path to the open door was cracked and slick with weeds, and he almost slipped and fell, but reached the threshold intact, shaking the water from him, awaiting the welcoming committee.
A constable put his head around a doorway, frowning.
‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ said Rebus by way of introduction.
‘In here, sir.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
The head disappeared again, and Rebus looked around the hall. Tatters of wallpaper were the only mementoes of what had once been a home. There was an overpowering fragrance of damp plaster, rotting wood. And behind all that, a sense of this being more of a cave than a house, a crude form of shelter, temporary, unloved.
As he moved further into the house, passing the bare stairwell, darkness embraced him. Boards had been hammered into all the window-frames, shutting out light. The intention, he supposed, had been to shut out squatters, but Edinburgh’s army of homeless was too great and too wise. They had crept in through the fabric of the
place. They had made it their den. And one of their number had died here.
The room he entered was surprisingly large, but with a low ceiling. Two constables held thick rubber torches out to illuminate the scene, casting moving shadows over the plasterboard walls. The effect was of a Caravaggio painting, a centre of light surrounded by degrees of murkiness. Two large candles had burnt down to the shapes of fried eggs against the bare floorboards, and between them lay the body, legs together, arms outstretched. A cross without the nails, naked from the waist up. Near the body stood a glass jar, which had once contained something as innocent as instant coffee, but now held a selection of disposable syringes. Putting the fix into crucifixion, Rebus thought with a guilty smile.
The police doctor, a gaunt and unhappy creature, was kneeling next to the body as though about to offer the last rites. A photographer stood by the far wall, trying to find a reading on his light meter. Rebus moved in towards the corpse, standing over the doctor.
‘Give us a torch,’ he said, his hand commanding one from the nearest constable. He shone this down across the body, starting at the bare feet, the bedenimed legs, a skinny torso, ribcage showing through the pallid skin. Then up to the neck and face. Mouth open, eyes closed. Sweat looked to have dried on the forehead and in the hair. But wait.. .. Wasn’t that moisture around the mouth, on the lips? A drop of water suddenly fell from nowhere into the open mouth. Rebus, startled, expected the man to swallow, to lick his parched lips and return to life. He did not.
‘Leak in the roof,’ the doctor explained, without looking up from his work. Rebus shone the torch against the ceiling, and saw the damp patch which was the source of the drip. Unnerving all the same.
‘Sorry I took so long to get here,’ he said, trying to keep his voice level. ‘So what’s the verdict?’
‘Overdose,’ the doctor said blandly. ‘Heroin.’ He shook a tiny polythene envelope at Rebus. ‘The contents of this sachet, if I’m not mistaken. There’s another full one in his right hand.’ Rebus shone his torch towards where a lifeless hand was half clutching a small packet of white powder.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I thought everyone chased the dragon these days instead of injecting.’
The doctor looked up at him at last.
‘That’s a very naive view, Inspector. Go talk to the Royal Infirmary. They’ll tell you how many intravenous abusers there are in Edinburgh. It probably runs into hundreds. That’s why we’re the AIDS capital of Britain.’
‘Aye, we take pride in our records, don’t we? Heart disease, false teeth, and now AIDS.’
The doctor smiled. ‘Something you might be interested in,’ he said. ‘There’s bruising on the body. Not very distinct in this light, but it’s there.’
Rebus squatted down and shone the torch over the torso again. Yes, there was bruising all right. A lot of bruising.
‘Mainly to the ribs,’ the doctor continued. ‘But also some to the face.’
‘Maybe he fell,’ Rebus suggested.
‘Maybe,’ said the doctor.
‘Sir?’ This from one of the constables, his eyes and voice keen. Rebus turned to him.
‘Yes, son?’
‘Come and look at this.’
Rebus was only too glad of the excuse to move away from the doctor and his patient. The constable was leading him to the far wall, shining his torch against it as he went. Suddenly, Rebus saw why.
On the wall was a drawing. A five-pointed star,
encompassed by two concentric circles, the largest of them some five feet in diameter. The whole had been well drawn, the lines of the star straight, the circles almost exact. The rest of the wall was bare.
‘What do you think, sir?’ asked the constable.
‘Well, it’s not just your usual graffiti, that’s for sure.’
‘Witchcraft?’
‘Or astrology. A lot of druggies go in for all sorts of mysticism and hoodoo. It goes with the territory.’
‘The candles….’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, son. You’ll never make CID that way. Tell me, why are we all carrying torches?’
‘Because the electric’s been cut off.’
