‘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?’
‘Out of the back door, yes.’
‘Well,’ said Rebus, ‘while we’re here we might as well have a look at his room, if such a thing exists.’
‘Good idea,’ said McCall, pocketing the polythene bag. ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’
Charlie had a room all right. It consisted of a single sleeping bag, a desk, anglepoise lamp, and more books than Rebus had ever seen in such an enclosed space. They were piled against the walls, reaching in precarious pillars from floor to ceiling. Many were library books, well overdue.
‘Must owe the City Fathers a small fortune,’ said McCall.
There were books on economics, politics and history, as well as learned and not so learned tomes on demonism, devil worship and witchcraft. There was little fiction, and most of the books had been read thoroughly, with much underlining and pencilled marginalia. On the desk sat a half-completed essay, part of Charlie’s university course work no doubt. It seemed to be trying to link ‘magick’ to modern society, but was mostly, to Rebus’s eye, rambling nonsense.
‘Hello!’
This was shouted from downstairs, as the two constables started to climb the staircase.
‘Hello yourselves,’ McCall called back. Then he shook the contents of a large supermarket carrier bag onto the floor, so that pens, toy cars, cigarette papers, a wooden egg, a spool of cotton, a personal cassette player, a Swiss army knife, and a camera fell out. McCall stooped to pick up the camera between thumb and middle finger. Nice model, thirty-five-millimetre SLR. Good make. He gestured with it towards Rebus, who took it from him, having first produced a handkerchief from his pocket, with which he held it. Rebus turned towards Tracy who was standing against the door with her arms folded. She nodded back at him.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s Ronnie’s camera.’
The constables were at the top of the stairs now. Rebus accepted McCall’s offer of the supermarket carrier and dropped the camera into it, careful not to mess up any prints.
‘Todd,’ he said to the constable he knew, ‘take this young lady down to Great London Road station.’ Tracy’s mouth opened. ‘It’s for your own protection,’ Rebus said. ‘Go on with them. I’ll see you later, soon as I can.’
She still seemed ready to voice a complaint, but thought better of it, nodded and turned, leaving the room. Rebus listened as she went downstairs, accompanied by the officers. McCall was still searching, though without real concern. Two finds were quite enough to be going on with.
‘No smoke without fire,’ he said.
‘I had lunch with Tommy today,’ said Rebus.
‘My brother Tommy?’ McCall looked up. Rebus nodded. ‘Then that’s one up to you. He’s never taken me to lunch these past fifteen years.’
‘We were at The Eyrie.’ Now McCall whistled. ‘To do with Watson’s anti-drugs campaign.’
‘Yes, Tommy’s shelling out for it, isn’t he? Ach, I shouldn’t be hard on him. He’s done me a few favours in his time.’
‘He had a few too many.’
McCall laughed gently. ‘He hasn’t changed then. Still, he can afford it. That transport company of his, it runs itself. He used to be there twenty-four hours a day, fifty-two weeks of the year. Nowadays, he can take off as long as he likes. His accountant once told him to take a year off. Can you imagine that? For tax purposes. If only we had those kinds of problem, eh, John?’
‘You’re right there, Tony.’ Rebus was still holding the supermarket bag. McCall nodded towards it.
‘Does this tie it up?’
‘It makes things a bit clearer,’ said Rebus. ‘I might get it checked for prints.’
‘I can tell you what you’ll find,’ said McCall. ‘The deceased’s and this guy Charlie’s.’
‘You’re forgetting someone.’
‘Who?’
‘You, Tony. You picked the camera up with your fingers, remember?’
‘Ah, sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Anyway, it’s something, isn’t it? Something to celebrate, I mean. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.’
As they left the room, one pillar of books finally gave way, slewing down across the floor like dominoes waiting to be shuffled. Rebus opened the door again to look in.
‘Ghosts,’ said McCall. ‘That’s all. Just ghosts.’
It wasn’t much to look at. Not what he’d been expecting. Okay, so there was a potted plant in one corner, and black roller blinds over the windows, and even a word processor gathering dust on a newish plastic desk. But it was still the second floor of a tenement, still designed as somebody’s home and never meant to be used as office, studio, workplace. Holmes gave the room — the so-called ‘front office’ — a tour as the cute little school-leaver went off to fetch ‘His Highness’. That was what she’d called him. If your staff didn’t hold you in esteem, or at the very least in frightened awe, there was something wrong with you. Certainly, as the door opened and ‘His Highness’ walked in, it was evident to Holmes that there was something wrong with Jimmy Hutton.
For a start, he was the other side of fifty, yet what hair he still had was long, thin strands covering his forehead almost down to his eyes. He was also wearing denims: a mistake easily made by those aspiring to youth from the wrong side. And he was short. Five foot two or three. Now Holmes began to see the relevance of the secretary’s pun. His highness, indeed.
He had a harassed look on his face, but had left the camera through in the back bedroom or box room or whichever room of the smallish flat served as his studio. He stuck out a hand, and Holmes shook it.
‘Detective Constable Holmes,’ he announced. Hutton nodded, took a cigarette from the packet on his secretary’s desk and lit it. She frowned openly at this as she sat down again, smoothing her tight skirt beneath her. Hutton had not yet looked at Holmes. His eyes seemed to be mirroring some distraction in his mind. He went to the window, looked out, arched his neck to blow a plume of smoke towards the high, dark ceiling, then let his head go limp, leaning against the wall.
‘Get me a coffee, Christine.’ His eyes met Holmes’s momentarily. ‘Do you want one?’ Holmes shook his head.
‘Sure?’ said Christine kindly, rising out of her seat again.
‘Okay then. Thanks.’
With a smile she left the room, off to the kitchen or darkroom to fill a kettle.
‘So,’ said Hutton. ‘What can I do for you?’
That was another thing about the man. His voice was high, not shrill or girlish, just high. And slightly rasping, as though he had damaged his vocal cords at some point in his youth and they had never recovered.
‘Mr Hutton?’ Holmes needed to be sure. Hutton nodded.
‘Jimmy Hutton, professional photographer, at your service. You’re getting married and you want me to do you a discount?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘A portrait then. Girlfriend perhaps? Mum and dad?’
‘No, this is business, I’m afraid. My business, that is.’
‘But no new business for me, right?’ Hutton smiled, chanced another glance towards Holmes, drew on his
