Fleshmarket Close

3

For want of anything better to do, Rebus found himself at the mortuary next morning, where the autopsy of the as yet unidentified Knoxland corpse was already under way. The viewing gallery comprised three tiers of benches, separated by a wall of glass from the autopsy suite. The place made some visitors queasy. Maybe it was the clinical efficiency of it all: the stainless-steel tables with their drainage outlets; the jars and specimen bottles. Or the way the entire operation resembled too closely the skills seen in any butcher’s shop — the carving and filleting by men in aprons and wellingtons. A reminder not only of mortality but of the body’s animal engineering, the human spirit reduced to meat on a slab.

There were two other spectators present — a man and a woman. They nodded a greeting at Rebus, the woman shifting slightly as he sat down next to her.

‘Morning,’ he said, waving through the glass to where Curt and Gates were busy at work. The rules of corroboration meant that two pathologists had to attend every autopsy, stretching a service that was already past snapping point.

‘What brings you here?’ the man asked. His name was Hugh Davidson, known to all by the nickname ‘Shug’. He was a detective inspector at the West End police station in Torphichen Place.

‘Apparently you do, Shug. Something to do with a shortage of high-flying officers.’

Davidson’s face twitched in what might have been a smile. ‘And when did you get your pilot’s licence, John?’

Rebus ignored this, choosing to focus on Davidson’s companion instead. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while, Ellen.’

Ellen Wylie was a detective sergeant, Davidson her boss. She had a box file open on her lap. It looked brand new, and contained only a few sheets of paper as yet. A case number was written at the top of the first page. Rebus knew that it would soon swell to bursting with reports, photographs, lists of staff rotas. It was the Murder Book: the ‘bible’ for the forthcoming investigation.

‘I heard you were out at Knoxland yesterday,’ Wylie said, eyes fixed ahead of her as if watching a film which would stop making sense the moment her attention lapsed. ‘Having a nice long chat with a representative from the fourth estate.’

‘And for the benefit of our English-speaking viewers...?’

‘Steve Holly,’ she stated. ‘And in the context of this current inquiry, the phrase “English-speaking” could be construed as racist.’

‘That’s because everything’s racist or sexist these days, sweetheart.’ Rebus paused for a reaction, but she wasn’t about to oblige. ‘Last I heard, we’re not allowed to say “accident blackspot” or “Indian summer”.’

‘Or “manhole cover”,’ Davidson added, leaning forward to make eye contact with Rebus, who shook his head at the madness of it all before sitting back to take in the scene through the glass.

‘So how’s Gayfield Square?’ Wylie asked.

‘Moments away from having its name changed for being politically incorrect.’

This got a laugh from Davidson, loud enough to have the faces through the glass turning towards him. He held up a hand in apology, covering his mouth with the other one. Wylie scribbled something into the Murder Book.

‘Looks like detention for you, Shug,’ Rebus offered. ‘So how are things shaping up? Got any idea who he is yet?’

It was Wylie who answered. ‘Loose change in his pockets... not even so much as a set of house keys.’

‘And nobody coming forward to claim him,’ Davidson added.

‘Door-to-door?’

‘John, this is Knoxland we’re talking about.’ Meaning no one was talking. It was a tribal thing, handed down from parent to child. Whatever happened, you didn’t give the police anything.

‘And the media?’

Davidson handed Rebus a folded tabloid. The killing hadn’t made the front page; the by-line on page five was Steve Holly’s: ASYLUM DEATH RIDDLE. As Rebus skimmed down the paragraphs, Wylie turned to him.

‘I wonder who it was that mentioned asylum-seekers.’

‘Not me,’ Rebus answered. ‘Holly just makes this stuff up. “Sources close to the investigation”.’ He snorted. ‘Which one of you does he mean by that? Or maybe he means both?’

‘You’re not making any friends here, John.’

Rebus handed back the newspaper. ‘How many warm bodies have you got working the case?’

‘Not enough,’ Davidson conceded.

‘Yourself and Ellen?’

‘Plus Charlie Reynolds.’

‘And yourself apparently,’ Wylie added.

‘I’m not sure I like the odds.’

‘There are some keen uniforms working door-to-door,’ Davidson said, defensively.

‘No problem then — case solved.’ Rebus saw that the autopsy was reaching its conclusion. The corpse would be sewn back together by one of the assistants. Curt motioned that he’d meet the detectives downstairs, then disappeared through a door to change out of his scrubs.

The pathologists had no office of their own. Curt was waiting in a gloomy corridor. There were sounds from inside the staff room: a kettle coming to the boil, a game of cards reaching some sort of climax.

‘The Prof ’s done a runner?’ Rebus guessed.

‘He has a class in ten minutes.’

‘So what have you got for us, Doctor?’ Ellen Wylie asked. If she’d ever possessed a gift for small talk, it had been annihilated some time ago.

‘Twelve separate wounds in total, almost certainly the work of the same blade. A kitchen knife perhaps, serrated edge, only a centimetre wide. Deepest penetration was five centimetres.’ He paused, as if to allow for any lewd jokes in the vicinity. Wylie cleared her throat in warning. ‘The one to the throat probably ended his life. Nicked the carotid artery. Blood in the lungs suggests he may have choked on the stuff.’

‘Any defence wounds?’ Davidson asked.

Curt nodded. ‘Palm, fingertips and wrists. Whoever they were, he was fighting them off.’

‘But you think just the one attacker?’

‘Just the one knife,’ Curt corrected Davidson. ‘Not quite the same thing.’

‘Time of death?’ Wylie asked. She was jotting down as much information as she could.

‘Deep-body temperature was taken at the scene. He probably died half an hour before you were alerted.’

‘Incidentally,’ Rebus asked, ‘just who did alert us?’

‘Anonymous call at thirteen fifty,’ Wylie replied.

‘Or ten to two in old money. Male caller?’

Wylie shook her head. ‘Female, calling from a phone box.’

‘And we’ve got the number?’

More nodding. ‘Plus the conversation was recorded. We’ll trace the caller, given time.’

Curt studied his watch, wanting to be on his way.

‘Anything else you can tell us, Doctor?’ Davidson asked.

‘Victim seems to have been in general good health. Slightly undernourished, but with good teeth — either didn’t grow up here or never succumbed to the Scottish diet. A specimen of the stomach contents — what there was of it — will go to the lab today. His last meal would seem to have been less than hearty: mostly rice and veg.’

‘Any idea of his race?’

‘I’m not an expert.’

‘We appreciate that, but all the same...’

‘Middle Eastern? Mediterranean...?’ Curt’s voice drifted off.

‘Well, that narrows things down,’ Rebus said.

‘No tattoos or distinguishing features?’ Wylie asked, still writing furiously.

‘None.’ Curt paused. ‘This will all be typed up for you, DS Wylie.’

‘Just gives us something to work with in the interim, sir.’

