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eventually bought a crippling mortgage which some people called a house. It was a nice house, too. He knew this because his wife told him it was. Told him continually. She couldn’t understand why he spent so little time there. After all, as she told him, it was his home too.
    Home. To McCall’s wife, it was a palace. ‘Home’ didn’t quite cover it. And the two children, son and daughter, had been brought up to tiptoe through the interior, not leaving crumbs or fingerprints, no mess, no breakages. McCall, who had lived a bruising childhood with his brother Tommy, thought it unnatural. His children had grown up in fear and in a swaddling of love - a bad combination. Now Craig was fourteen, Isabel eleven. Both were shy, introspective, maybe even a bit strange. Bang had gone McCall’s dream of a professional footballer for a son, an actress for a daughter. Craig played chess a lot, but no physical sports. (He had won a small plaque at school after one tournament. McCall had tried to learn to play after that, but had failed.) Isabel liked knitting. They sat in the too-perfect living room created by their mother, and were almost silent. The clack-clack of needles; the soft movement of chess pieces.
    Christ, was it any wonder he kept away?
    So here he was in Pilmuir, not checking on anything exactly, just walking. Taking some air. From his own ultra-modern estate, all detached shoeboxes and Volvos, he had to cross some waste ground, avoid the traffic on a busy arterial road, pass a school playing-field and manoeuvre between some factory units to find himself in Pilmuir. But it was worth the effort. He knew this place; knew the minds that festered here.
    He was one of them, after all.
    ‘Hello, Tony.’
    He swirled, not recognising the voice, expecting hassle. John Rebus stood there, smiling at him, hands in pockets.
    ‘John! Christ, you made me jump.’
    ‘Sorry. Stroke of luck bumping into you though.’ Rebus checked around them, as though looking for someone. ‘I tried phoning, but they said it was your day off.’
    ‘Aye, that’s right.’
    ‘So what are you doing here?’
    ‘Just walking. We live over that way.’ He jerked his head towards the south-west. ‘It’s not far. Besides, this is my patch, don’t forget. Got to keep an eye on the boys and girls.’
    ‘That’s why I wanted to speak to you actually.’
    ‘Oh?’
    Rebus had begun to walk along the pavement, and McCall, still rattled by his sudden appearance, followed.
    ‘Yes,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I wanted to ask if you know someone, a friend of the deceased’s. The name is Charlie.’
    ‘That’s all? Charlie?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘What does he look like?’
    Rebus shrugged again. ‘I’ve no idea, Tony. It was Ronnie’s girlfriend Tracy who told me about him.’
    ‘Ronnie? Tracy?’ McCall’s eyebrows met. ‘Who the hell are they?’
    ‘Ronnie is the deceased. That junkie we found on the estate.’
    Everything was suddenly clear in McCall’s mind. He nodded slowly. ‘You work quickly,’ he said.
    ‘The quicker the better. Ronnie’s girlfriend told me an interesting story.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘She said Ronnie was murdered.’ Rebus kept on walking, but McCall had stopped.
    ‘Wait a minute!’ He caught Rebus up. ‘Murdered? Come on, John, you saw the guy.’
    ‘True. With a needle’s worth of rat poison scuppering his veins.’
    McCall whistled softly. ‘Jesus.’
    ‘Quite,’ said Rebus. ‘And now I need to talk to Charlie. He’s young, could be a bit scared, and interested in the occult.’
    McCall sorted through a few mental files. ‘I suppose there are one or two places we could try looking,’ he said at last. ‘But it’d be a slog. The concept of neighbourhood policing hasn’t quite stretched this far yet.’
    ‘You’re saying we won’t be made very welcome?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    ‘Well, just give me the addresses and point me in the right direction. It’s your day off after all.’
    McCall looked