‘ “Ronnie,”‘ he read out, ‘ “Tracy - caller”. I see your casenotes are as precise as ever.’
Rebus handed the cup to McCall.
‘Where’s yours?’ asked McCall, pointing to the cup.
‘I don’t feel like drinking. To tell you the truth, I hardly touch the stuff now.’ Rebus nodded at the bottle. ‘That’s for visitors.’ McCall pursed his lips, his eyes opening wide. ‘Besides,’ Rebus went on, ‘I’ve got the mother and father of a headache. In-laws, too. Kids, neighbours, town and
country.’ He noticed a large envelope on the desk: PHOTOGRAPHS - DO NOT BEND.
‘You know, Tony, when I was a sergeant, this sort of thing would take days to arrive. It’s like royalty being an inspector.’ He opened the envelope and took out the set of prints, ten by eights, black and white. He handed one to McCall.
‘Look,’ Rebus said, ‘no writing on the wall. And the pentagram’s unfinished. Today it was complete.’ McCall nodded, and Rebus took back the picture, handing over another in its place. ‘The deceased.’
‘Poor little sod,’ said McCall. ‘It could be one of our kids, eh, John?’
‘No,’ said Rebus firmly. He rolled the envelope into the shape of a tube, and put it in his jacket pocket.
McCall had picked up the tie. He waved it towards Rebus, demanding an explanation.
‘Have you ever worn one of those?’ Rebus asked.
‘Sure, at my wedding, maybe a funeral or a christening. . ..’
‘I mean like this. A clip-on. When I was a kid, I remember my dad decided I’d look good in a kilt. He bought me the whole get-up, including a little tartan bow tie. It was a clip-on.’
‘I’ve worn one,’ said McCall. ‘Everybody has. We all came through the ranks, didn’t we?’
‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘Now get out of my bloody chair.’
McCall found another chair, dragging it over from the wall to the desk. Rebus meantime sat down, picking up the tie.
‘Police issue.’
‘What is?’
‘Clip-on ties,’ said Rebus. ‘Who else wears them?’
‘Christ, I don’t know, John.’
Rebus threw the clip across to McCall, who was slow to react. It fell to the floor, from where he retrieved it.
‘It’s a clip-on,’ he said.
‘I found it in Ronnie’s house,’ said Rebus. ‘At the top of the stairs.’
‘So?’
‘So someone’s tie broke. Maybe when they were dragging Ronnie downstairs. Maybe a police constable someone.’
‘You think one of our lot. ..?’
‘Just an idea,’ said Rebus. ‘Of course, it could belong to one of the lads who found the body.’ He held out his hand, and McCall gave him back the clip. ‘Maybe I’ll talk to them.’
‘John, what the hell. . . .’ McCall ended with a sort of choking sound, unable to find words for the question he wanted to ask.
‘Drink your whisky,’ said Rebus solicitously. ‘Then you can listen to that tape, see if you think Tracy’s telling the truth.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ He put the desk sergeant’s tie in his pocket. ‘Maybe I’ll tie up a few loose ends.’ McCall was pouring out a measure of whisky as Rebus left, but the parting shot, called from the staircase, was loud enough for him to hear.
‘Maybe I’ll just go to the devil!’
‘Yes, a simple pentangle.’
The psychologist, Dr Poole, who wasn’t really a psychologist, but rather, he had explained, a lecturer in psychology, quite a different thing, studied the photographs carefully, bottom lip curling up to cover his top lip in a sign of confident recognition. Rebus played with the empty envelope and stared out of the office window. The day was bright, and some students were lying in George Square Gardens, sharing bottles of wine, their text books forgotten.
Rebus felt uncomfortable. Institutes of higher education, from the simplest college up to the present confines of the University of Edinburgh, made him feel stupid. He felt that his every movement, every utterance, was being judged and interpreted, marking him down as a clever man who could have been cleverer, given the breaks.
‘When I returned to the house,’ he said, ’someone had drawn some symbols between the two circles. Signs of the zodiac, that sort of thing.’
Rebus watched as the psychologist went over to the bookshelves and began to browse. It had been easy to find this man. Making use of him might be more difficult.
‘Probably the usual arcana,’ Dr Poole was saying, finding the page he wanted and bringing it back to the desk to show Rebus. ‘This sort of thing?’