‘Such dedication is rare these days.’ Curt offered her a smile. It did not fit well on his gaunt face. ‘You know where to find me if any other questions arise...’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Davidson said. Curt turned towards Rebus.

‘John, a quick word if I may...?’ His eyes met Davidson’s. ‘Personal rather than business,’ he explained. He steered Rebus by the elbow towards the far door, and through it into the mortuary’s main holding area. There was no one around; at least, no one with a pulse. A wall of metal drawers faced them; opposite it was the loading bay where the fleet of grey vans would drop off the unceasing roll-call of the dead. The only sound was the background hum of refrigeration. Despite this, Curt looked to left and right, as if fearing they might be overheard.

‘About Siobhan’s little request,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Perhaps you could let her know that I’m willing to accede.’ Curt’s face came close to Rebus’s. ‘But only on the understanding that Gates never finds out.’

‘Reckon he’s got too much ammo on you as it is?’

A nerve twitched in Curt’s left eye. ‘I’m sure he’s already blurted out the story to anyone who’ll listen.’

‘We were all taken in by those bones, Doc. It wasn’t just you.’

But Curt seemed lost. ‘Look, just tell Siobhan it’s being done on the quiet. I’m the only one she should talk to about it, understood?’

‘It’ll be our secret,’ Rebus assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Curt stared at the hand forlornly.

‘Why is it you remind me of one of Job’s comforters?’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Doc.’

Curt looked at him. ‘But you don’t understand a word, am I right?’

‘Right as usual, Doc. Right as usual.’

Siobhan realised that she’d been staring at her computer screen for the past few minutes, without really seeing what was written there. She got up and walked over to the table with the kettle on it, the one where Rebus should have been sitting. DCI Macrae had been into the room a couple of times, on both occasions seeming almost satisfied that Rebus was nowhere to be seen. Derek Starr was in his own office, discussing a case with someone from the Procurator Fiscal’s department.

‘Want a coffee, Col?’ Siobhan asked.

‘No thanks,’ Tibbet replied. He was stroking his throat, fingers lingering on what looked like a patch of razor-burn. His eyes never left his computer screen, and his voice when he’d spoken had been otherworldly, as though he were barely connected to the here and now.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Not really. Trying to work out if there’s any connection between recent shoplifting sprees. I reckon they might tie in with train times...’

‘How?’

He realised he’d said too much. If you wanted to be sure of grabbing all the glory, you had to keep information to yourself. It was the bane of Siobhan’s working life. Cops were loath to share; any cooperation was usually accompanied by mistrust. Tibbet was ignoring her question. She tapped the coffee spoon against her teeth.

‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘A spree probably means one or more organised gangs... The fact that you’re looking at train times suggests they’re coming in from outside the city... So the spree can’t start until the train arrives, and it’ll stop as soon as they head back home?’ She nodded to herself. ‘How am I doing?’

‘It’s where they’re coming from that’s important,’ Tibbet said testily.

‘Newcastle?’ Siobhan guessed. Tibbet’s body language told her she’d scored a bull and won the match. The kettle boiled and she filled her mug, taking it back to her desk.

‘Newcastle,’ she repeated, sitting back down.

‘At least I’m doing something constructive — not just surfing the Web.’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

‘It’s what it looks like you’re doing.’

‘Well, for your information I’m working a missing person... accessing any sites that might help.’

‘I don’t remember a MisPer coming in.’

Siobhan gave a silent curse: she’d fallen into her own trap, coaxed into saying too much.

‘Well, I’m working it anyway. And can I just remind you that I’m the ranking officer here?’

‘You’re telling me to mind my own business?’

‘That’s right, DC Tibbet, I am. And don’t worry — Newcastle’s yours and yours alone.’

‘I might need to talk to the CID down there, see what they’ve got on the local gangs.’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Do whatever you need to do, Col.’

‘Fair enough, Shiv. Thanks.’

‘And never call me that again or I’ll rip your head off.’

‘Everyone else calls you Shiv,’ Tibbet protested.

‘That’s true, but you’re going to break the pattern. You’re going to call me Siobhan.’

Tibbet was quiet for a moment, and Siobhan thought he’d gone back to testing his timetable theory. But then he spoke again.

‘You don’t like being called Shiv... but you’ve never told anyone. Interesting...’

Siobhan wanted to ask him what he meant, but decided it would only prolong the conflict. She reckoned she knew anyway: as far as Tibbet was concerned, this fresh information gave him some power: a little incendiary he could tuck away for later. No use worrying about it until the time came. She concentrated on her screen, deciding on a fresh search. She’d been visiting sites maintained by groups who looked out for missing persons. Often these MisPers didn’t want to be found by their immediate families, but wanted nevertheless for them to know they were fine. Messages could be exchanged with the groups as intermediaries. Siobhan had a text which she’d worked out over the course of three drafts, and had now sent to the various noticeboards.

Ishbel — Mum and Dad miss you, and so do the girls at the salon. Get in touch to let us know you’re all right. We need you to know that we love you and miss you.

Siobhan reckoned this would do. It was neither too impersonal nor too gushingly frantic. It didn’t hint that someone from outside Ishbel’s immediate circle was doing the seeking. And even if the Jardines had been lying and there had been friction at home, the mention of the girls at the salon might make Ishbel feel guilty about having cast off friends such as Susie. Siobhan had placed the photo next to her keyboard.

‘Friends of yours?’ Tibbet had asked earlier, sounding interested. They were good-looking girls, fun at parties and in the pub. Life a bit of a laugh for them... Siobhan knew she could never hope to understand what might motivate them, but that wouldn’t stop her trying. She sent more e-mails: to police divisions this time. She knew detectives in Dundee and Glasgow, and flagged Ishbel up for them — just the name and general description, along with a note saying she’d owe them big time if they were able to help. Almost immediately, her mobile sounded. It was Liz Hetherington, her contact in Dundee, a detective sergeant with Tayside Police.

‘Long time no hear,’ Hetherington said. ‘What’s so special about this one?’

‘I know the family,’ Siobhan said. There was no way she could keep her voice quiet enough for Tibbet not to hear, so she rose from her desk and went out into the hallway. The odour was out here, too, as if the station was rotting from within. ‘They live in a village in West Lothian.’

‘Well, I’ll circulate the details. What makes you think she’d head this way?’

‘Call it an exercise in straw-grasping. I promised her parents I’d do what I could.’

‘You don’t think she could have gone on the game?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Girl leaves village, heads for the bright lights... you’d be surprised.’

‘She’s a hairdresser.’

‘Plenty of vacancies for those,’ Hetherington conceded. ‘It’s almost as portable a career as street-walking.’

‘It’s funny though,’ Siobhan said. ‘There was some guy she’d been seeing. One of her friends said he looked like a pimp.’

‘There you are then. Has she any friends she could be crashing with?’

