Authors: Ian Rankin
For all its trappings, the place had an air of impermanence. There were sleeping bags laid out on the living-room floor, as though ready for any stray waifs and passers-by. Tracy went to one of the settees and sat down, wrapping her hands around her knees.
‘Is this your place, Tracy?’ said Rebus, knowing the answer.
‘No. It’s Charlie’s.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘I only found out today. He moves around all the time. It wasn’t easy tracking him down.’
‘It didn’t take you long.’ She shrugged her shoulders.
‘What happened?’
‘I just wanted to talk to him.’
‘About Ronnie?’ McCall watched Rebus as he said this. McCall was concentrating now, aware that Rebus was trying to fill him in on the situation while at the same time questioning Tracy. Tracy nodded.
‘Stupid, maybe, but I needed to talk to someone.’
‘And?’
‘And we got into an argument. He started it. Told me I was the cause of Ronnie’s death.’ She looked up at them; not pleadingly, but just to show that she was sincere. ‘It’s not true. But Charlie said I should have looked after Ronnie, stopped him taking the stuff, got him away from Pilmuir. How could I have done that? He wouldn’t have listened to me. I thought he knew what he was doing. Nobody could tell him otherwise.’
‘Is that what you told Charlie?’
She smiled. ‘No. I only thought of it just now. That’s what always happens, isn’t it? You only think of the clever comeback after the argument’s finished.’
‘I know what you mean, love,’ said McCall.
‘So you started a slanging match -’
‘I never started the slanging match!’ she roared at Rebus.
‘Okay,’ he said quietly, ‘Charlie started shouting at you, and you shouted back, then he hit you. Yes?’
‘Yes.’ She seemed subdued.
‘And maybe,’ Rebus prompted, ‘you hit him back?’
‘I gave as good as I got.’
‘That’s my girl,’ said McCall. He was touring the room, turning up cushions on the settees, opening old magazines, crouching to pat each sleeping bag.
‘Don’t patronise me, you bastard,’ said Tracy.
McCall paused, looked up, surprised. Then smiled, and patted the next sleeping bag along. ‘Ah-ha,’ he said, lifting the sleeping bag and shaking it. A small polythene bag fell out onto the floor. He picked it up, satisfied. ‘A little bit of blaw,’ he said. ‘Makes a house into a home, eh?’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Tracy, looking at the bag.
‘We believe you,’ said Rebus. ‘Charlie did a runner then?’
‘Yes. The neighbours must’ve phoned for the pigs ... I mean, the police.’ She averted her eyes from them.
‘We’ve been called worse,’ said McCall, ‘haven’t we, John?’
‘That’s for sure. So the constables arrived at one door, and Charlie left by another, right?’
‘Out of the back door, yes.’
‘Well,’ said Rebus, ‘while we’re here we might as well have a look at his room, if such a thing exists.’
‘Good idea,’ said McCall, pocketing the polythene bag. ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’
There were books on economics, politics and history, as well as learned and not so learned tomes on demonism, devil worship and witchcraft. There was little fiction, and most of the books had been read thoroughly, with much underlining and pencilled marginalia. On the desk sat a half-completed essay, part of Charlie’s university course work no doubt. It seemed to be trying to link ‘magick’ to modern society, but was mostly, to Rebus’s eye, rambling nonsense.
‘Hello!’
This was shouted from downstairs, as the two constables started to climb the staircase.
‘Hello yourselves,’ McCall called back. Then he shook the contents of a large supermarket carrier bag onto the floor, so that pens, toy cars, cigarette papers, a wooden egg, a spool of cotton, a personal cassette player, a Swiss army knife, and a camera fell out. McCall stooped to pick up the camera between thumb and middle finger. Nice model, thirty-five-millimetre SLR. Good make. He gestured with it towards Rebus, who took it from him, having first produced a handkerchief from his pocket, with which he held it. Rebus turned towards Tracy who was standing against the door with her arms folded. She nodded back at him.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s Ronnie’s camera.’
The constables were at the top of the stairs now. Rebus accepted McCall’s offer of the supermarket carrier and dropped the camera into it, careful not to mess up any prints.
‘Todd,’ he said to the constable he knew, ‘take this young lady down to Great London Road station.’ Tracy’s mouth opened. ‘It’s for your own protection,’ Rebus said. ‘Go on with them. I’ll see you later, soon as I can.’
She still seemed ready to voice a complaint, but thought better of it, nodded and turned, leaving the room. Rebus listened as she went downstairs, accompanied by the officers. McCall was still searching, though without real concern. Two finds were quite enough to be going on with.
‘No smoke without fire,’ he said.
‘I had lunch with Tommy today,’ said Rebus.
‘My brother Tommy?’ McCall looked up. Rebus nodded. ‘Then that’s one up to you. He’s never taken me to lunch these past fifteen years.’
‘We were at The Eyrie.’ Now McCall whistled. ‘To do with Watson’s anti-drugs campaign.’
‘Yes, Tommy’s shelling out for it, isn’t he? Ach, I shouldn’t be hard on him. He’s done me a few favours in his time.’
‘He had a few too many.’
McCall laughed gently. ‘He hasn’t changed then. Still, he can afford it. That transport company of his, it runs itself. He used to be there twenty-four hours a day, fifty-two weeks of the year. Nowadays, he can take off as long as he likes. His accountant once told him to take a year off. Can you imagine that? For tax purposes. If only we had those kinds of problem, eh, John?’
‘You’re right there, Tony.’ Rebus was still holding the supermarket bag. McCall nodded towards it.
