall of the living room, intending his sprawling collection of books to rest there. But somehow they managed to crawl across the floor, getting under his feet, so that he used them like stepping-stones into the hallway and the bedroom.
He walked across them now, on his way to the bay window where he pulled down the dusty venetian blinds. The slats he left open, so that strawberry slants of evening light came pouring through, reminding him of the interview room.…
No, no, no, that wouldn’t do. He was being sucked back into work again. He had to clear his mind, find some book which would pull him into its little universe, far away from the sights and smells of Edinburgh. He stepped firmly on the likes of Chekhov, Heller, Rimbaud and Kerouac as he made his way to the kitchen, seeking out a bottle of wine.
There were two cardboard boxes beneath the kitchen worktop, taking up the space where the washing machine had once been. Rhona had taken the washing machine, which was fair enough. He called the resultant space his wine cellar, and now and then would order a mixed case from a good little shop around the corner from his flat. He put a hand into one of the boxes and brought out something called Château Potensac. Yes, he’d had a bottle of this before. It would do.
He poured a third of the bottle into a large glass and returned to the living room, plucking one of the books from the floor as he went. He was seated in his armchair before he looked at its cover: The Naked Lunch. No, bad choice. He threw the book down again and groped for another. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Fair enough, he’d been meaning to reread it for ages, and it was blissfully short. He took a mouthful of wine, sloshed it around before swallowing, and opened the book.
With the timing of a stage-play, there was a rapping at the front door. The noise Rebus made was somewhere between a sigh and a roar. He balanced the book, its covers open, on the arm of the chair, and rose to his feet. Probably it was Mrs Cochrane from downstairs, telling him that it was his turn to wash the communal stairwell. She would have the large, imperative card with her: IT IS YOUR TURN TO WASH THE STAIRS. Why she couldn’t just hang it on his door like everyone else seemed to do …?
He tried to arrange a neighbourly smile on his face as he opened the door, but the actor in him had left for the evening. So there was something not unlike pain rippling his lips as he stared at the visitor on his doormat.
It was Tracy.
Her face was red, and there were tears in her eyes, but the redness was not from crying. She looked exhausted, her hair cloying with sweat.
‘Can I come in?’ There was an all too visible effort in her voice. Rebus hadn’t the heart to say no. He pushed the door open wide and she stumbled in past him, walking straight through to the living room as though she’d been here a hundred times. Rebus checked that the stairwell was empty of inquisitive neighbours, then closed the door. He was tingling, not a pleasant feeling: he didn’t like people visiting him here.
Especially, he didn’t like work following him home.
By the time he reached the living room, Tracy had drained the wine and was exhaling with relief, her thirst quenched. Rebus felt the discomfort in him increase until it was almost unbearable.
‘How the hell did you find this place?’ he asked, standing in the doorway as though waiting for her to leave.
‘Not easy,’ she said, her voice a little more calm. ‘You told me you lived in Marchmont, so I just wandered around looking for your car. Then I found your name on the bell downstairs.’
He had to admit it, she’d have made a good detective. Footwork was what it was all about.
‘Somebody’s been following me,’ she said now. ‘I got scared.’
‘Following you?’ He stepped into the room now, curious, his sense of encroachment easing.
‘Yes, two men. I think there were two. They’ve been following me all afternoon. I was up Princes Street, just walking, and they were always there, a little way behind me. They must’ve known I could see them.’
‘What happened?’
‘I lost them. Went into Marks and Spencer, ran like hell for the Rose Street exit, then dived into the ladies’ in a pub. Stayed in there for an hour. That seemed to do the trick. Then I headed here.’
‘Why didn’t you telephone me?’
‘No money. That’s why I was up Princes Street in the first place.’
She had settled in his chair, her arms hanging over its sides. He nodded towards the empty glass.
‘Do you want another?’
‘No thanks. I don’t really like plonk, but I was thirsty as hell. I could manage a cup of tea though.’
‘Tea, right.’ Plonk, she had called it! He turned and walked through to the kitchen, his mind half on the idea of tea, half on her story. In one of his sparsely populated cupboards he found an unopened box of teabags. There was no fresh milk in the flat, but an old tin yielded a spoonful or two of powdered substitute. Now, sugar.… Music came suddenly from the living room, a loud rendering of The White Album. God, he’d forgotten he still had that old tape. He opened the cutlery drawer, looking for nothing more than a teaspoon, and found several sachets of sugar, stolen from the canteen at some point in his past. Serendipity. The kettle was beginning to boil.
‘This flat’s huge!’
She startled him, he was so unused to other voices in this place. He turned and watched her lean against the door-jamb, her head angled sideways.
‘Is it?’ he said, rinsing a mug.
‘Chri
st, yes. Look how high your ceilings are! I could just about touch the ceiling in Ronnie’s squat.’ She stood on tiptoe and stretched an arm upwards, waving her hand. Rebus feared that she had taken something, some pills or powders, while he’d been on the trail of the furtive teabag. She seemed to sense his thoughts, and smiled.
‘I’m just relieved,’ she said. ‘I feel light-headed from the running. And from being scared, I suppose. But now I feel safe.’
‘What did the men look like?’
‘I don’t know. I think they looked a bit like you.’ She smiled again. ‘One had a moustache. He was sort of fat, going thin on top, but not old. I can’t remember the other one. He wasn’t very memorable, I suppose.’
Rebus poured water into the mug and added the teabag. ‘Milk?’
‘No, just sugar if you’ve got it.’
He waved one of the sachets at her.
‘Great.’
Back in the living room, he went to the stereo and turned it down.
‘Sorry,’ she said, back in the chair now, sipping tea, her legs tucked under her.
‘I keep meaning to find out whether my neighbours can hear the stereo or not,’ Rebus said, as if to excuse his action. ‘The walls are pretty thick, but the ceiling isn’t.’
She nodded, blew onto the surface of the drink, steam covering her face in a veil.
‘So,’ said Rebus, pulling his director’s foldaway chair out from beneath a table and sitting down. ‘What can we do about these men who’ve been following you?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the policeman.’
‘It all sounds like something out of a film to me. I mean, why should anyone want to follow you?’
‘To scare me?’ she offered.
‘And why should they want to scare you?’
She thought about this, then shrugged her shoulders.
‘By the way, I saw Charlie today,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘Do you like him?’
‘Charlie?’ Her laughter was shrill. ‘He’s horrible. Always hanging around, even when it’s obvious nobody wants him anywhere near. Everybody hates him.’
‘Everybody?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Ronnie hate him?’
She paused. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘But then Ronnie didn’t have much sense that way.’