‘I’ve not got that far yet.’

‘Well, if any of them live up this way, let me know and I’ll pay a visit.’

‘Thanks, Liz.’

‘And come see us some time, Siobhan. I’ll show you Dundee’s not the ghetto you southerners think it is.’

‘One of these weekends, Liz.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’ Siobhan ended the conversation. Yes, she’d go to Dundee... when it appealed more than a weekend slouched on the sofa, chocolate and old movies for company; breakfast in bed with a good book and Gold-frapp’s first album on the hi-fi... lunch out, and then maybe a film at the Dominion or the Filmhouse, a bottle of cold white wine waiting for her at home.

She found herself standing by her desk. Tibbet was looking up at her.

‘I’ve got to go out,’ she said.

He glanced at his watch, as if about to make a note of her time of departure. ‘Any idea how long you’ll be?’

‘Couple of hours, if that’s all right with you, DC Tibbet.’

‘Just in case anyone asks,’ he explained sniffily.

‘Right then,’ Siobhan said, picking up jacket and bag. ‘There’s a coffee there if you want it.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

She headed out without another word, walked downhill to her street and unlocked her Peugeot. The cars in front and behind hadn’t left much room. It took her half a dozen manoeuvres to squeeze out of the space. Though she was in a residents’ zone, she noticed that the car in front was an interloper, and had already been given a parking ticket. She stopped the Peugeot and scribbled the words POLICE NOTIFIED on a page from her notebook. Then she got out and stuck it beneath the BMW’s wiper-blade. Feeling better, she got back into the Peugeot and drove off.

Traffic was busy in town, and there was no clever route to the M8. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, humming along to Jackie Leven: a birthday present from Rebus, who’d told her Leven came from the same part of the world as him.

‘And that’s supposed to be a recommendation?’ she’d replied. She liked the album well enough, but couldn’t concentrate on the lyrics. She was thinking of the skeletons in Fleshmarket Close. It annoyed her that she couldn’t work out an explanation for them; annoyed her, too, that she’d placed her own coat so carefully over a fake...

Banehall was halfway between Livingston and Whitburn, just to the north of the motorway. The slip-road was past the village, the signpost bearing the legend ‘Local Services’, with drawings representing a petrol pump and a knife and fork. Siobhan doubted many travellers would bother to make a diversion, having had view of Banehall from their carriageway. The place looked bleak: rows of houses dating back to the early 1900s, a boarded-up church, and a forlorn industrial estate, which showed no sign of having been a going concern at any point in its existence. The petrol station — now no longer in operation, weeds pushing up through the forecourt — was the first thing she passed after the ‘Welcome to Banehall’ sign. This sign had been defaced to read ‘We are the Bane’. Locals, not just teenagers, called the place ‘the Bane’ with no sense of irony. A sign further on had been altered from ‘Children — aware!’ to ‘Children — a war!’ She smiled at this, checking either side of the street for the hair salon. So few businesses were still active, this presented few problems. The shop was called just that — The Salon. Siobhan decided to drive past it, until she’d reached the far end of Main Street. Then she turned the car and retraced her route, this time turning into a side street which led to a housing scheme.

She found the Jardines’ house easily enough, but there was no one home. No signs of life in neighbouring windows. A few parked cars, a child’s trike missing one of its back wheels. Plenty of satellite dishes attached to the harled walls. She saw homemade signs in some of the living-room windows: YES TO WHITEMIRE. Whitemire, she knew, was an old prison a couple of miles outside Banehall. Two years ago, it had been turned into an immigration centre. By now it was probably Banehall’s biggest employer... and it was marked for further development. Back on Main Street, the village’s only pub boasted the name The Bane. Siobhan hadn’t passed any cafés, just a solitary chip shop. The weary traveller, hoping to use a knife and fork, would be forced to try the pub, though it gave no indication that food would be available. Siobhan parked kerbside and crossed the road to the Salon. Here, too, there was a pro-Whitemire sign in the window.

Two women sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. There were no customers, and neither of the staff looked thrilled at the potential arrival of one. Siobhan brought out her ID and introduced herself.

‘I recognise you,’ the younger of the two said. ‘You’re the cop from Tracy’s funeral. You had your arm around Ishbel at the church. I asked her mum afterwards.’

‘You’ve got a good memory, Susie,’ Siobhan replied. No one had bothered to get up, and there was nowhere left for Siobhan to sit but one of the styling chairs. She stayed standing.

‘Wouldn’t mind a coffee, if there’s one going,’ she said, trying to sound friendly.

The older woman was slow to rise. Siobhan noticed that her fingernails had been decorated with elaborate swirls of colour. ‘No milk left,’ the woman warned.

‘I’ll take it black.’

‘Sugar?’

‘No thanks.’

The woman shuffled over to an alcove at the back of the shop. ‘I’m Angie, by the way,’ she told Siobhan. ‘Owner and stylist to the stars.’

‘Is it about Ishbel?’ Susie asked.

Siobhan nodded, sitting down in the space that had been vacated on the cushioned bench. Susie immediately got up, as if in reaction to Siobhan’s proximity, and stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray, her last inhalation now issuing from her nostrils. She walked over to one of the other chairs and sat down in it, swinging it to and fro with her feet, checking her hair in the mirror. ‘She hasn’t been in touch,’ she stated.

‘And you’ve no idea where she could have gone?’

A shrug. ‘Her mum and dad are up to high doh, that’s all I know.’

‘What about this man you saw Ishbel with?’

Another shrug. She played with her fringe. ‘Short guy, stocky.’

‘Hair?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Maybe he was bald?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Clothes?’

‘Leather jacket... sunglasses.’

‘Not from around here?’

A shake of the head. ‘Driving a flash car... something fast.’

‘A BMW? Mercedes?’

‘I’m no good with cars.’

‘Was it big, small... did it have a roof?’

‘Medium... with a roof, but it could’ve been a convertible.’

Angie was returning with a mug. She handed it over and sat down in Susie’s vacated space.

Siobhan nodded her thanks. ‘How old was he, Susie?’

‘Old... forties or fifties.’

Angie gave a snort. ‘Old to you, maybe.’ She was probably fifty herself, with hair that looked twenty years younger.

‘When you asked her about him, what did she say?’

‘Just told me to shut up.’

‘Any idea how she could have met him?’

‘No.’

‘What sort of places does she go?’

‘Into Livingston... maybe Edinburgh or Glasgow sometimes. Just pubs and clubs.’

‘Anybody apart from you she might go out with?’

Susie mentioned some names, which Siobhan jotted down.

‘Susie’s already talked to them,’ Angie warned. ‘They won’t be any help.’

‘Thanks, anyway.’ Siobhan made a show of looking around the salon. ‘Is it usually this quiet?’

‘We get a few customers first thing. Later in the week’s busier.’

