‘Yes, that was Charlie. He painted it.’
‘He’s keen on the occult then?’
‘Mad keen.’
‘What about Ronnie?’
‘Ronnie? Jesus, no. He couldn’t even stand to watch horror films. They scared him.’
‘But he had all those horror books in his bedroom.’
‘That was Charlie, trying to get Ronnie interested. All they did was give him more nightmares. And all those did was push him into taking more smack.’
‘How did he finance his habit?’ Rebus watched a small boat come gliding through the mist. Something fell from it into the water, but he couldn’t tell what.
‘I wasn’t his accountant.’
‘Who was?’ The boat was turning in an arc, slipping further west towards Queensferry.
‘Nobody wants to know where the money comes from, that’s the truth. It makes you an accessory, doesn’t it?’
‘That depends.’ Rebus shivered.
‘Well, I didn’t want to know. If he tried to tell me, I put my hands over my ears.’
‘He’s never had a job then?’
‘I don’t know. He used to talk about being a photographer. That’s what he’d set his heart on when he left school. It was the only thing he wouldn’t pawn, even to pay for his habit.’
Rebus was lost. ‘What was?’
‘His camera. It cost him a small fortune, every penny saved out of his social security.’
Social security: now there was a phrase. But Rebus was sure there had been no camera in Ronnie’s bedroom. So add robbery to the list.
‘Tracy, I’ll need a statement.’
She was immediately suspicious. ‘What for?’
‘Just so I’ve got it on record, so we can do something about Ronnie’s death. Will you help me do that?’
It was a long time before she nodded. The boat had disappeared. There was nothing floating in the water, nothing left in its wake. Rebus put a hand on Tracy’s shoulder, but gently.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘The car’s this way.’
After she had made her statement, Rebus insisted on driving her home, dropping her several streets from her destination but knowing her address now.
‘Not that I can swear to be there for the next ten years,’ she had said. It didn’t matter. He had given her his work and home telephone numbers. He was sure she would keep in touch.
‘One last thing,’ he said, as she was about to close the car door. She leaned in from the pavement. ‘Ronnie kept shouting “They’re coming.” Who do you think he meant?’
She shrugged. Then froze, remembering the scene. ‘He was strung out, Inspector. Maybe he meant the snakes and spiders.’
Yes, thought Rebus, as she closed the door and he started the car. And then maybe he meant the snakes and spiders who’d supplied him.
Back at Greater London Road station, there was a message that Chief Superintendent Watson wanted to see him. Rebus called his superior’s office.
‘I’ll come along now, if I may.’
The secretary checked, and confirmed that this would be okay.
Rebus had come across Watson on many occasions since the superintendent’s posting had brought him from the far north to Edinburgh. He seemed a reasonable man, if just a little, well, agricultural for some tastes. There were a lot of jokes around the station already about his Aberdonian background, and he had earned the whispered nickname of ‘Farmer’ Watson.
‘Come in, John, come in.’
The Superintendent had risen from behind his desk long enough to point Rebus in the vague direction of a chair. Rebus noticed that the desk itself was meticulously arranged, files neatly piled in two trays, nothing in front of Watson but a thick, newish folder and two sharp pencils. There was a photograph of two young children to one side of the folder.
‘My two,’ Watson explained. ‘They’re a bit older than that now, but still a handful.’
Watson was a large man, his girth giving truth to the phrase ‘barrel-chested’. His face was ruddy, hair thin and silvered at the temples. Yes, Rebus could picture him in galoshes and a trout-fishing hat, stomping his way across a moor, his collie obedient beside him. But what did he want with Rebus? Was he seeking a human collie?
‘You were at the scene of a drugs overdose this morning.’ It was a statement of fact, so Rebus didn’t bother to answer. ‘It should have been Inspector McCall’s call, but he was … well, wherever he was.’
‘He’s a good copper, sir.’
Watson stared up at him, then smiled. ‘Inspector McCall’s qualities are not in question. That’s not why you’re here. But your being on the scene gave me an idea. You probably know that I’m interested in this city’s drugs problem. Frankly, the statistics appal me. It’s not something I’d encountered in Aberdeen, with the exception of some of the oil workers. But then it was mostly the executives, the ones they flew in from the United States. They brought their habits, if you’ll pardon the pun, with them. But here — ’ He flicked open the folder and began to pick over some of the sheets. ‘Here, Inspector, it’s Hades. Plain and simple.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you a churchgoer?’
‘Sir?’ Rebus was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
‘It’s a simple enough question, isn’t it? Do you go to church?’
‘Not regularly, sir. But sometimes I do, yes.’ Like yesterday, Rebus thought. And here again he felt like fleeing.
‘Someone said you did. Then you should know what I’m talking about when I say that this city is turning into Hades.’ Watson’s face was ruddier than ever. ‘The Infirmary has treated addicts as young as eleven and twelve. Your own brother is serving a prison sentence for dealing in drugs.’ Watson looked up again, perhaps expecting Rebus to look shamed. But Rebus’s eyes were a fiery glare, his cheeks red not with embarrassment.
‘With respect, sir,’ he said, voice level but as taut as a wire, ‘what has this got to do with me?’
‘Simply this.’ Watson closed the folder and settled back in his chair. ‘I’m putting into operation a new anti- drugs campaign. Public awareness and that sort of thing, coupled with funding for discreet information. I’ve got the backing, and what’s more I’ve got the money. A group of the city’s businessmen are prepared to put fifty thousand pounds into the campaign.’
‘Very public-spirited of them, sir.’
Watson’s face became darker. He leaned forward in his chair, filling Rebus’s vision. ‘You better bloody believe it,’ he said.
‘But I still don’t see where I — ’
‘John.’ The voice was anodyne now. ‘You’ve had … experience. Personal experience. I’d like you to help me front our side of the campaign.’
‘No, sir, really — ’
‘Good. That’s agreed then.’ Watson had already risen. Rebus tried to stand, too, but his legs had lost all power. He pushed against the armrests with his hands and managed to heave himself upright. Was this the price they were demanding? Public atonement for having a rotten brother? Watson was opening the door. ‘We’ll talk again, go through the details. But for now, try to tie up whatever you’re working on, casenotes up to date, that sort of thing. Tell me what you can’t finish, and we’ll find someone to take it off your hands.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus clutched at the proffered hand. It was like steel, cool, dry and crushing.
‘Goodbye, sir,’ Rebus said, standing in the corridor now, to a door that had already closed on him.
That evening, still numb, he grew bored with television and left his flat, planning to drive around a bit, no real destination in mind. Marchmont was quiet, but then it always was. His car sat undisturbed on the cobbles outside