‘Does this tie it up?’
‘It makes things a bit clearer,’ said Rebus. ‘I might get it checked for prints.’
‘I can tell you what you’ll find,’ said McCall. ‘The deceased’s and this guy Charlie’s.’
‘You’re forgetting someone.’
‘Who?’
‘You, Tony. You picked the camera up with your fingers, remember?’
‘Ah, sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Anyway, it’s something, isn’t it? Something to celebrate, I mean. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.’
As they left the room, one pillar of books finally gave way, slewing down across the floor like dominoes waiting to be shuffled. Rebus opened the door again to look in.
‘Ghosts,’ said McCall. ‘That’s all. Just ghosts.’
He had a harassed look on his face, but had left the camera through in the back bedroom or box room or whichever room of the smallish flat served as his studio. He stuck out a hand, and Holmes shook it.
‘Detective Constable Holmes,’ he announced. Hutton nodded, took a cigarette from the packet on his secretary’s desk and lit it. She frowned openly at this as she sat down again, smoothing her tight skirt beneath her. Hutton had not yet looked at Holmes. His eyes seemed to be mirroring some distraction in his mind. He went to the window, looked out, arched his neck to blow a plume of smoke towards the high, dark ceiling, then let his head go limp, leaning against the wall.
‘Get me a coffee, Christine.’ His eyes met Holmes’s momentarily. ‘Do you want one?’ Holmes shook his head.
‘Sure?’ said Christine kindly, rising out of her seat again.
‘Okay then. Thanks.’
With a smile she left the room, off to the kitchen or darkroom to fill a kettle.
‘So,’ said Hutton. ‘What can I do for you?’
That was another thing about the man. His voice was high, not shrill or girlish, just high. And slightly rasping, as though he had damaged his vocal cords at some point in his youth and they had never recovered.
‘Mr Hutton?’ Holmes needed to be sure. Hutton nodded.
‘Jimmy Hutton, professional photographer, at your service. You’re getting married and you want me to do you a discount?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘A portrait then. Girlfriend perhaps? Mum and dad?’
‘No, this is business, I’m afraid. My business, that is.’
‘But no new business for me, right?’ Hutton smiled, chanced another glance towards Holmes, drew on his cigarette again. ‘I could do a portrait of you, you know. Nice strong chin, decent cheekbones. With the proper lighting....’
‘No, thanks. I hate having my picture taken.’
‘I’m not talking about pictures.’ Hutton was moving now, circling the desk. ‘I’m talking about art.’
‘That’s why I came here actually.’
‘What?’
‘Art. I was impressed by some of your photos I saw in a newspaper. I was wondering whether you might be able to help me.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a missing person.’ Holmes was not a great liar. His ears tingled when he told a real whopper. Not a great liar, but a good one. ‘A young man called Ronnie McGrath.’
‘Name doesn’t mean anything.’
‘He wanted to be a photographer, that’s why I was wondering.’
‘Wondering what?’
‘If he’d ever come to you. You know, asking advice, that sort of thing. You’re an established name, after all.’ It was almost too blatant. Holmes could sense it: could sense Hutton just about realising what the game was. But vanity won in the end.
‘Well,’ the photographer said, leaning against the desk, folding his arms, crossing his legs, sure of himself. ‘What did he look like, this Ronnie?’
‘Tallish, short brown hair. Liked to do studies. You know the sort of thing, the Castle, Calton Hill....’
‘Are you a photographer yourself, Inspector?’
‘I’m only a constable.’ Holmes smiled, pleased by the error. Then caught himself: what if Hutton were trying to play the vanity game with him? ‘And no, I’ve never really done much photography. Holiday snaps, that sort of thing.’
‘Sugar?’ Christine put her head around the door, smiling at Holmes again.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Just milk.’
‘Put a drop of whisky in mine,’ said Hutton. ‘There’s a love.’ He winked towards the door as it closed again. ‘Sounds familiar, I have to admit. Ronnie.... Studies of the Castle. Yes, yes. I do remember some young guy coming in, bloody pest he was. I was doing a portfolio, some long-term stuff. Mind had to be one hundred percent on the job. He was always coming round, asking to see me, wanting to show me his work.’ Hutton raised his hands apologetically. ‘I mean, we were all young once. I wish I could have helped him. But I didn’t have the time, not right then.’
‘You didn’t look at his work?’
‘No. No time, as I say. He stopped coming by after a few weeks.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Few months. Three or four.’
The secretary appeared with their coffees. Holmes could smell the whisky wafting out of Hutton’s mug, and was jealous and repelled in equal measure. Still, the interview was going well enough. Time for a side road.
‘Thanks, Christine,’ he said, seeming to please her with the familiarity. She sat down, not drinking herself, and lit a cigarette. He thought for a moment of reaching out to light it for her, but held back.
‘Look,’ said Hutton. ‘I’d like to be of assistance, but....’
‘You’re a busy man.’ Holmes nodded agreement. ‘I really do appreciate your giving me any time at all. Anyway, that just about wraps it up.’ He took a scalding mouthful of coffee, but dared not spit it back into the mug, so swallowed hard instead.
‘Right,’ said Hutton, rising from the edge of the desk.
‘Oh,’ said Holmes. ‘Just one thing. Curiosity really, but is there any chance I could have a peek at your studio? I’ve never been in a proper studio before.’
Hutton looked at Christine, who muffled a smile behind her fingers as she pretended to puff on her cigarette.
‘Sure,’ he said, smiling himself. ‘Why not? Come on.’