‘But Ishbel not being here isn’t a problem?’

‘We’re managing.’

‘Makes me wonder...’

Angie narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’

‘Why you need two stylists.’

Angie glanced towards Susie. ‘What else could I do?’

Siobhan felt she understood. Angie had taken pity on Ishbel after the suicide. ‘Any reason you can think of why she’d leave home so suddenly?’

‘Maybe she got a better offer... Plenty of people ship out of the Bane and never look back.’

‘Her mystery man?’

It was Angie’s turn to shrug. ‘Good luck to her if that’s what she wants.’

Siobhan turned to Susie. ‘You told Ishbel’s mum and dad he looked like a pimp.’

‘Did I?’ She seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Well, maybe I did. The shades and the jacket... like something out of a film.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Taxi Driver!’ she said. ‘The pimp in that... what’s his name? I saw that on the telly a couple of months back.’

‘And that’s who this man looked like?’

‘No... but he was wearing a hat. That’s why I couldn’t remember his hair!’

‘What sort of hat?’

Susie’s enthusiasm drained away. ‘Dunno... just a hat.’

‘Baseball cap? Beret?’

Susie shook her head. ‘It had a rim.’

Siobhan looked to Angie for help. ‘A fedora?’ Angie suggested. ‘A homburg?’

‘I don’t even know what those are,’ Susie said.

‘Something like a gangster in an old film would wear?’ Angie went on.

Susie was thoughtful. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.

Siobhan jotted down her mobile phone number. ‘That’s great, Susie. And if anything else comes back to you, maybe you could give me a call?’

Susie nodded. She was out of reach, so Siobhan handed the note to Angie. ‘Same thing applies to you.’ Angie nodded and folded the note in two.

The door rattled open and a stooped, elderly woman came in.

‘Mrs Prentice,’ Angie called out in greeting.

‘Bit earlier than I told you, Angie dear. Can you fit me in?’

Angie was already on her feet. ‘For you, Mrs Prentice, I’m sure I can shuffle my diary.’ Susie relinquished the chair so that Mrs Prentice could sit in it, once she’d divested herself of her coat. Siobhan got up, too. ‘One last thing, Susie,’ she said.

‘What?’

Siobhan walked over to the alcove, Susie following her. Siobhan lowered her voice when she spoke. ‘The Jardines tell me Donald Cruikshank’s out of prison.’

Susie’s face hardened.

‘Have you seen him?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Once or twice... piece of scum that he is.’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘As if I would! Council gave him a place of his own — can you credit it? His mum and dad wouldn’t have anything to do with him.’

‘Did Ishbel mention him at all?’

‘Just that she felt the same as me. You think that’s what drove her out?’

‘Do you?’

‘He’s the one we should be running out of town,’ Susie hissed.

Siobhan nodded her agreement. ‘Well,’ she said, slinging her bag on to her shoulder, ‘remember to give me a call if anything else comes to you.’

‘Sure,’ Susie said. She studied Siobhan’s hair. ‘Can’t do something with that for you, can I?’

Involuntarily, Siobhan’s right hand went to her head. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘I don’t know... It just... it makes you look older than you probably are.’

‘Maybe that’s the look I’m aiming for,’ Siobhan replied defensively, making her way to the door.

‘Wee perm and a touch-up?’ Angie was asking her client as Siobhan stepped outside. She stood for a moment, wondering what next. She’d meant to ask Susie about Ishbel’s ex-boyfriend, the one she was still friends with. But she didn’t want to go back in, and decided it could wait. There was a newsagent’s open. She thought about chocolate, but decided to look into the pub instead. It would give her something to tell Rebus; maybe even score her some points if it turned out to be one of the few bars in Scotland not to count him as a one-time customer.

She pushed open the black wooden door and was confronted by pockmarked red linoleum and matching flock wallpaper. A design mag would call it ‘kitsch’ and enthuse over its revival of seventies naff... but this was the real, unreconstructed thing. There were horse brasses on the walls, and framed cartoons showing dogs urinating, bloke-style, against a wall. Horse-racing on the TV and a haze of cigarette smoke between her and the bar. Three men stared up from their dominoes game. One of them got up and walked behind the bar.

‘What can I get you, love?’

‘Lime juice and soda,’ she said, resting on a bar stool. There was a Glasgow Rangers scarf draped over the dartboard, a pool table alongside with ripped and patched baize. And nothing to justify the knife and fork on the motorway exit sign.

‘Eighty-five pence,’ the barman said, placing the drink in front of her. At this point, she knew she had only one gambit — Does Ishbel Jardine ever come in? — and couldn’t see what she’d gain from it. For one thing, the bar would be alerted to the fact that she was a cop. For another, she doubted these men would add anything to her sum of knowledge, even if they had known Ishbel. She raised the glass to her lips, and knew there was too much cordial in it. The drink was sickly sweet, and not gassy enough.

‘All right?’ the barman said. It was challenge more than query.

‘Fine,’ she replied.

Satisfied, he came back out from behind the bar and resumed his game. There was a pot of small change on the table, ten- and twenty-pence pieces. The men he was playing with looked like pensioners. They slapped each domino down with exaggerated force, tapped three times if they couldn’t go. Already, they’d lost interest in her. She looked around for a ladies’ loo, spotted it to the left of the dartboard and headed inside. Now they’d think she’d only come in for a pee, the soft drink conscience-money. The toilet was clean, though the mirror above the sink had gone, pen-written graffiti replacing it.

Sean’s a shag

The buns on Kenny Reilly!!!

Sluts unite!

Bane Bunnies Rool

Siobhan smiled and went into the only cubicle. The lock was broken. She sat down, ready to be entertained by more of the graffiti.

Donny Cruikshank — Dead Man Walking

Donny Pervo

Fry the fucker

Cook the Cruik

Claimed in blood, sisters!!!

God bless Tracy Jardine

There was more — much more — by no means all of it in the same hand. Black marker pen, blue biro, gold felt-tip. Siobhan decided that the three exclamation marks must be by the same person as above the sink. When she’d walked in, she’d thought herself a rare example of a female customer; now she knew differently. She wondered if any of the sentiments came from Ishbel Jardine: a handwriting comparison would tell. She rummaged in her bag but realised her digital camera was in the Peugeot’s glovebox. Well, she’d just go get it. To hell with what the dominoplayers would think.

Pulling open the door, she noticed that a new customer had arrived. He was leaning his elbows against the bar, head down low, hips wiggling. Her stool was right next to him. He heard the creak of the toilet door and turned towards her. She saw a shaved head, a jowly white face, two days’ growth of beard.

Three lines on the right cheek — scar tissue.

Donny Cruikshank.

