Let It Bleed by Ian Rankin

that another joke?’
    Leitch sat down again. ‘I knew Dixie,’ he said. ‘I only met Willie a couple of times.’
    ‘Willie wasn’t a user?’
    ‘He probably toked up, maybe dropped some E.’
    ‘Pretty clean-living then? Were you surprised when you learned what they’d done?’
    ‘Surprised? I don’t know. How’s your coffee?’
    ‘Terrible.’
    ‘Terrible or not, it’s still twenty pence.’ Leitch pointed to a box on the desk. Rebus found a one-pound coin and dropped it in.
    ‘Keep the change.’
    ‘Giving a quid qualifies you as a patron.’ Leitch stuck his feet up on the edge of the desk, knees bent. He was wearing moccasins, their stitched seams coming undone. The bottoms of his denims were frayed too. He usually described himself as ‘just another old hippy’.
    ‘How’s the centre doing?’ Rebus asked.
    ‘We’re hanging on by the skin of our teeth.’
    ‘You get district council funding?’
    ‘Some.’ Leitch frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘What happens when the district council is replaced?’
    ‘We pray the new authority keeps up our funding.’
    Rebus nodded thoughtfully. ‘I was asking if you were surprised about Willie and Dixie.’
    Leitch thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose I was, except that it was a dafter stunt than I would have expected from them.’
    ‘Because Willie was smarter than that?’
    ‘He must have known they’d never get away with it. Dixie was a different proposition, crazy at times, a real heid-the-ba’, but Willie could keep him under control.’
    ‘Like Keitel and DeNiro in
Mean Streets
.’
    ‘That’s not a bad comparison. Dixie would do something daft, and Willie would slap him about the head. Dixie wouldn’t have taken it from anyone else. You realise a lot of what I’m telling you is second-hand? Like I said, I only met Willie a couple of times.’ He paused. ‘You were there, weren’t you?’
    ‘I was there,’ Rebus said quietly. He shifted in his chair. ‘They just … Willie put his arm around Dixie and then leaned back over the rail, and Dixie went with him. Therewas no resistance. They didn’t jump, they just slipped away.’
    ‘Christ.’ Leitch took his feet off the desk.
    ‘Why would they do that?’
    Leitch got up and walked around the desk. ‘I think you know the answer to that, or at least you have an inkling. They couldn’t go to jail.’
    ‘I know,’ Rebus said. Two people die rather than go to jail; another dies rather than be out. Rebus touched his mouth with a finger, feeling the pain, the pressure, almost enjoying it.
    Leitch landed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Have you seen a counsellor?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Don’t the police have counselling?’
    ‘Why would I want counselling?’
    Leitch squeezed Rebus’s shoulder and withdrew his hand. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said, going back to his chair. They sat in silence for a while.
    ‘Ever come across a guy called Paul Duggan?’ Rebus asked at last.
    ‘Name rings a bell. I can’t put a face to it. Maybe I’ve just heard him mentioned around the centre.’
    ‘He loaned Willie and Dixie his car. He was their landlord.’
    ‘Oh, right, yes. A couple of guys who sometimes come in are tenants of his.’
    ‘Any idea where they live?’
    ‘Abbey Hill, somewhere round there.’
    ‘What about the name Dalgety – does it mean anything to you?’ Leitch thought about it and shook his head. Rebus dug into his pocket and brought out the photo of Kirstie Kennedy. ‘I know it’s a long shot,’ he said, ‘but have you seen her around the centre?’
    ‘This is the Lord Provost’s daughter. A couple ofuniforms came asking about her just after she went missing.’
    ‘The photo’s a bit out of date, she’d look different now.’
    ‘Then bring me a more recent photo. Don’t tell me an out-of-date picture’s the best her parents can do?’
    Rebus thought about that as he left Fraser Leitch’s office. The man had a point. Then again, how many