‘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