Last time she’d seen him had been in an Edinburgh courtroom. He wouldn’t know her. She’d not given evidence, never had the chance to interview him. She was pleased to see him looking so dissipated. His scant time in jail had still been enough to rob him of some youth and vitality. She knew there was a pecking order in every prison, and that sex offenders were at the bottom of the tree. His mouth had opened in a slack grin, ignoring the pint which had just been placed in front of him. The barman stood stony-faced with hand held out for payment. It was clear to Siobhan that he wasn’t keen on Cruikshank’s presence in his pub. One of Cruikshank’s eyes was bloodshot, as though he’d been punched and it had failed to heal.

‘All right, darling?’ he called. She walked towards him.

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said icily.

‘Ooh! “Don’t call me that”.’ The attempted mimicry was grotesque; only Cruikshank was laughing. ‘I like a doll with balls.’

‘Keep talking and you’ll soon be missing yours.’

Cruikshank couldn’t believe his ears. After a stunned moment, he tipped back his head and howled.

‘Did you ever hear the like, Malky?’

‘Pack it in, Donny,’ Malky the barman warned.

‘Or what? You’ll red-card me again?’ He looked around. ‘Aye, I’d certainly miss this place.’ His eyes rested on Siobhan, taking in every inch of her. ‘Of course, things have picked up on the totty front just lately...’

Incarceration had eroded him physically, but given him something in return, a kind of bravado, with attitude to spare.

Siobhan knew that if she stayed, she’d end up lashing out. She knew she was capable of hurting him; but knew also that hurting him physically would not damage him in any other way. Meaning he’d have won, by making her weak. So instead she walked, trying to shut out his words to her retreating back.

‘The arse on that, eh, Malky? Come back, gorgeous, I’ve got a surprise package here for you!’

Outside, Siobhan headed to her car. Adrenalin had kicked in, her heartbeat racing. She sat behind the wheel and tried to control her breathing. Bastard, she was thinking. Bastard, bastard, bastard... She glanced at the glovebox. She would have to come back another time to take the photos. Her mobile rang and she fished it out. Rebus’s number was on her screen. She took a deep breath, not wanting him to hear anything in her voice.

‘What’s up, John?’ she asked.

‘Siobhan? What’s up with you?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You sound like you’ve been jogging round Arthur’s Seat.’

‘Just dashed back to the car.’ She looked out at the pale blue sky. ‘It’s raining here.’

‘Raining? Where the hell are you?’

‘Banehall.’

‘And where’s that when it’s at home?’

‘West Lothian, just off the motorway before you get to Whitburn.’

‘I know it — pub called The Bane?’

Despite herself, she smiled. ‘That’s the place,’ she said.

‘What takes you out there?’

‘It’s a long story. What are you up to?’

‘Nothing that can’t be shoved to one side if a long story’s on offer. Are you heading back to town?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’ll practically be passing Knoxland.’

‘And that’s where I’ll find you?’

‘You can’t miss me — we’ve got the wagons circled to keep the natives at bay.’

Siobhan saw that the door to the pub was opening from within, Donny Cruikshank throwing curses back into the place. A two-fingered salute followed by a volley of saliva. Looked like Malky had had enough of him. Siobhan turned the ignition.

‘I’ll see you in forty minutes or so.’

‘Bring ammunition, will you? Forty Bensons Gold.’

‘I draw the line at cigarettes, John.’

‘The last request of a dying man, Shiv,’ Rebus pleaded.

Watching the mix of anger and despair on Donny Cruikshank’s face, Siobhan couldn’t help breaking into a smile.

4

Rebus’s ‘circled wagons’ actually consisted of a single-roomed Portakabin, placed in the car park next to the nearest tower block. It was dark green on the outside, with a grille protecting the only window and a reinforced door. When he’d parked his car, the ubiquitous draggle of kids had asked for money to look after it. He’d pointed a finger at them.

‘A sparrow so much as farts on my windscreen, you’ll be licking it off.’

He stood in the doorway of the Portakabin now, smoking a cigarette. Ellen Wylie was typing on a laptop. It had to be a laptop, so they could unplug it at day’s end and take it with them. It was either that or post a night-time guard on the door. No way of hooking up a phone line, so they were using mobiles. DC Charlie Reynolds, known behind his back as ‘Rat-Arse’, was approaching from one of the high-rises. He was in his late forties, almost as broad as he was tall. He’d played rugby at one time, including a stint at national level with the police team. As a result, his face was a mangle of botched repairs, rips and nicks. The haircut wouldn’t have looked out of place on a street urchin circa the 1920s. Reynolds had a reputation as a wind-up merchant, but he wasn’t smiling now.

‘Bloody waste of time,’ he snarled.

‘Nobody’s talking?’ Rebus guessed.

‘It’s the ones that are talking, they’re the problem.’

‘How so?’ Rebus decided to offer Reynolds a cigarette, which the big man accepted without thanks.

‘Don’t speak bloody English, do they? Fifty-seven bloody varieties up there.’ He gestured towards the tower block. ‘And the smell... Christ knows what they’re cooking, but I’ve not noticed many cats in the vicinity.’ Reynolds saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Don’t get me wrong, John, I’m not a racist. But you do have to wonder...’

‘About what?’

‘The whole asylum thing. I mean, say you had to leave Scotland, right? You were being tortured or something... You’d make for the nearest safe country, right, ’cos you wouldn’t want to be too far from the old homeland. But this lot...’ He stared up at the tower block, then shook his head. ‘You take my point though, eh?’

‘I suppose I do, Charlie.’

‘Half of them can’t even be arsed to learn the language... just pick up their cash from the government, thank you very much.’ Reynolds concentrated on his cigarette. He smoked with some violence, teeth clamping the filter, mouth drawing hard. ‘Least you can sod off back to Gayfield whenever you like; some of us are stuck out here for the duration.’

‘Wait till I go and get my violin, Charlie,’ Rebus said. Another car was drawing up alongside: Shug Davidson. He’d been to a meeting to fix the budget for the inquiry, and didn’t look thrilled with the result.

‘No interpreters?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Oh, we can have all the interpreters we want,’ Davidson responded. ‘Thing is, we can’t pay them. Our esteemed Assistant Chief Constable says we should ask around, maybe see if the council could provide one or two free of charge.’

‘Along with everything else,’ Reynolds muttered.

‘What’s that?’ Davidson snapped.

‘Nothing, Shug, nothing.’ Reynolds stamped on the remains of his cigarette as if rucking for a ball.

‘Charlie reckons the locals rely a touch too much on handouts,’ Rebus explained.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I can mind-read sometimes. Runs in the family, passed down from father to son. My grandad probably gave it to my dad...’ Rebus stubbed out his own cigarette. ‘He was Polish, by the way, my grandad. We’re a bastard nation, Charlie — get used to it.’ Rebus walked over to greet another arrival: Siobhan Clarke. She spent a few moments studying her surroundings.

‘Concrete was such an attractive option in the sixties,’ she commented. ‘And as for the murals...’

