Ian Rankin - Fleshmarket Close

What it boiled down to was: the victim had lived next door. No, they’d never spoken to him, except to tell him to shut up. Why? Because he’d yell the place down some nights. All hours, he’d be stomping around. No friends or family that they knew of; never had visitors that they heard or saw.

‘Mind you, he could have had a clog-dancing team in there, noise he made.’

‘Noisy neighbours can be hell,’ Reynolds agreed, without a hint of irony.

There wasn’t much more: the flat had been vacant before he arrived, and they weren’t sure exactly when that had been... maybe five, six months back. No, they didn’t know his name, or whether he worked — ‘But it’s odds-on he didn’t... scavengers, the lot of them.’

At which point Rebus had stepped outside for a cigarette. It was either that or he’d have had to ask: ‘And what exactly do you do? What do you add to the sum of human endeavour?’ Staring out across the estate, he thought: I haven’t seen any of these people, the people everyone’s so angry at. He guessed they were hiding behind doors, hiding from the hate as they tried to make their own community. If they succeeded, the hate would be multiplied. But that might not matter, because if they succeeded, maybe they’d be able to move on from Knoxland altogether. And then the locals could be happy again behind their barricades and blinkers.

‘It’s times like this I wish I smoked,’ Siobhan said, joining him.

‘Never too late to start.’ He reached into his pocket as if for the pack, but she shook her head.

‘A drink would be nice though.’

‘The one you didn’t get last night?’

She nodded. ‘But at home... in the bath... maybe with some candles.’

‘You think you can soak away people like that?’ Rebus gestured towards the flat.

‘Don’t worry, I know I can’t.’

‘All part of life’s rich tapestry, Shiv.’

‘Isn’t that good to know?’

The lift doors opened. More uniforms, but different: stab-proof jackets and crash helmets. Four of them, trained to be mean. Drafted in from Serious Crimes. These were the Drugs Squad, and they carried the tool of their trade: the ‘key’, basically a length of iron pipe which acted as a battering-ram. Its job was to get them into dealers’ reinforced homes as fast as possible, before evidence could be flushed away.

‘A good kick would probably do the trick,’ Rebus told them. The leader stared at him, unblinking.

‘Which door?’

Rebus pointed to it. The man turned to his crew and nodded. They moved in, positioned the cylinder and swung it.

Wood splintered and the door opened.

‘I’ve just remembered something,’ Siobhan said. ‘The victim didn’t have any keys on him...’

Rebus checked the splintered door jamb, then turned the handle. ‘Not locked,’ he said, confirming her theory. The noise had brought people out on to the landing: not just neighbours, but Davidson and Wylie.

‘We’ll have a look-see,’ Rebus offered. Davidson nodded.

‘Hang on,’ Wylie said. ‘Shiv’s not even part of this.’

‘That’s the team spirit we’ve been looking for in you, Ellen,’ Rebus shot back.

Davidson twitched his head, letting Wylie know he wanted her back at the interview. They disappeared inside. Rebus turned to the team leader, who was just emerging from the victim’s flat. It was dark in there, but the team carried torches.

‘All clear,’ the leader said.

Rebus reached into the hall and tried the light switch: nothing. ‘Mind if I borrow a torch?’ He could see that the leader minded very much. ‘I’ll bring it back, promise.’ He held out a hand.

‘Alan, give him your torch,’ the leader snapped.

‘Yes, sir.’ The torch was handed over.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ the leader instructed.

‘I’ll hand it in first thing,’ Rebus assured him. The leader glowered, then signalled to his men that their job was done. They marched back towards the lifts. As soon as the doors had closed behind them, Siobhan let out a snort.

‘Are they for real?’

Rebus tried the torch, found it satisfactory. ‘Don’t forget the crap they have to deal with. Houses full of weapons and syringes: who would you rather stormed in first?’

‘I take it back,’ she apologised.

They went inside. The place was not only dark, it was cold. In the living room, they found old newspapers which looked as if they’d been rescued from dustbins, plus empty tins of food and milk cartons. No furniture. The kitchen was squalid, but tidy. Siobhan pointed up high on one wall. A coin meter. She produced a coin from her pocket, slotted it home and turned the dial. The lights came on.

‘Better,’ Rebus said, placing the torch on the worktop. ‘Not that there’s much to see.’

‘I don’t think he did much cooking.’ Siobhan pulled open the cupboards, revealing a few plates and bowls, packets of rice and seasoning, two chipped tea-cups and a tea caddy half filled with loose-leaf tea. A bag of sugar sat on the worktop next to the sink, a spoon sticking out of it. Rebus peered into the sink, saw carrot shavings. Rice and veg: the deceased’s final meal.

In the bathroom, it looked as if some rudimentary attempt at clothes-washing had taken place: shirts and underpants were draped over the edge of the bathtub, next to a bar of soap. A toothbrush sat by the sink, but no toothpaste.

This left only the bedroom. Rebus switched on the light. Again there was no furniture. A sleeping-bag lay unfurled on the floor. As with the living room, there was dun-coloured carpeting, which seemed unwilling to part company with the soles of Rebus’s shoes as he approached the sleeping-bag. There were no curtains, but the window was overlooked only by another tower block seventy or eighty feet away.

‘Not much here that would explain the noise he made,’ Rebus said.

‘I’m not so sure... If I had to live here, I think I’d probably end up having a screaming fit, too.’

‘Good point.’ In place of a chest of drawers, the man had used a polythene bin-liner. Rebus upended it, and saw ragged clothes, neatly folded. ‘Stuff must’ve come from a jumble sale,’ he said.

‘Or a charity — plenty of those working with asylum-seekers.’

‘You reckon that’s what he was?’

‘Well, let’s just say he doesn’t look exactly settled here. I’d say he arrived with a bare minimum of personal effects.’

Rebus picked up the sleeping-bag and gave it a shake. It was the old-fashioned sort: wide and thin. Half a dozen photographs tumbled from it. Rebus picked them up. Snapshots, softened at their edges by regular handling. A woman and two young children.

‘Wife and kids?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘Where do you think they were taken?’

‘Not Scotland.’

No, because of the background: the plaster-white walls of an apartment, window looking out across the roofs of a city. Rebus got the sense of a hot country, cloudless deep blue sky. The kids looked bemused; one had his fingers in his mouth. The woman and her daughter were smiling, arms around one another.

‘Someone might recognise them, I suppose,’ Siobhan offered.

‘They might not have to,’ Rebus stated. ‘This is a council flat, remember?’

‘Meaning the council will know who he was?’

Rebus nodded. ‘First thing we need to do is fingerprint this place, make sure we’re not jumping to conclusions. Then it’ll be down to the council to give us a name.’

‘And does any of that get us nearer to finding the killer?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Whoever did it, they went home covered in blood. No way they walked through Knoxland without being noticed.’ He paused. ‘Which doesn’t mean anyone’s going to come forward.’