‘Sorry, sir,’ said the constable.
‘Right,’ said Rebus, walking towards the door. But before he reached it, it was opened from the inside, and there stood Tracy, both eyes reddened from crying, one eye bruised a deep blue. She didn’t seem surprised to see Rebus standing in front of her; she seemed relieved, and threw herself at him, hugging him, her head against his chest, the tears beginning all over again.
Rebus, startled and embarrassed, returned the embrace only lightly, with a patting of his hands on her back: a father’s ‘there, there’ to a frightened child. He turned his head to look at the constables, who were pretending to have noticed nothing. Then a car drew up beside his own, and he saw Tony McCall put on his handbrake before pushing open the driver’s door, stepping out and seeing Rebus there, and the girl.
Rebus laid his hands on Tracy’s arms and pushed her away from him a little, but still retaining that contact between them. His hands, her arms. She looked at him, and began to fight against the tears. Finally, she pulled one arm away so that she could wipe her eyes. Then the other arm relaxed and Rebus’s hand fell from it, the contact broken. For now.
‘John?’ It was McCall, close behind him.
‘Yes, Tony?’
‘Why is it my patch has suddenly become your patch?’
‘Just passing,’ said Rebus.
The interior of the house was surprisingly neat and tidy. There were numerous, if uncoordinated, sticks of furniture - two well-worn settees, a couple of dining chairs, trellis table, half a dozen pouffes, burst at the seams and oozing stuffing - and, most surprising of all, the electricity was connected.
‘Wonder if the electric board know about that,’ said McCall as Rebus switched on the downstairs lights.
For all its trappings, the place had an air of imperma-nence. There were sleeping bags laid out on the living- room- floor, as though ready for any stray waifs and passers-by. Tracy went to one of the settees and sat down, wrapping her hands around her knees.
‘Is this your place, Tracy?’ said Rebus, knowing the answer.
‘No. It’s Charlie’s.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘I only found out today. He moves around all the time. It wasn’t easy tracking him down.’
‘It didn’t take you long.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What happened?’
‘I just wanted to talk to him.’
‘About Ronnie?’ McCall watched Rebus as he said this. McCall was concentrating now, aware that Rebus was trying to fill him in on the situation while at the same time questioning Tracy. Tracy nodded.
‘Stupid, maybe, but I needed to talk to someone.’
‘And?’
‘And we got into an argument. He started it. Told me I was the cause of Ronnie’s death.’ She looked up at them; not pleadingly, but just to show that she was sincere. ‘It’s not true. But Charlie said I should have looked after Ronnie, stopped him taking the stuff, got him away from Pilmuir. How could I have done that? He wouldn’t have
listened to me. I thought he knew what he was doing. Nobody could tell him otherwise.’
‘Is that what you told Charlie?’
She smiled. ‘No. I only thought of it just now. That’s what always happens, isn’t it? You only think of the clever comeback after the argument’s finished.’
‘I know what you mean, love,’ said McCall.
‘So you started a slanging match -’
‘I never started the slanging match!’ she roared at Rebus.
‘Okay,’ he said quietly, ‘Charlie started shouting at you, and you shouted back, then he hit you. Yes?’
‘Yes.’ She seemed subdued.
‘And maybe,’ Rebus prompted, ‘you hit him back?’
‘I gave as good as I got.’
‘That’s my girl,’ said McCall. He was touring the room, turning up cushions on the settees, opening old magazines, crouching to pat each sleeping bag.
‘Don’t patronise me, you bastard,’ said Tracy.
McCall paused, looked up, surprised. Then smiled, and patted the next sleeping bag along. ‘Ah-ha,’ he said, lifting the sleeping bag and shaking it. A small polythene bag fell out onto the floor. He picked it up, satisfied. ‘A little bit of blaw,’ he said. ‘Makes a house into a home, eh?’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Tracy, looking at the bag.
‘We believe you,’ said Rebus. ‘Charlie did a runner then?’
‘Yes. The neighbours must’ve phoned for the pigs … I mean, the police.’ She averted her eyes from them.
‘We’ve been called worse,’ said McCall, ‘haven’t we, John?’
‘That’s for sure. So the constables arrived at one door, and Charlie left by another, right?’
