Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

‘All I know about him is that he didn’t want statues in any of his churches, and he wasn’t keen on women.’

‘He also didn’t want people having fun. There were ducking stools and witch trials waiting for the guilty...’ Rebus paused. ‘So he did have his good points.’

Rebus didn’t know where they were walking to. Siobhan seemed all twitching energy, something needing to be grounded somehow. She’d turned back and was walking towards one of the higher tower blocks.

‘Shall we?’ she said, making to pull open the door. But it was locked.

‘A recent addition,’ Rebus explained. ‘Security cameras beside the lifts, too. Trying to keep out the barbarians.’

‘Cameras?’ Siobhan watched Rebus punch a four-figure code into the door’s keypad. He was shaking his head at her question.

‘Turns out they’re never switched on. Council couldn’t afford the security man to keep charge of them.’ He pulled the door open. There were two lifts in the lobby. Both were working, so maybe the keypad was doing its job.

‘Top floor,’ Siobhan said as they entered the left-hand lift. Rebus hit the button and the doors shuddered together.

‘Now, about that story...’ Rebus said. So she told him. It didn’t take long. By the time she finished, they were on one of the walkways, leaning against its low wall. The wind was whistling and gusting around them. There were views to the north and east, glimpses of Corstorphine Hill and Craiglockhart.

‘Look at all the space,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t they just build houses for everybody?’

‘What? And ruin the sense of community?’ Rebus twisted his body towards her, so she would know he was giving her his full attention. He didn’t even have a cigarette in his hand.

‘You want to bring Cruikshank in for questioning?’ he asked. ‘I could hold him down while you give him a good kicking.’

‘Old-fashioned policing, eh?’

‘I’ve always found the notion refreshing.’

‘Well, it won’t be necessary: I’ve already given him a doing... in here.’ She tapped her skull. ‘But thanks for the thought.’

Rebus shrugged, turning to stare out at the scenery. ‘You know she’ll turn up if she wants to?’

‘I know.’

‘She doesn’t qualify as a MisPer.’

‘And you’ve never done a favour for a friend?’

‘You’ve got a point,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Just don’t expect a result.’

‘Don’t worry.’ She pointed to the tower block diagonal to the one they were standing in. ‘Notice anything?’

‘Nothing I wouldn’t see torched for the price of a pint.’

‘Hardly any graffiti. I mean, compared to the other blocks.’

Rebus looked down towards ground level. It was true: the harled walls of this one block were cleaner than the others. ‘That’s Stevenson House. Maybe someone on the council has fond memories of Treasure Island . Next time one of us picks up a parking ticket, they’ll have the deposit on another batch of emulsion.’ The lift doors behind them slid open and two uniforms emerged, unenthusiastic and carrying clipboards.

‘At least this is the last floor,’ one of them grumbled. He noticed Rebus and Siobhan. ‘Do you live here?’ he asked, readying to add them to his clipboard tally.

Rebus caught Siobhan’s eye. ‘We must look more desperate than I thought.’ Then, to the uniform: ‘We’re CID, son.’

The other uniform snorted at his partner’s mistake. He was already knocking on the first door. Rebus could hear rising voices heading down the hallway towards it. The door flew open from within.

The man was already furious. His wife stood behind him, fists bunched. Recognising police officers, the man rolled his eyes. ‘Last bastard thing I need.’

‘Sir, if you’ll just calm down...’

Rebus could have told the young constable that this was not the way you dealt with nitroglycerine: you didn’t tell it what it was.

‘Calm? Easy for you to say, ya choob. It’s that bastard that got himself killed, am I right? People could be screaming blue murder out here, cars burning, junkies staggering all over the place... Only time we plank eyes on you lot’s when one of them starts wailing. Call that fair?’

‘They deserve what’s coming to them,’ his wife spat. She was dressed in grey jogging pants and matching hooded top. Not that she looked the sporty type: like the officers in front of her, she was wearing a kind of uniform.

‘Can I just remind you that someone’s been murdered?’ Blood had risen to the constable’s cheeks. They’d riled him, and now they’d know it. Rebus decided to step in.

‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ he said, showing his ID. ‘We’ve got a job to do here, simple as that, and we’d appreciate your cooperation.’

‘And what do we get out of it?’ The woman had drawn level with her husband, the pair of them more than filling the doorway. It was as if their own argument had never happened: they were a team now, shoulder to shoulder against the world.

‘A sense of civic responsibility,’ Rebus answered. ‘Doing your bit for the estate... Or maybe you’re not worried by the idea that there’s a murderer running around the place like he owns it.’

‘Whoever he is, he’s not after us, is he?’

‘He can do as many of them as he likes... scare them off,’ her husband agreed.

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ Siobhan muttered. Maybe she hadn’t meant them to hear, but they noticed her anyway.

‘And who the fuck are you?’ the man said.

‘She’s my fucking colleague,’ Rebus retorted. ‘Now look at me...’ He seemed suddenly larger, and the pair did look at him. ‘We do this the easy way or the hard — you choose.’

The man was sizing Rebus up. Eventually, his shoulders untensed a little. ‘We don’t know nothing,’ he said. ‘Satisfied?’

‘But you’re not sorry an innocent man is dead?’

The woman snorted. ‘Way he carried on, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner...’ Her voice trailed away as her husband’s glare hit home.

‘Stupid bitch,’ he said quietly. ‘Now we’re going to be here all night.’ Again he looked at Rebus.

‘Your choice,’ Rebus said. ‘Either in your living room, or down the station.’

Husband and wife decided as one. ‘Living room,’ they said.

Eventually the place grew crowded. The constables had been dismissed, but told to continue the door-to-doors and keep their mouths shut about what had happened.

‘Which probably means the whole station will know before we get back,’ Shug Davidson had conceded. He’d taken over the questioning, Wylie and Reynolds playing supporting roles. Rebus had taken Davidson to one side.

‘Make sure Rat-Arse gets to talk to them.’ Davidson’s eyes had sought an explanation. ‘Let’s just say they might open up to him. I think they share certain social and political opinions. Rat-Arse makes it less “us” and “them”.’

Davidson had nodded, and so far it had worked. Almost everything the pair said, Reynolds nodded his understanding.

‘It’s a culture-conflict sort of thing,’ he would agree. Or: ‘I think we all see your point.’

The room was claustrophobic. Rebus doubted the windows had ever been opened. They were double-glazed, but condensation had gathered between the panes, leaving trails like tear-stains. There was an electric fire on. The bulbs controlling its coal effect had long since blown, making the room seem even gloomier. Three pieces of furniture filled the place: a huge brown sofa flanked by vast brown armchairs. These last were where husband and wife made themselves comfortable. There had been no offer of tea or coffee, and when Siobhan had mimed drinking from a cup, Rebus had shaken his head: no knowing what sort of health risks they’d be taking. For most of the interview, he had stood his ground by the wall cabinet, studying the contents of its shelves. Videotapes: romantic comedies for the lady; bawdy stand-up and football for the gentleman. Some of them were pirate copies, the sleeves not even trying to convince. There were a few paperback books, too: actors’ biographies and a volume about slimming which claimed to have ‘changed five million lives’. Five million: the population of Scotland, give or take. Rebus saw no sign that it had changed any lives in this room.