Rebus knew that the police weren’t the most welcome guests, so he phoned ahead first. He knew the person who ran the centre behind Waverley Station. Rebus had done him a favour once, bringing back a heroin addict who’d suffered sudden cold turkey on Nicolson Street. Some officers would have lifted the hapless wretch and taken him to the station for a knee in the groin and a long sweat. But Rebus had taken him where he wanted to go: the drop-in centre at Waverley. Turned out he was undergoing withdrawal, doing it all on his own. ‘How is he?’ Rebus asked Fraser Leitch, the centre’s manager and guiding light. Leitch was sitting in his mouldering office, surrounded by the usual mounds of paperwork. The shelves behind his desk were bowed under the weight of files, document boxes, magazines and books. Fraser Leitch scratched his grey-flecked beard. ‘He was doing all right, last I heard. Retrained as a chippie and actually found a job. See, Inspector, sometimes the system works.’ ‘Or he’s the exception that proves the rule.’ ‘The eternal pessimist.’ Leitch got up and crouched in front of a tray on the floor.
