10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (31 page)

‘I’d like a word, Charlie.’

‘Okay, how about carbohydrate. That was always one of my favourites.’

John Rebus’s smile lasted less than a second.

‘Very clever,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s what we call a smart answer.’

‘We?’

‘Lothian CID. My name’s Inspector Rebus.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise, Charlie.’

‘No, you’re mistaken. My name’s not Charlie. He comes in here sometimes though. I’ll tell him you called.’

Charlie was just about to hit the high score, five minutes ahead of schedule, when Rebus gripped his shoulder and spun him around. There were no other students in the games room, so he kept squeezing the shoulder while he spoke.

‘You’re about as funny as a maggot sandwich, Charlie, and patience isn’t my favourite card game. So you’ll excuse me if I become irritable, short-tempered, that sort of thing.’

‘Hands off.’ Charlie’s face had taken on a new sheen, but not of fear.

‘Ronnie,’ Rebus said, calmly now, releasing his grip on the young man’s shoulder.

The colour drained from Charlie’s face. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Yes.’ Charlie’s voice was quiet, his eyes unfocussed. ‘I heard.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Tracy tried to find you.’

‘Tracy.’ There was venom in the word. ‘She’s no idea, no idea at all. Have you seen her?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Yeah, what a loser that woman is. She never understood Ronnie. Never even tried.’

As Charlie spoke, Rebus was learning more about him. His accent was Scottish private school, which was the first surprise. Rebus didn’t know what he had expected. He knew he hadn’t expected this. Charlie was well built, too, a product of the rugby-playing classes. He had curly dark brown hair, cut not too long, and was dressed in traditional student summer wear: training shoes, denims, and a T-shirt. The T-shirt was black, torn loose at the arms.

‘So,’ Charlie was saying, ‘Ronnie did the big one, eh? Well, it’s a good age to die. Live fast, die young.’

‘Do you want to die young, Charlie?’

‘Me?’ Charlie laughed, a high-pitched squeal like a small animal. ‘Hell, I want to live to be a hundred. I never want to die.’ He looked at Rebus, something sparkling in his eyes. ‘Do you?’

Rebus considered the question, but wasn’t about to answer. He was here on business, not to discuss the death instinct. The lecturer, Dr Poole, had told him about the death instinct.

‘I want to know what you know about Ronnie.’

‘Does that mean you’re going to take me away for questioning?’

‘If you like. We can do it here if you’d prefer. . . .’

‘No, no. I
want
to go to the police station. Come on, take me there.’ There was a sudden eagerness about Charlie which made him seem much younger than his years. Who the hell wanted to
go
to a police station for questioning?

On the route to the car park and Rebus’s car, Charlie insisted on walking a few paces ahead of Rebus, and with his hands behind his back, head slumped. Rebus saw that Charlie was pretending to be handcuffed. He was doing a good impersonation too, drawing attention to Rebus and himself. Someone even called out ‘bastard’ in Rebus’s direction. But the word had lost all meaning over the years. They would have disturbed him more by wishing him a pleasant trip.

‘Can I buy a couple of these?’ Charlie asked, examining the photographs of his work, his pentagram.

The interview room was bleak. It was its purpose to be bleak. But Charlie had settled in like he was planning to rent it.

‘No,’ Rebus said, lighting a cigarette. He didn’t offer one to Charlie. ‘So, why did you paint it?’

‘Because it’s beautiful.’ He still studied the photographs. ‘Don’t you think? So full of meaning.’

‘How long had you known Ronnie?’

Charlie shrugged. For the first time, he looked in the direction of the cassette recorder. Rebus had asked if he minded having the dialogue recorded. He had shrugged. Now he seemed a little pensive. ‘Maybe a year,’ he said. ‘Yes, a year. I met him around the time of my first-year exams. That was when I started to get interested in the
real
Edinburgh.’

‘The real Edinburgh?’

‘Yes. Not just the piper on the ramparts, or the Royal Mile, or the Scott Monument.’ Rebus recalled Ronnie’s photographs of the Castle.

‘I saw some photos on Ronnie’s wall.’ Charlie screwed up his face.

‘God, those. He had the idea he was going to be a professional photographer. Taking bloody tourist snaps for postcards. That didn’t last long. Like most of Ronnie’s schemes.’

‘Nice camera he had though.’

