Ian Rankin - Hide And Seek

‘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.’