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 corners, 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.
Christ, was it any wonder he kept away?
So here he was in Pilmuir, not checking on anything exactly, just walking. Taking some air. From his own ultra-modern estate, all detached shoeboxes and Volvos, he had to cross some waste ground, avoid the traffic on a busy arterial road, pass a school playing-field and manoeuvre between some factory units to find himself in
Pilmuir. But it was worth the effort. He knew this place; knew the minds that festered here.
He was one of them, after all.
Ian Rankin - Rebus 02 - Hide An
‘Hello, Tony.’
He swirled, not recognising the voice, expecting hassle. John Rebus stood there, smiling at him, hands in pockets.
‘John! Christ, you made me jump.’
‘Sorry. Stroke of luck bumping into you though.’ Rebus checked around them, as though looking for someone. ‘I tried phoning, but they said it was your day off.’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Just walking. We live over that way.’ He jerked his head towards the south-west. ‘It’s not far. Besides, this is my patch, don’t forget. Got to keep an eye on the boys and girls.’
‘That’s why I wanted to speak to you actually.’