‘What? Oh, yes, his camera. Yes, it was his pride and joy.’ Charlie crossed his legs. Rebus continued to stare into the young man’s eyes, but Charlie was busily studying the photographs of the pentagram.

‘So what was that you were telling me about the “real” Edinburgh?’

‘Deacon Brodie,’ said Charlie, suddenly interested again, ‘Burke and Hare, justified sinners, the lot. But it’s all been cleaned up for the tourists, you see. And I thought, hang on, all this Lowland low-life still exists. That was when I started touring the housing estates, Wester Hailes, Oxgangs, Craigmillar, Pilmuir. And sure enough, it’s all still here, the past replaying itself in the present.’

‘So you started hanging around Pilmuir?’

‘Yes.’

‘In other words, you became a tourist yourself?’ Rebus had seen Charlie’s kind before, though usually the older model, the prosperous businessman debasing himself for kicks, visiting sleazy rooms for a dry cough of pleasure. He didn’t like the species.

‘I wasn’t a tourist!’ Charlie’s anger rose, a trout snapping a hooked worm. ‘I was there because I wanted to be there, and they wanted me there.’ His voice began to sound sulky. ‘I belong there.’

‘No you don’t, son, you belong in a big house somewhere with parents interested in your university career.’

‘Crap.’ Charlie pushed back his chair and walked to the wall, resting his head against it. Rebus thought for a
moment that he might be about to beat himself senseless, then claim police brutality. But he seemed merely to need something cool against his face.

The interview room was stifling. Rebus had removed his jacket. Now he rolled up his sleeves before stubbing out the cigarette.

‘Okay, Charlie.’ The young man was soft now, pliable. It was time to ask some questions. ‘The night of the overdose, you were in the house with Ronnie, right?’

‘That’s right. For a little while.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘Tracy was there. She was there when I left.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Some guy visited earlier in the evening. He didn’t stay long. I’d seen him with Ronnie before a couple of times. When they were together, they kept to themselves.’

‘Was this person his dealer, do you think?’

‘No. Ronnie could always get stuff. Well, up until recently. Past couple of weeks, he found it tough. They seemed pretty close, though. Really close, if you get my meaning.’

‘Go on.’

‘Close as in loving. As in gay.’

‘But Tracy . . .?’

‘Yeah, yeah, but what’s that supposed to prove, huh? You know how most addicts make their money.’

‘How? Theft?’

‘Yeah, theft, muggings, whatever. And doing a bit of business over by Calton Hill.’

Calton Hill, large, sprawling, lying to the east of Princes Street. Yes, Rebus knew all about Calton Hill, and about the cars which sat much of the night at the foot of it, along Regent Road. He knew about Calton Cemetery, too, about what went on there. . . .

‘You’re saying Ronnie was a rent boy?’ The phrase sounded ridiculous out loud. It was tabloid talk.

‘I’m saying he used to hang around there with a load of other guys, and I’m saying he always had money at the end of the night.’ Charlie swallowed. ‘Money and maybe a few bruises.’

‘Jesus.’ Rebus added this information to what was becoming a very grubby little dossier in his head. How far would you sink for a fix? The answer was: all the way. And then a little lower. He lit another cigarette.

‘Do you know this for a fact?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Was Ronnie from Edinburgh, by the way?’

‘Stirling.’

‘And his surname was –’

‘McGrath, I think.’

‘What about this guy he was so chummy with? Have you a name for him?’

‘He called himself Neil. Ronnie called him Neilly.’

‘Neilly? Did you get the impression they’d known one another for a while?’

‘Yeah, a goodish while. A nickname like that’s a sign of affection, right?’ Rebus studied Charlie with new admiration. ‘I don’t do psychology for nothing, Inspector.’

‘Right.’ Rebus checked that the small cassette recorder still had some tape left to run. ‘Give me a physical description of this Neil character, will you?’

‘Tall, skinny, short brown hair. Kind of spotty face, but always clean. Usually wore jeans and a denim jacket. Carried a big black holdall with him.’

‘Any idea what was in it?’

‘I got the feeling it was just clothes.’

‘Okay.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Let’s talk about the pentagram. Someone has been back to the house and added to it since these photographs were taken.’

Charlie said nothing, but did not look surprised.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

Charlie nodded.

‘How did you get in?’

