‘ “Hello Ronnie“,’ McCall read aloud.
‘And this wasn’t here yesterday.’
‘Really?’ McCall sounded surprised. ‘Kids, John, that’s all.’
‘Kids didn’t draw that pentagram.’
‘No, agreed.’
‘Charlie drew that pentagram.’
‘Right.’ McCall slipped his hands into his pockets and drew himself upright. ‘Point taken, Inspector. Let’s go squat hunting.’
But the few people they found seemed to know nothing, and to care even less. As McCall pointed out, it was the wrong time of day. Everyone from the squats was in the city centre, stealing purses from handbags, begging, shoplifting, doing deals. Reluctantly, Rebus agreed that they were wasting their time.
Since McCall wanted to listen to the tape Rebus had made of his interview with Tracy, they headed back to Great London Road. McCall had the idea that there might be some clue on the tape that would lead them to Charlie, something that would help him place the guy, something Rebus had missed.
Rebus was a weary step or two ahead of McCall as they climbed the front steps to the station’s heavy wooden door. A fresh duty officer was beginning his shift at the desk, still fussing with his shirt collar and his clip-on tie. Simple but clever, Rebus thought to himself. Simple but clever. All uniformed officers wore clip-on ties, so that in a clinch, if the attacker tried to yank the officer’s head forwards, the tie would simply come away in his hands. Likewise, the desk sergeant’s glasses had special lenses which, if hit, would slip out of their frame without shattering. Simple but clever. Rebus hoped that the case of the crucified junkie would be simple.
He didn’t feel very clever.
‘Hello, Arthur,’ he said, passing the desk, making towards the staircase. ‘Any messages for me?’
‘Give me a break, John. I’ve only been on two minutes.’
‘Fair enough.’ Rebus pushed his hands deep into his pockets, where the fingers of his right hand touched something alien, metal. He brought the brooch-clip out and studied it. Then froze.
McCall looked at him, puzzled.
‘Go on up,’ Rebus told him. ‘I’ll just be a second.’
‘Right you are, John.’
Back at the desk, Rebus held his left hand out to the sergeant. ‘Do me a favour, Arthur. Give me your tie.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
Knowing that he would have a story to tell tonight in the canteen, the desk sergeant pulled at his tie. As it came away from his shirt, the clip made a single snapping sound. Simple but clever, thought Rebus, holding the tie between finger and thumb.
‘Thanks, Arthur,’ he said.
‘Anytime, John,’ the sergeant called, watching carefully as Rebus walked back towards the stairs. ‘Anytime.’
‘Know what this is, Tony?’
McCall had seated himself in Rebus’s chair, behind Rebus’s desk. He had one fist in a drawer, and looked up, startled. Rebus was holding the necktie out in front of him. McCall nodded, then brought his hand out of the drawer. It was curved around a bottle of whisky.
‘It’s a tie,’ he said. ‘Got any cups?’
Rebus placed the tie on the desk. He went to a filing cabinet and searched amongst the many cups which sat unloved and uncleaned on top of it. Finally, one seemed to satisfy him, and he brought it to the desk. McCall was studying the cover of a file lying on the desk.
‘ “Ronnie,” ’ he read out, ‘ “Tracy — caller”. I see your casenotes are as precise as ever.’
Rebus handed the cup to McCall.
‘Where’s yours?’ asked McCall, pointing to the cup.
‘I don’t feel like drinking. To tell you the truth, I hardly touch the stuff now.’ Rebus nodded at the bottle. ‘That’s for visitors.’ McCall pursed his lips, his eyes opening wide. ‘Besides,’ Rebus went on, ‘I’ve got the mother and father of a headache. In-laws, too. Kids, neighbours, town and country.’ He noticed a large envelope on the desk: PHOTOGRAPHS — DO NOT BEND.
‘You know, Tony, when I was a sergeant, this sort of thing would take days to arrive. It’s like royalty being an inspector.’ He opened the envelope and took out the set of prints, ten by eights, black and white. He handed one to McCall.
‘Look,’ Rebus said, ‘no writing on the wall. And the pentagram’s unfinished. Today it was complete.’ McCall nodded, and Rebus took back the picture, handing over another in its place. ‘The deceased.’
‘Poor little sod,’ said McCall. ‘It could be one of our kids, eh, John?’
‘No,’ said Rebus firmly. He rolled the envelope into the shape of a tube, and put it in his jacket pocket.
McCall had picked up the tie. He waved it towards Rebus, demanding an explanation.
‘Have you ever worn one of those?’ Rebus asked.
‘Sure, at my wedding, maybe a funeral or a christening….’
‘I mean like this. A clip-on. When I was a kid, I remember my dad decided I’d look good in a kilt. He bought me the whole get-up, including a little tartan bow tie. It was a clip-on.’
‘I’ve worn one,’ said McCall. ‘Everybody has. We all came through the ranks, didn’t we?’
‘No,’ said Rebus. ‘Now get out of my bloody chair.’
McCall found another chair, dragging it over from the wall to the desk. Rebus meantime sat down, picking up the tie.
‘Police issue.’
‘What is?’
‘Clip-on ties,’ said Rebus. ‘Who else wears them?’
‘Christ, I don’t know, John.’
Rebus threw the clip across to McCall, who was slow to react. It fell to the floor, from where he retrieved it.
‘It’s a clip-on,’ he said.
‘I found it in Ronnie’s house,’ said Rebus. ‘At the top of the stairs.’
‘So?’
‘So someone’s tie broke. Maybe when they were dragging Ronnie downstairs. Maybe a police constable someone.’
‘You think one of our lot …?’
‘Just an idea,’ said Rebus. ‘Of course, it could belong to one of the lads who found the body.’ He held out his hand, and McCall gave him back the clip. ‘Maybe I’ll talk to them.’
‘John, what the hell….’ McCall ended with a sort of choking sound, unable to find words for the question he wanted to ask.
‘Drink your whisky,’ said Rebus solicitously. ‘Then you can listen to that tape, see if you think Tracy’s telling the truth.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ He put the desk sergeant’s tie in his pocket. ‘Maybe I’ll tie up a few loose ends.’ McCall was pouring out a measure of whisky as Rebus left, but the parting shot, called from the staircase, was loud enough for him to hear.
‘Maybe I’ll just go to the devil!’
‘Yes, a simple pentangle.’
The psychologist, Dr Poole, who wasn’t really a psychologist, but rather, he had explained, a lecturer in psychology, quite a different thing, studied the photographs carefully, bottom lip curling up to cover his top lip in a sign of confident recognition. Rebus played with the empty envelope and stared out of the office window. The day
