Dead Souls by Ian Rankin Page A

Rebus looked through the newspapers, but he didn’t find anything to interest him.
    He headed down to Leith police station, where Jim Margolies had been stationed. He’d told the Farmer he was looking for a connection between Rough’s reappearance and Jim’s death, but he wasn’t particularly confident of finding one. Still, he really did want to know why Jim had done it, had done something Rebus had thought about doing more than once – taking the high walk. He was met in Leith by a wary Detective Inspector Bobby Hogan.
    ‘I know I owe you a favour or two, John,’ Hogan began. ‘But do you mind telling me what it’s all about? Margolies was a good man, we’re missing him badly.’
    They were walking through the station, making for CID. Hogan was a couple of years younger than Rebus, but had been on the force for longer. He could take retirement any time he wanted, but Rebus doubted the man would ever want it.
    ‘I knew him, too,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I’m probably just asking myself the same question all of you have been asking.’
    ‘You mean why?’
    Rebus nodded. ‘He was headed for the top, Bobby. Everyone knew it.’
    ‘Maybe he got vertigo.’ Hogan shook his head. ‘The notes aren’t going to tell you anything, John.’
    They had stopped outside an interview room.
    ‘I just need to see them, Bobby.’
    Hogan stared at him, then nodded slowly. ‘This makes us even, pal.’
    Rebus touched him on the shoulder, walked into the room. The manila file was sitting on the otherwise empty desk. There were two chairs in the room.
    ‘Thought you’d like some privacy,’ Hogan said. ‘Look, if anyone wonders …’
    ‘My lips are sealed, Bobby.’ Rebus was already sitting down. He examined the folder. ‘This won’t take long.’
    Hogan fetched a cup of coffee, then left him to it. It took Rebus precisely twenty minutes to sift through everything: initial report and back-up, plus Jim Margolies’ history. Twenty minutes wasn’t long for a CV. Of course, there was little about his home life. Speculation was for after-work drinks, for cigarette breaks and coffee-machine meetings. The bare facts, set down between double margins, gave no clues at all. His father was a doctor, now retired. Comfortable upbringing. The sister who’d committed suicide in her teens … Rebus wondered if his sister’s death had been at the back of Jim Margolies’ mind all these years. There was no mention of Darren Rough, no mention of Margolies’ short time at St Leonard’s. His last night on earth, Jim had been out to dinner at some friends’ house. Nothing out of the ordinary. But afterwards, in the middle of the night, he’d slipped from his bed, got dressed again, and gone walking in the rain. All the way to Holyrood Park …
    ‘Anything?’ Bobby Hogan asked.
    ‘Not a sausage,’ Rebus admitted, closing the file.
    Walking in the rain … A long walk, from The Grange to Salisbury Crags. No one had come forward to say they’d seen him. Inquiries had been made, cabbies questioned. Perfunctory for the most part: you didn’t want to linger over a suicide. Sometimes you could find out things that were better left undisturbed.
    Rebus drove back into town, parked in the car park behind St Leonard’s and went into the station. Heknocked on Farmer Watson’s door, obeyed the command to enter. Watson looked like the day had started badly.
    ‘Where have you been?’
    ‘I had a bit of business down at D Division, looking at Jim Margolies’ file.’ Rebus watched the Farmer pace behind his desk. He cradled a mug of coffee in both hands. ‘Did you speak to Andy Davies, sir?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Andy Davies. Darren Rough’s social worker.’
    The Farmer nodded.
    ‘And, sir?’
    ‘And he told me I’d have to speak to his boss.’
    ‘What did his boss say?’
    The Farmer swung round. ‘Christ, John, give me time, will you? I’ve got more to deal with than your little …’ He exhaled, his shoulders slumping. Then he