‘Through the downstairs window. Those wooden slats couldn’t keep out an elephant. It’s like an extra door. Lots of people used to come into the house that way.’

‘Why did you go back?’

‘It wasn’t finished, was it? I wanted to add the symbols.’

‘And the message.’

Charlie smiled to himself. ‘Yes, the message.’

‘“Hello Ronnie”,’ Rebus quoted. ‘What’s that all about?’

‘Just what it says. His spirit’s still in the house, his soul’s still there. I was just saying hello. I had some paint left. Besides, I thought it might give somebody a fright.’

Rebus remembered his own shock at seeing the scrawl. He felt his cheeks redden slightly, but covered the fact with a question.

‘Do you remember the candles?’

Charlie nodded, but was becoming restless. Helping police with their inquiries was not as much fun as he had hoped.

‘What about your project?’ said Rebus, changing tack.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s on demonism, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.’

‘What aspect of demonism?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe the popular mythology. How old fears become new fears, that sort of thing.’

‘Do you know any of the covens in Edinburgh?’

‘I know people who claim to be in some of them.’

‘But you’ve never been along to one?’

‘No, worse luck.’ Charlie seemed suddenly to come to life. ‘Look, what is all this? Ronnie OD’d. He’s history. Why all the questions?’

‘What can you tell me about the candles?’

Charlie exploded. ‘What
about
the candles?’

Rebus was all calmness. He exhaled smoke before responding. ‘There were candles in the living room.’ He was getting close to telling Charlie something Charlie didn’t seem to know. All during the interview, he had been spiralling inwards towards this moment.

‘That’s right. Big candles. Ronnie got them from some shop that specialises in candles. He
liked
candles. They gave the place
ambience
.’

‘Tracy found Ronnie in his bedroom. She thinks he was already dead.’ Rebus’s voice became lower still, and as flat as the desktop. ‘But by the time she’d phoned us, and an officer had turned up at the house, Ronnie’s body had been moved downstairs. It was laid out between two candles, which had been burnt down to nothing.’

‘There wasn’t much left of those candles anyway, not when I left.’

‘You left when?’

‘Just before midnight. There was supposed to be a party somewhere on the estate. I thought I might get invited in.’

‘How long would the candles have burned for?’

‘An hour, two hours. God knows.’

‘How much smack did Ronnie have?’

‘Christ, I don’t know.’

‘Well, how much would he normally use at any one time?’

‘I really don’t know. I’m not a user, you know. I hate all that stuff. I’ve got two friends who were in my sixth form. They’re both in private clinics.’

‘That’s nice for them.’

‘Like I said, Ronnie hadn’t been able to find any stuff for days. He was a bit whacked out, just about to fall right over the edge. Then he came back with some. End of story.’

‘Isn’t there much about then?’

‘So far as I know, there’s plenty, but don’t bother asking for names.’

‘So if there’s plenty, how come Ronnie was finding it so hard?’

‘God knows. He didn’t know himself. It was like he’d suddenly become bad news. Then he was good news again, and he got that packet.’

It was time. Rebus picked an invisible thread from his shirt.

‘He was murdered,’ he said. ‘Or as good as.’

Charlie’s mouth opened. The blood drained from his face, as though a tap had been opened somewhere. ‘What?’

‘He was murdered. His body was full of rat poison. Self-inflicted, but supplied by someone who probably knew it was lethal. A lot of work was then done to manoeuvre his body into some kind of ritualistic position in the living room. Where your pentagram is.’

‘Now wait –’

‘How many covens are there in Edinburgh, Charlie?’

‘What? Six, seven, I don’t know. Look –’

‘Do you know them? Any of them? I mean know them personally?’

‘Christ, man, you’re not going to pin this on me!’

‘Why not?’ Rebus stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Because it’s crazy.’

‘Seems to me it all fits, Charlie.’ String him out, Rebus was thinking. He’s already stretched to snapping point. ‘Unless you can convince me otherwise.’

Charlie walked to the door purposefully, then paused.

‘Go on,’ Rebus called, ‘it’s not locked. Walk out of here if you like. Then I’ll
know
you had something to do with it.’

Charlie turned. His eyes seemed moist in the hazy light. A sunbeam from the barred window, penetrating the frosted glass, caught motes of dust and turned them into slow-motion dancers. Charlie moved through them as he returned to the desk.