be doing my job if they all left here laughing and holding their sides?’
The sergeant smiled. ‘I suppose not. So what can I do for you?’
‘The Pilmuir overdose. I’ve got a name for the corpse. Ronnie McGrath. Originally from Stirling. Let’s see if we can find his parents, eh?’
The sergeant scribbled the name onto a pad. ‘I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear how their son is doing in the big city.’
‘Yes,’ said Rebus, staring towards the front door of the police station. ‘I’m sure they will.’
John Rebus’s flat was his castle. Once through the door, he would pull up the drawbridge and let his mind go blank, emptying himself of the world for as long as he could. He would pour himself a drink, put some tenor sax music on the cassette machine, and pick up a book. Many weeks ago, in a crazed state of righteousness, he had put up shelves along one wall of the living room, intending his sprawling collection of books to rest there. But somehow they managed to crawl across the floor, getting under his feet, so that he used them like stepping-stones into the hallway and the bedroom.
He walked across them now, on his way to the bay window where he pulled down the dusty venetian blinds. The slats he left open, so that strawberry slants of evening light came pouring through, reminding him of the interview room....
No, no, no, that wouldn’t do. He was being sucked back into work again. He had to clear his mind, find some book which would pull him into its little universe, far away from the sights and smells of Edinburgh. He stepped firmly on the likes of Chekhov, Heller, Rimbaud and Kerouac as he made his way to the kitchen, seeking out a bottle of wine.
There were two cardboard boxes beneath the kitchen worktop, taking up the space where the washing machine had once been. Rhona had taken the washing machine, which was fair enough. He called the resultant space his wine cellar, and now and then would order a mixed case from a good little shop around the corner from his flat. He put a hand into one of the boxes and brought out something called Château Potensac. Yes, he’d had a bottle of this before. It would do.
He poured a third of the bottle into a large glass and returned to the living room, plucking one of the books from the floor as he went. He was seated in his armchair before he looked at its cover: The Naked Lunch. No, bad choice. He threw the book down again and groped for another. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Fair enough, he’d been meaning to reread it for ages, and it was blissfully short. He took a mouthful of wine, sloshed it around before swallowing, and opened the book.
With the timing of a stage-play, there was a rapping at the front door. The noise Rebus made was somewhere between a sigh and a roar. He balanced the book, its covers open, on the arm of the chair, and rose to his feet. Probably it was Mrs Cochrane from downstairs, telling him that it was his turn to wash the communal stairwell. She would have the large, imperative card with her: IT IS YOUR TURN TO WASH THE STAIRS. Why she couldn’t just hang it on his door like everyone else seemed to do ...?
He tried to arrange a neighbourly smile on his face as he opened the door, but the actor in him had left for the evening. So there was something not unlike pain rippling his lips as he stared at the visitor on his doormat.
It was Tracy.
Her face was red, and there were tears in her eyes, but the redness was not from crying. She looked exhausted, her hair cloying with sweat.
‘Can I come in?’ There was an all too visible effort in her voice. Rebus hadn’t the heart to say no. He pushed the door open wide and she stumbled in past him, walking straight through to the living room as though she’d been here a hundred times. Rebus checked that the stairwell was empty of inquisitive neighbours, then closed the door. He was tingling, not a pleasant feeling: he didn’t like people visiting him here.
Especially, he didn’t
The sergeant smiled. ‘I suppose not. So what can I do for you?’
‘The Pilmuir overdose. I’ve got a name for the corpse. Ronnie McGrath. Originally from Stirling. Let’s see if we can find his parents, eh?’
The sergeant scribbled the name onto a pad. ‘I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear how their son is doing in the big city.’
‘Yes,’ said Rebus, staring towards the front door of the police station. ‘I’m sure they will.’
John Rebus’s flat was his castle. Once through the door, he would pull up the drawbridge and let his mind go blank, emptying himself of the world for as long as he could. He would pour himself a drink, put some tenor sax music on the cassette machine, and pick up a book. Many weeks ago, in a crazed state of righteousness, he had put up shelves along one wall of the living room, intending his sprawling collection of books to rest there. But somehow they managed to crawl across the floor, getting under his feet, so that he used them like stepping-stones into the hallway and the bedroom.
He walked across them now, on his way to the bay window where he pulled down the dusty venetian blinds. The slats he left open, so that strawberry slants of evening light came pouring through, reminding him of the interview room....
No, no, no, that wouldn’t do. He was being sucked back into work again. He had to clear his mind, find some book which would pull him into its little universe, far away from the sights and smells of Edinburgh. He stepped firmly on the likes of Chekhov, Heller, Rimbaud and Kerouac as he made his way to the kitchen, seeking out a bottle of wine.
There were two cardboard boxes beneath the kitchen worktop, taking up the space where the washing machine had once been. Rhona had taken the washing machine, which was fair enough. He called the resultant space his wine cellar, and now and then would order a mixed case from a good little shop around the corner from his flat. He put a hand into one of the boxes and brought out something called Château Potensac. Yes, he’d had a bottle of this before. It would do.
He poured a third of the bottle into a large glass and returned to the living room, plucking one of the books from the floor as he went. He was seated in his armchair before he looked at its cover: The Naked Lunch. No, bad choice. He threw the book down again and groped for another. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Fair enough, he’d been meaning to reread it for ages, and it was blissfully short. He took a mouthful of wine, sloshed it around before swallowing, and opened the book.
With the timing of a stage-play, there was a rapping at the front door. The noise Rebus made was somewhere between a sigh and a roar. He balanced the book, its covers open, on the arm of the chair, and rose to his feet. Probably it was Mrs Cochrane from downstairs, telling him that it was his turn to wash the communal stairwell. She would have the large, imperative card with her: IT IS YOUR TURN TO WASH THE STAIRS. Why she couldn’t just hang it on his door like everyone else seemed to do ...?
He tried to arrange a neighbourly smile on his face as he opened the door, but the actor in him had left for the evening. So there was something not unlike pain rippling his lips as he stared at the visitor on his doormat.
It was Tracy.
Her face was red, and there were tears in her eyes, but the redness was not from crying. She looked exhausted, her hair cloying with sweat.
‘Can I come in?’ There was an all too visible effort in her voice. Rebus hadn’t the heart to say no. He pushed the door open wide and she stumbled in past him, walking straight through to the living room as though she’d been here a hundred times. Rebus checked that the stairwell was empty of inquisitive neighbours, then closed the door. He was tingling, not a pleasant feeling: he didn’t like people visiting him here.
Especially, he didn’t
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