Rebus had ceased to notice them: WOGS OUT... PAKIS sneaking a ‘d’ into ‘power’ to make ‘powder’. Rebus wondered how strong a hold the drug-dealers had around here. Maybe another reason for the general disaffection: immigrants probably couldn’t afford drugs, even supposing they wanted them. SCOTLAND FOR THE SCOTS... A venerable piece of graffiti had been altered from JUNKIE SCUM to BLACK SCUM.

‘This looks cosy,’ Siobhan said. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

‘Did you bring your invitation?’

She held out the packs of cigarettes. Rebus kissed them and slipped them into his pocket. Davidson and Reynolds had disappeared inside the cabin.

‘You going to tell me that story?’ he asked.

‘You going to give me the tour?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Why not?’ They started walking. There were four main tower blocks in Knoxland, each one eight storeys high, and sited as if at the corners of a square, looking down on to the central, devastated play area. There were open walkways on each level, and every flat had a balcony with a view of the dual carriageway.

‘Plenty of satellite dishes,’ Siobhan observed. Rebus nodded. He’d wondered about these dishes, about the versions of the world they transmitted into each living room and life. Daytimes, the ads would be for accident compensation; at night, they’d be for alcohol. A generation growing up in the belief that life could be controlled by a TV remote.

There were kids circling them now on their bikes. Others were congregating against a wall, sharing a cigarette and something in a lemonade bottle that didn’t look like lemonade. They wore baseball caps and trainers, a fashion beamed down to them from another culture.

‘He’s too old for ye!’ one voice barked out, followed by laughter and the usual pig-like grunting.

‘I’m young but I’m hung, ya hoor!’ the same voice called.

They kept walking. One uniform was stationed either end of the murder scene, showing ebbing patience as locals queried why they couldn’t use the passageway.

‘Jist ’cos some chinky got topped, man...’

‘Wisnae a chinky... towel-head, I heard.’

The voices rising. ‘Hey, man, how come they get past ye and we dinnae? Pure discrimination, by the way...’

Rebus had led Siobhan behind the uniform. Not that there was much to see. The ground was still stained; the place still had about it the faint whiff of urine. Scrawls covering every inch of wall space.

‘Whoever he was, somebody misses him,’ Rebus said quietly, noting a small bundle of flowers marking the spot. Except that they weren’t really flowers, just some strands of wild grass and a few dandelions. Picked from waste ground.

‘Trying to tell us something?’ Siobhan guessed.

Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe they just couldn’t afford flowers... or didn’t know how to go about buying any.’

‘Are there really that many immigrants in Knoxland?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Probably not more than sixty or seventy.’

‘Which would be sixty or seventy more than a few years ago.’

‘I hope you’re not turning into Rat-Arse Reynolds.’

‘Just thinking from the locals’ point of view. People don’t like incomers: immigrants, travellers, anyone the least bit different... Even an English accent like mine can get you into trouble.’

‘That’s different. Plenty of good historical reasons for the Scots to hate the English.’

‘And vice versa, obviously.’

They had passed out of the far end of the passage. Here, there was a gathering of lower-rise blocks, four storeys high, along with a few rows of terraced houses.

‘The houses were built for pensioners,’ Rebus explained. ‘Something to do with keeping them within the community.’

‘Nice dream, as Thom Yorke would say.’

That was Knoxland, all right: a nice dream. Plenty more like it elsewhere in the city. Their architects would have been so proud of the scale drawings and cardboard models. Nobody ever set out to design a ghetto, after all.

‘Why Knoxland?’ Siobhan asked eventually. ‘Not named after Knox the Calvinist, surely.’

‘I wouldn’t think so. Knox wanted Scotland to be a new Jerusalem. I doubt Knoxland qualifies.’

‘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.

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.’

‘He might be a murderer, but he’s their murderer?’ Siobhan guessed.

‘Either that or they could just be scared of him. Plenty of hard cases in Knoxland.’

‘So we’re no further forward.’

Rebus held up one of the photos. ‘What do you see?’ he asked.

‘A family.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘You see a widow, and two kids who’ll never see their dad again. They’re the ones we should be thinking of, not ourselves.’

Siobhan nodded her agreement. ‘I suppose we could always go public with the photos.’

‘I was thinking the same thing. I even think I know the man for the job.’

‘Steve Holly?’

‘The paper he writes for might be a rag, but plenty of people read it.’ He looked around. ‘Seen enough?’ Siobhan nodded again. ‘Then let’s go tell Shug Davidson what we’ve found...’

Davidson got on the phone to the fingerprints team, and Rebus persuaded him to let him keep one of the photos, to be passed on to the media.

‘Can’t do any harm,’ was Davidson’s unenthusiastic reaction. He was lifted, however, by the realisation that Council Housing would have a name on the tenancy agreement.

‘And by the way,’ Rebus said, ‘however much is in the budget, it just dropped by a pound.’ He gestured towards Siobhan. ‘Had to put money in the meter.’

Davidson smiled, reached into his pocket, and produced a couple of coins. ‘There you go, Shiv. Get yourself a drink with the change.’

‘What about me?’ Rebus complained. ‘Is this sex discrimination or what?’

‘You, John, are about to hand an exclusive to Steve Holly. If he doesn’t buy you a few beers on the back of that, he should be run out of the profession...’

As Rebus drove out of the estate, he suddenly remembered something. He called Siobhan on her mobile. She, too, was heading into town.

‘I’ll probably be seeing Holly at the pub,’ he said, ‘if you fancy tagging along.’

‘Tempting as that offer sounds, I have to be elsewhere. But thanks for asking.’

‘It wasn’t why I called... You don’t fancy nipping back to the victim’s flat?’

‘No.’ She was silent for a moment, then it dawned on her. ‘You promised you’d take that torch back!’

‘Instead of which, it’s lying on the worktop in the kitchen.’

‘Phone Davidson or Wylie.’

Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘Ach, it can wait. I mean, what’s going to happen to it — lying out in the open in an empty flat with a broken-down door? I’m sure they’re all honest, God-fearing souls...’

‘You’re really hoping it’ll go walkies, aren’t you?’ He could almost hear her grinning. ‘Just to see what they do about it.’

‘What do you reckon: dawn raid, streaming down my hall looking for something they can replace it with?’

‘There’s an evil streak in you, John Rebus.’

‘Of course there is — no reason for me to be different from anyone else.’

He ended the call, drove to the Oxford Bar, where he slowly sank a single pint of Deuchar’s, using it to wash down the last corned-beef-and-beetroot roll on the shelf. Harry the barman asked him if he knew anything about the satanic ritual.

‘What satanic ritual?’

‘The one in Fleshmarket Close. Some kind of coven...’

‘Christ, Harry, do you believe every story you get told in here?’

Harry tried not to look disappointed. ‘But the baby’s skeleton...’

‘Fake... planted there.’

