Ian Rankin: Let It Bleed

As ever, Rebus timed his exit just wrong. Alister Flower was walking along the corridor towards him, whistling ‘Dixie’.

‘There’s a lad in there,’ Rebus reminded him, ‘has just lost two pals, one of them called Dixie.’

Flower stopped whistling and barked a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘Must’ve been my, you know, subconscious.’

‘You’ve got to be conscious to have one of those,’ Rebus said, moving away. ‘Which sort of disqualifies you.’

Flower wasn’t letting him off so easily. He caught up with Rebus at the double doors. ‘Things’ll be different when I’m Chief Inspector,’ he snarled.

‘Yes, they will,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Because by then they’ll have cured cancer and put a man on Mars.’

Then he pushed through the doors and was gone.

He drove out to Stenhouse. It was further out of town than he remembered, and nicer too. Quiet, once you came off Gorgie Road. Two-storey semis with tidy front gardens and swept pavements. Some of the doorsteps looked scrubbed; his mother had got down on her knees with all the other women in their cul-de-sac a couple of times a week to scrub the step with hot soapy water or bleach. A dirty front step reflected badly on the home within.

Rebus was more used to central Edinburgh, tenement city. The little suburbia managed to surprise him. Salt had been put down along the pavements and roads. In summer the neighbours would be out gossiping over fences, but this was winter and they were hibernating.

An Edinburgh winter could be a real stayer, starting early in October and lasting into April. The days were not constant: sometimes it was twilight all day; other times, with fresh snow on the ground, the sun’s glare scoured your eyes. People walked everywhere squinting, either peering into the gloom or protecting themselves from the fierce light.

Today was a twilight day, the sky a dull maroon, threatening a fall. Rebus stuffed his hands into his pockets and felt the small paper bag. He’d found an ironmonger’s on Gorgie Road, and had been directed to a specialist shop where he’d been sold a radiator key. Now he looked around, found the house he was looking for, and walked up to the front door.

‘Afternoon sir,’ said Siobhan Clarke, answering his knock. ‘How are you feeling?’

Rebus pushed his way inside. The house wasn’t much warmer than outside. In the living room, Brian Holmes was flipping through a collection of CDs.

‘Anything?’ Rebus asked.

Holmes stood up. ‘There are a few newspapers with items about the Kennedy case. Probably gave them the idea. No sign she’s ever been here. Pretty unlikely she’d run about with dossers like those two. She’s a Gillespie’s girl; Willie and Dixie were strictly comprehensive.’

‘Looks like a straightforward hoax, sir,’ Clarke agreed.

Rebus was looking around. He turned to Clarke. ‘Say you’re a well brought-up wee lassie, good school, nice lifestyle. Say you want to run away from home and just disappear for a while, maybe for ever. Would you take up with people your own class, or would you head downmarket, where nobody’d know you and nobody’d care?’

‘Down to guys like Willie and Dixie you mean?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m only speculating. If you were to ask me, I’d say she’s done what every runner from Scotland does — gone to London.’

‘God help her,’ Holmes said quietly.

‘So, have you finished looking around?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then don’t let me stop you. In fact, plug that electric fire in and I might even lend a hand.’

Brian Holmes searched in his pockets for coins for the electric meter, then they got to work.

There were two bedrooms, one tidy, the bed made, the other a mess. The tidy room belonged to Willie Coyle, as a letter from the DSS lying by the bed confirmed. There were books on a bookshelf, most of them brand new. Rebus wondered which bookshop had been losing stock recently. He pulled out something called Trainspotting, and saw that there were some sheets of paper hidden behind the row of books. The sheets were stapled at one corner, professionally word-processed with charts and graphs. They seemed to comprise a business report, a plan of some kind.

Holmes looked over his superior’s shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me Willie was an entrepreneur?’

Rebus shrugged, but rolled the report up and put it in his pocket.

‘In here!’ Siobhan Clarke called. By the time they reached her, she was pulling out her haul from beneath Dixie Taylor’s bed. Three disposable syringes, still in their wrappers, a candle burnt to a nub, and a dessert spoon blackened on its bottom.

‘No sign of any skag,’ she said, standing up and straightening her hair.

‘I’ll check beneath the other bed,’ Holmes said.

Rebus was smiling. ‘“Skag”?’ he said. ‘What sort of books have you been reading?’ Then his face turned serious. ‘Better call for backup, give this place a thorough going over.’

‘Right, sir.’

When Rebus was alone in the room, he examined the syringes. There was a fine layer of dust on the packets, and little balls of fluff lay in the spoon. Dixie obviously hadn’t used his works in some time. Rebus went to the bathroom, checking for Methodone or whatever the doctors gave you these days to wean you off. But he found only flu powders, paracetamol, mouthwash. He checked the mail again, but found nothing from any hospital or rehab centre.

Then he phoned Professor Gates and asked about the blood samples.

‘I haven’t had the results yet. Is there a problem?’

‘Possible heroin use,’ Rebus said. ‘At least by one of them.’

‘I could check the bodies again. I wasn’t really looking for puncture marks.’

‘Would you find them if they were there?’

‘Well, as you saw yourself, the bodies aren’t exactly pristine, and IV users are good at hiding their wounds. They’ll inject into the tongue, the penis — ’

‘Well, see what you can do, Professor.’ Rebus put down the phone. He suddenly didn’t feel comfortable indoors, so went to get some air. He lasted thirty seconds outside, then went next door and pushed the bell. A middle-aged woman opened the door, and Rebus started to show her his ID.

‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘It’s a crying shame, those poor wee lads. Come in, come in.’

Her name was Mrs Tweedie, and she kept a warm house. Rebus sat down on the sofa and rubbed his hands, getting some feeling back into them while avoiding the burn on his palm.

‘Did you know them well, Mrs Tweedie?’

She watched him take out his notebook and pen. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked.

‘Not at all, but I thought I might make us a cup of tea first. Is that all right?’

That was just fine with John Rebus.

He sat there for over half an hour. The room was so hot he thought he might nod off, but what Mrs Tweedie had to say brought him wide awake.

‘Nice lads, the pair of them. Helped me home with my shopping once, and wouldn’t stop for a cup of tea.’

‘You saw them often?’

‘Well, I saw them coming and going.’

‘Did they keep regular hours? I mean, were they active at night?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not late to bed. They sometimes played their music a bit loud, but all I did was turn up the telly. If they were having a party, they always warned us in advance.’

Rebus brought out the Kirstie photograph. ‘Have you seen this girl before, Mrs Tweedie?’

‘Gracious, yes!’

‘Oh?’

‘I saw her in the Daily Record.’

Rebus felt his hopes sink. ‘But never round here?’

‘No, never. I saw their landlord often though.’

Rebus frowned. ‘I thought these houses were council-owned?’