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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 thetelly. 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?’
    Mrs Tweedie nodded. ‘So they are.’
    Rebus started to get it. ‘But it’s not Willie’s and Dixie’s names in the rent book?’
    ‘They explained to me that they were … er, sub-something.’
    ‘Sub-letting?’
    ‘Aye, that’s it. From the lad who had the house before them.’
    ‘And what’s his name, Mrs Tweedie?’
    ‘Well, his first name’s Paul. I don’t know his second. Nice young lad, always smartly dressed. Only thing I didn’t like, he wore one of those …’ She tugged her ear and made a face. ‘Doesn’t look at all right on a man.’
    ‘Paul Duggan?’ Rebus suggested.
    She tried the name out. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘you could be right.’
    As Rebus drove out on to Gorgie Road he had a song in his head. It was an old Neil Young number, ‘The Needle and the Damage Done’. He stopped the car in front of the jail to collect his thoughts. An access road ran from Gorgie Road up to the gatehouse, the tall fence, and the solid building behind with its massive door and large clock. Though not yet five o’clock, it was dark, but the prison was well lit.Officially it was HM Prison Edinburgh; but everyone knew it as Saughton Jail. The main building looked like a Victorian workhouse.
    They’d have ended up in jail, he thought to himself. They knew even a hoax kidnapping was a serious offence.
    Willie Coyle, the taller, the fair-haired of the two. Rebus was imagining what had gone through Willie’s mind in those final seconds before he took the plunge. Dixie and he would go to jail. They’d almost certainly be separated: different