‘Why would anybody do that?’

Rebus sought out an answer. ‘Maybe you’re right, Harry — could’ve been the barman, selling his soul to the devil.’

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. ‘Reckon mine would be worth doing a deal on?’

‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell,’ Rebus said, lifting the pint to his mouth. He was thinking of Siobhan’s I have to be elsewhere. Probably meant she was planning to pin down Dr Curt. Rebus took out his phone, checking that there was enough of a signal for him to make a call. He had the reporter’s number in his wallet. Holly picked up straight away.

‘DI Rebus, an unexpected pleasure...’ Meaning he had caller ID, and was in company, letting whoever he was with know the sort of person who might call him out of the blue, wanting them to be impressed...

‘Sorry to interrupt you when you’re in a meeting with your editor,’ Rebus said. The phone was silent for a few moments, and Rebus allowed himself a nice big smile. Holly seemed to be apologising, stepping out of whatever room he was in. His voice became a hushed hiss.

‘Am I being watched, is that it?’

‘Oh aye, Steve, you’re right up there with those Watergate reporters.’ Rebus paused. ‘I just took a guess, that’s all.’

‘Yeah?’ Holly sounded far from convinced.

‘Look, I’ve got something for you, but it can wait till you’ve had that paranoia seen to.’

‘Whoah, hang on... what is it?’

‘The Knoxland victim, we found a photo belonging to him — looks like he had a wife and kids.’

‘And you’re giving it to the press?’

‘At the moment, you’re the only one it’s being offered to. If you want it, it’s yours to print just as soon as forensics confirm it belonged to the victim.’

‘Why me?’

‘You want the truth? Because an exclusive means more coverage, a bigger splash, front page hopefully...’

‘No promises,’ Holly was quick to say. ‘And how long afterwards does everyone else get it?’

‘Twenty-four hours.’

The reporter seemed to mull this over. ‘Again I have to ask: why me?’

It’s not you, Rebus wanted to say — it’s your paper, or more precisely, your paper’s circulation figure. That’s who’s getting the photo, the story... Instead, he kept silent, and heard Holly exhale noisily.

‘Okay, fine. I’m in Glasgow: can you bike it over to me?’

‘I’ll leave it behind the bar in the Ox — you can come and fetch it. By the way, there’ll also be a tab for you to pay.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Bye, then.’ Rebus flipped his phone closed and busied himself lighting a cigarette. Of course Holly would take the photo — because if he turned it down and the competition didn’t, he’d have to answer to his boss.

‘Another?’ Harry was asking. Well, the man already had the gleaming glass in his hand, ready to commence filling it. How could Rebus refuse without causing offence?

5

‘From a cursory examination of the female skeleton, I’d say it’s quite old.’

‘Cursory?’

Dr Curt fidgeted in his chair. They were seated in his office in the university’s medical faculty, tucked away in a courtyard behind the McEwan Hall. Every now and then — usually when they were in a bar together — Rebus would remind Siobhan that many of Edinburgh’s grand buildings — the Usher Hall and McEwan Hall predominantly — had been built by brewing dynasties, and that this would not have been possible without drinkers like him.

‘Cursory?’ she repeated into the silence. Curt made show of straightening some of the pens on his desk.

‘Well, it wasn’t as if I could ask for help... It’s a teaching skeleton of some kind, Siobhan.’

‘But it is real?’

‘Very much so. In less squeamish times than our own, medical teaching had to depend on such things.’

‘You don’t any more?’

He shook his head. ‘New technologies have replaced many of the old ways.’ He sounded almost wistful.

‘So that skull’s not real then?’ She meant the skull on the shelf behind him, resting on green felt in a wood-and-glass box.

‘Oh, it’s authentic enough. Once belonged to the anatomist Dr Robert Knox.’

‘The one who was in cahoots with the body-snatchers?’

Curt winced. ‘He did not aid them; they destroyed him.’

‘Okay, so real skeletons were used as teaching aids...’ Siobhan saw that Curt’s mind was now preoccupied with his predecessor. ‘How long ago did that practice end?’

‘Probably five or ten years back, but we held on to some of the... specimens for a while longer.’

‘And is our mystery woman one of your specimens?’

Curt’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

‘A simple yes or no will do,’ Siobhan pressed.

‘I can offer neither... I simply can’t be sure.’

‘Well, how were they disposed of?’

‘Look, Siobhan...’

‘What is it that’s bothering you, Doctor?’

He stared at her, and seemed to come to a decision. He rested his arms on the desk in front of him, hands clasped. ‘Four years ago... you probably won’t remember... some body parts were found in the city.’

‘Body parts?’

‘A hand here, a foot there... When tested, it turned out they’d been preserved in formaldehyde.’

Siobhan nodded slowly. ‘I remember hearing about it.’

‘Turned out they’d been taken from one of the labs as a practical joke. Not that anyone was caught, but we got a lot of unnecessary press attention as well as various firm rebukes from everyone from the Vice-Chancellor down.’

‘I don’t see the connection.’

Curt held up a hand. ‘Two years passed, and then an exhibit went missing from the hallway outside Professor Gates’s office...’

‘A female skeleton?’

It was Curt’s turn to nod. ‘I’m sorry to say, we hushed it up. It was at a time when we were disposing of a lot of old teaching aids...’ He glanced up at her, before returning his gaze to his arrangement of pens. ‘At that time, I think we may have thrown out some plastic skeletons.’

‘Including one of an infant?’

‘Yes.’

‘You told me no exhibits had gone missing.’ He offered only a shrug. ‘You lied to me, Doctor.’

‘Mea culpa, Siobhan.’

She thought for a moment, rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m still not sure I’m getting this. Why was the female skeleton kept as an exhibit?’

Curt fidgeted again. ‘Because one of Professor Gates’s predecessors decided on it. Her name was Mag Lennox. You’ve heard of her?’ Siobhan shook her head. ‘Mag Lennox was reputed to be a witch — this was two hundred and fifty years ago. She was killed by the citizens, who didn’t want her buried afterwards — something about being fearful she’d climb out of the coffin. Her body was allowed to rot, and those who had an interest were free to study the remains, looking for signs of the devil, I suppose. Alexander Monro eventually came to own the skeleton and bequeathed it to the medical school.’

‘And then someone stole it, and you kept it quiet?’

Curt shrugged and angled his head back, looking towards the ceiling.

‘Any idea who did it?’ she asked.

‘Oh, we had ideas... Medical students are renowned for their black humour. The story was, it graced the living room of a shared flat. We arranged for someone to investigate...’ He looked at her. ‘Investigate privately, you understand...’

‘A private eye? Dear me, Doctor.’ She shook her head, disappointed at his choice of action.

‘No such item was found. Of course, they could simply have disposed of it...’

‘By burying it in Fleshmarket Close?’

