10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (30 page)

‘Now Tommy, my brother, I used to think he had it made. Plenty of money, house with a jacuzzi, automatic-opening garage. . . .’ McCall saw that Rebus was smiling, and smiled himself.

‘Electric blinds,’ Rebus continued, ‘personalised number plate, car phone. . .’

‘Time share in Malaga,’ said McCall, close to laughter, ‘marble-topped kitchen units.’

It was too ridiculous. They laughed out loud as they walked, adding to the catalogue. But then Rebus saw where they were, and stopped laughing, stopped walking.
This was where he’d been heading all along. He touched the torch in his jacket pocket.

‘Come on, Tony,’ he said soberly. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

‘He was found here,’ Rebus said, shining the torch over the bare floorboards. ‘Legs together, lying on his back, arms outstretched. I don’t think he got into that position by accident, do you?’

McCall studied the scene. They were both professionals now, and acting almost like strangers. ‘And the girlfriend says she found him upstairs?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You believe her?’

‘Why would she lie?’

‘There could be a hundred reasons, John. Would I know the girl?’

‘She hasn’t been in Pilmuir long. Bit older than you’d imagine, midtwenties, maybe more.’

‘So this Ronnie’s already dead, and he’s brought downstairs and laid out with the candles and everything.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m beginning to see why you need to find the friend who’s into the occult.’

‘Right. Now come and look at this.’ Rebus led McCall to the far wall and shone the torch onto the pentagram, then further up the wall.

‘“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 was bright, and some students were lying in George Square Gardens, sharing bottles of wine, their text books forgotten.

Rebus felt uncomfortable. Institutes of higher education, from the simplest college up to the present confines of the University of Edinburgh, made him feel stupid. He felt that his every movement, every utterance, was being judged and interpreted, marking him down as a clever man who could have been cleverer, given the breaks.

‘When I returned to the house,’ he said, ‘someone had drawn some symbols between the two circles. Signs of the zodiac, that sort of thing.’

Rebus watched as the psychologist went over to the bookshelves and began to browse. It had been easy to find this man. Making use of him might be more difficult.

‘Probably the usual arcana,’ Dr Poole was saying, finding the page he wanted and bringing it back to the desk to show Rebus. ‘This sort of thing?’

‘Yes, that’s it.’ Rebus studied the illustration. The pentagram was not identical to the one he had seen, but the differences were slight. ‘Tell me, are many people interested in the occult?’

‘You mean in Edinburgh?’ Poole sat down again, pushing his glasses back up his nose. ‘Oh yes. Plenty. Look at how well films about the devil do at the box office.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Yes, I used to like horror films myself. But I mean an
active
interest.’

The lecturer smiled. ‘I know you do. I was being facetious. So many people think that’s what the occult is about – bringing Old Nick back to life. There’s much more to it, believe me, Inspector. Or much less to it, depending on your point of view.’

Rebus tried to work out what this meant. ‘You know occultists?’ he said meantime.

‘I know
of
occultists, practising covens of white and black witches.’

‘Here? In Edinburgh?’

Poole smiled again. ‘Oh yes. Right here. There are six working covens in and around Edinburgh.’ He paused,
and Rebus could almost see him doing a recount. ‘Seven, perhaps. Fortunately, most of these practise white magic.’

‘That’s using the occult as a supposed force for good, right?’

‘Quite correct.’

‘And black magic . . .?’

The lecturer sighed. He suddenly became interested in the scene from his window. A summer’s day. Rebus was remembering something. A long time ago, he’d bought a book of paintings by H.R. Giger, paintings of Satan flanked by vestal whores. . . . He couldn’t say why he’d done it, but it must still be somewhere in the flat. He remembered hiding it from Rhona. . . .

‘There is one coven in Edinburgh,’ Poole was saying. ‘A black coven.’

‘Tell me, do they . . . do they make sacrifices?’

Dr Poole shrugged. ‘We all make sacrifices.’ But, seeing that Rebus was not laughing at his little joke, he straightened in his chair, his face becoming more serious. ‘Probably they do, some token. A rat, a mouse, a chicken. It may not even go that far. They could use something symbolic, I really don’t know.’

Rebus tapped one of the photographs which were spread across the desk. ‘In the house where we found this pentagram, we also found a body. A dead body, in case you were wondering.’ He brought these photographs out now. Dr Poole frowned as he glanced at them. ‘Dead from a heroin overdose. Laid out with legs together, arms apart. The body was lying between two candles, which had burned down to nothing. Mean anything to you?’

Poole looked horror-struck. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But you think that Satanists. . . .’

‘I don’t think anything, sir. I’m just trying to piece things together, going through all the possibilities.’

Poole thought for a moment. ‘One of our students
might
be of more use to you than I can. I’d no idea we were talking about a death. . . .’

‘A student?’

‘Yes. I only know him vaguely. He seems very interested in the occult, wrote rather a long and knowledgeable essay this term. Wants to do some project on demonism. He’s a second-year student. They have to do a project over the summer. Yes, maybe he can give you more help than I’m able to.’

‘And his name is . . .?’

‘Well, his surname escapes me for the moment. He usually just calls himself by his first name. Charles.’

‘Charles?’

‘Or maybe Charlie. Yes, Charlie, that’s it.’

Ronnie’s friend’s name. The hair on Rebus’s neck began to prickle.

‘That’s right, Charlie,’ Poole confirmed to himself, nodding. ‘Bit of an eccentric. You can probably find him in one of the student union buildings. I believe he’s addicted to these video machines. . . .’

No, not video machines. Pinball machines. The ones with all the extras, all the little tricks and treats that made a game a game. Charlie loved them with a vengeance. It was the kind of love which was all the more fervent for having come to him late in life. He was nineteen after all, life was streaming past, and he wanted to hang on to any piece of driftwood he could. Pinball had played no part in his adolescence. That had belonged to books and music. Besides, there had been no pinball machines at his boarding school.

Now, released into university, he wanted to live. And to play pinball. And do all the other things he had missed out on during the years of prep, sensitive essay-writing, and introspection. Charlie wanted to run faster than anyone had ever run, to live not one life, but two or three
or four. As the silver ball made contact with the left flipper, he threw it back up the table with real ferocity. There was a pause while the ball sat in one of the bonus craters, collecting another thousand points. He picked up his lager, took a gulp of it, and then returned his fingers to the buttons. In another ten minutes, he’d have the day’s high score.

‘Charlie?’

He turned at the sound of his name. A bad mistake, a naive mistake. He turned back to the game again, but too late. The man was striding towards him. The serious man. The unsmiling man.