‘It’s a Glasgow number,’ he told the voice on the other end.

14

In the middle of the night, Stonehaven was only twenty minutes south of Aberdeen, especially with a maniac at the wheel.

‘He’ll still be dead when we get there, pal,’ Rebus told the driver.

And so he was, dead in a bed & breakfast bathroom, one arm over the side of the bath Marat-style. He’d slashed his wrists by the book – up and down rather than across. The water in the bath looked cold. Rebus didn’t get too close – the arm over the side had leaked blood all across the floor.

‘The landlady didn’t know who was in the bathroom,’ Lumsden explained. ‘She just knew whoever it was had been in there long enough. She got no answer, so went to fetch one of her “boys” – this place caters to oil-workers. She tells me she thought Mr Kane was an oil-worker. Anyway, one of her lodgers got the door open and they found this.’

‘Nobody saw or heard anything?’

‘Suicide tends to be a quiet affair. Follow me.’

They went along narrow passages and up two short flights of stairs to Tony El’s bedroom. It was fairly tidy. ‘The landlady vacuums and dusts twice a week, sheets and towels are changed twice a week too.’ There was a bottle of cheap whisky with the top unscrewed, about a fifth of the bottle left. An empty glass stood beside it. ‘Look over here.’

Rebus looked. On the dressing table sat a full set of works: syringe, spoon, cotton wool, lighter, and a tiny polythene bag of brown powder.

‘I hear heroin’s back in a big way,’ Lumsden said.

‘I didn’t see marks on his arms,’ Rebus said. Lumsden nodded that they were there, but Rebus went back to the bathroom to make sure. Yes, a couple of pinpricks on the inside left forearm. He went back to the bedroom. Lumsden was seated on the bed, flicking through a magazine.

‘He hadn’t been using long,’ Rebus said. ‘His arms are pretty clean. I didn’t see the knife.’

‘Look at this stuff,’ Lumsden said. He wanted to show Rebus the magazine. A woman with a plastic bag over her head was being entered from behind. ‘Some people have sick minds.’

Rebus took the magazine from him. It was called Snuff Babes. On the front inside page it stated that it was printed ‘with pride’ in the USA. It wasn’t just illegal; it was the hardest core Rebus had ever seen. Pages and pages of mock-up deaths with sex attached.

Lumsden had reached into his pocket, drew out an evidence bag. Inside was a blood-stained knife. But no ordinary knife: a Stanley.

‘I’m not so sure this was suicide,’ Rebus said quietly.

So then he had to explain his reasons: the visit to Uncle Joe, how Uncle Joe’s son came by his nickname, and the fact that Tony El used to be one of Uncle Joe’s henchmen.

‘The door was locked from the inside,’ Lumsden said.