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each then,’ said Rebus, resigned to an early death. ‘And another half of eighty-shillings.’
    He was finishing this second drink when the bar door shuddered open and an instantly recognisable figure entered, his hand signalling for refreshment before he was even halfway through the door. He saw Rebus, smiled, and came to join him on one of the high stools.
    ‘Hello, John.’
    ‘Afternoon, Tony.’
    Inspector Anthony McCall tried to balance his prodigious bulk on the tiny circumference of the bar stool, thought better of it, and stood instead, one shoe on the foot-rail, and both elbows on the freshly wiped surface of the bar. He stared hungrily at Rebus.
    ‘Give us one of your crisps.’
    When the packet was offered, he pulled out a handful and stuffed them into his mouth.
    ‘Where were you this morning then?’ said Rebus. ‘I’d to take one of your calls.’
    ‘The one at Pilmuir? Ach, sorry about that, John. Heavy night last night. I had a bit of a hangover this morning.’ A pint of murky beer was placed in front of him. ‘Hair of the dog,’ he said, and took four slow gulps, reducing it to a quarter of its former size.
    ‘Well, I’d nothing better to do anyway,’ said Rebus, sipping at his own beer. ‘Christ, those houses down there are a mess though.’
    McCall nodded thoughtfully. ‘It wasn’t always like that, John. I was born there.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Well, to be exact, I was born on the estate that was there before this one. It was so bad, so they said, that they levelled it and built Pilmuir instead. Bloody hell on earth it is now.’
    ‘Funny you should say that,’ said Rebus. ‘One of the young uniformed kids thought there might be some kind of occult tie-in.’ McCall looked up from his drink. ‘There was a black-magic painting on the wall,’ Rebus explained. ‘And candles on the floor.’
    ‘Like a sacrifice?’ McCall offered, chuckling. ‘My wife’s dead keen on all those horror films. Gets them out of the video library. I think she sits watching them all day when I’m out.’
    ‘I suppose it must go on, devil worship, witchcraft. It can’t all be in the imagination of the Sunday newspaper editors.’
    ‘I know how you might find out.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘The university,’ said McCall. Rebus frowned, disbelieving. ‘I’m serious. They’ve got some kind of department that studies ghosts and all that sort of thing. Set up with money from some dead writer.’ McCall shook his head. ‘Incredible what people will do.’
    Rebus was nodding. ‘I did read about that, now you mention it. Arthur Koestler’s money, wasn’t it?’
    McCall shrugged.
    ‘Arthur Daley’s more my style,’ he said, emptying his glass.

    Rebus was studying the pile of paperwork on his desk when the telephone rang.
    ‘DI Rebus.’
    ‘They said you were the man to talk to.’ The voice was young, female, full of unfocussed suspicion.
    ‘They were probably right. What can I do for you, miss ...?’
    ‘Tracy....’ The voice fell to a whisper on the last syllable of the name. She had already been tricked into revealing herself. ‘Never mind who I am!’ She had become immediately hysterical, but calmed just as quickly. ‘I’m phoning about that squat in Pilmuir, the one where they found....’ The voice trailed off again.
    ‘Oh yes.’ Rebus sat up and began to take notice. ‘Was it you who phoned the first time?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘To tell us that someone had died there.’
    ‘Yes, it was me. Poor Ronnie....’
    ‘Ronnie being the deceased?’ Rebus scribbled the name onto the back of one of the files from his in-tray. Beside it he wrote ‘Tracy - caller’.
    ‘Yes.’ Her voice had broken again, near to tears this time.

    ‘Can you give me a surname for Ronnie?’
    ‘No.’ She paused. ‘I never knew it. I’m not sure Ronnie was even his real name. Hardly anyone uses their real name.’
    ‘Tracy, I’d like to talk to you about Ronnie. We can do it over the telephone, but I’d rather