Curt shrugged. Such a reticent man, a scrupulous man... Siobhan could see that this conversation was causing him almost physical pain. ‘What were their names?’

‘Two young men, almost inseparable... Alfred McAteer and Alexis Cater. I think they modelled themselves on the characters from the TV show MASH. Do you know it?’

Siobhan nodded. ‘Are they still students here?’

‘Based out at the Infirmary these days, God help us all.’

‘Alexis Cater... any relation?’

‘His son, apparently.’

Siobhan’s lips formed an O. Gordon Cater was one of the few Scottish actors of his generation to have made it in Hollywood. Character parts mostly, but in profitable blockbusters. There was talk that at one time he’d been first choice to play James Bond after Roger Moore, only to be beaten by Timothy Dalton. A hellraiser in his day, and an actor most women would have watched however bad the film.

‘I take it you’re a fan,’ Curt muttered. ‘We tried to keep it quiet that Alexis was studying here. He’s the son from Gordon’s second or third marriage.’

‘And you think he stole Mag Lennox?’

‘He was among the suspects. You see why we didn’t make the investigation official?’

‘You mean other than the fact that it’d have made you and the Prof look irresponsible all over again?’ Siobhan smiled at Curt’s discomfort. As if irritated by them, Curt suddenly snatched up the pens and threw them into a drawer.

‘Is that you channelling your aggression, Doctor?’

Curt stared at her bleakly and sighed. ‘There’s just one more potential fly in the ointment. Some sort of local historian... apparently she’s been on to the papers saying she thinks there’s a supernatural explanation for the Fleshmarket Close skeletons.’

‘Supernatural?’

‘During excavations at the Palace of Holyrood a while back, some skeletons were unearthed... there were theories they’d been sacrificed.’

‘Who by? Mary, Queen of Scots?’

‘However that may be, this “historian” is trying to link them to Fleshmarket Close... It may be pertinent that she has worked in the past for one of the High Street’s ghost tours.’

Siobhan had been on one of these. Several companies operated walking tours of the Royal Mile and its alleyways, mixing gory storytelling with lighter moments and special effects which would not have disgraced a fairground ghost-train.

‘So she has an ulterior motive?’

‘I can only speculate.’ Curt checked his watch. ‘The evening paper may have printed some of her tripe.’

‘You’ve had dealings with her before?’

‘She wanted to know what had happened to Mag Lennox. We told her it was none of her concern. She tried to get the newspapers interested...’ Curt waved a hand in front of him, brushing away the memory.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Judith Lennox... and yes, she does claim to be a descendant.’

Siobhan wrote the name down, below those of Alfred McAteer and Alexis Cater. After a moment, she added a further name — Mag Lennox — and connected it to Judith Lennox with an arrow.

‘Is my ordeal drawing to its conclusion?’ Curt drawled.

‘I think so,’ Siobhan said. She tapped her teeth with the pen. ‘So what are you going to do with Mag’s skeleton?’

The pathologist shrugged. ‘She seems to have come home again, doesn’t she? Maybe we’ll put her back in her case.’

‘Have you told the Prof yet?’

‘I sent him an e-mail this afternoon.’

‘An e-mail? He’s twenty yards down the hall...’

‘Nevertheless, that’s what I did.’ Curt started to rise to his feet.

‘You’re scared of him, aren’t you?’ Siobhan teased.

Curt did not grace this remark with a reply. He held the door open for her, head bowed slightly. Maybe it was old-fashioned manners, Siobhan thought. More likely, he just didn’t want to meet her eyes.

Her route home took her down George IV Bridge. She turned right at the lights, deciding on a brief detour down the High Street. There were sandwich boards outside St Giles Cathedral, advertising that evening’s ghost tours. They wouldn’t start for a couple of hours yet, but tourists were already perusing them. Further down, outside the old Tron Kirk, more sandwich boards, more enticements to experience ‘Edinburgh’s haunted past’. Siobhan was more concerned with its haunted present. She glanced down Fleshmarket Close: no sign of life. But wouldn’t the tour guides love to be able to add it to their itineraries? On Broughton Street, she stopped kerbside and went into a local shop, emerging with a bag of groceries and the final printing of the evening paper. Her flat was nearby: no parking spaces left in the residents’ zone, but she left her Peugeot on a yellow line, confident that she’d move it before the enforcers started their morning shift.

Her flat was in a shared four-storey tenement. She was lucky with her neighbours: no all-night parties or aspiring rock drummers. She knew a few of their faces, but none of their names. Edinburgh didn’t expect you to have anything more than a passing acquaintance with your neighbours, unless there was some shared problem to be worked out, like a leaky roof or cracked guttering. She thought of Knoxland with its paper-thin dividing walls, letting everyone hear everyone else. Someone in the tenement kept cats: this was her only complaint. She could smell them on the stairwell. But once inside her flat, the world outside melted away.

She put the tub of ice cream in the freezer, the milk in the fridge. Unwrapped the ready meal and popped it in the microwave. It was low-fat, which would atone for the later possibility of an urge to gorge on chocolate mint-chip. There was a bottle of wine on the draining board. Re-corked with a couple of glasses missing. She poured some out, tasted it, decided it wasn’t going to poison her. She sat down with the paper, waiting for her dinner to heat up. She almost never cooked anything from scratch, not when she was eating alone. Sitting at the table, she was aware that the few pounds she had gained recently were telling her to loosen her trousers. Her blouse, too, was tight under the arms. She got up from the table and returned a couple of minutes later, in slippers and dressing gown. The food was done, so she took it through to the living room on a tray with her glass and the paper.

Judith Lennox had made it to the inside pages. There was a photo of her at the entrance to Fleshmarket Close, probably taken that afternoon. Head and shoulders, showing voluminous dark curly hair and a bright scarf. Siobhan didn’t know what look she’d been trying for, but her lips and eyes said only one thing: smug. Loving the camera’s attention and ready to strike any pose asked of her. Alongside was another posed shot, this time of Ray Mangold, arms folded proprietorially as he stood outside the Warlock.

There was a smaller photo of the archaeological site in the grounds of Holyrood, where the other skeletons had been uncovered. Someone from Historic Scotland had been interviewed, and threw scorn on Lennox’s suggestion that there was anything ritualistic about those deaths, or about the manner in which the bodies had been laid out. But this was in the story’s final paragraph, most prominence being given to Lennox’s claim that whether the Fleshmarket skeletons were real or not, it was possible that they had been placed in the same positions as those in Holyrood, and that someone had been mimicking those earlier burials. Siobhan snorted and went on eating. She flicked through the rest of the paper, spending most time on the TV page. It became clear to her that there were no programmes to keep her occupied until bed, meaning music and a book instead. She checked her telephone for nonexistent messages, started recharging her mobile, and brought book and duvet through from the bedroom. John Martyn on the CD player: Rebus had loaned her the album. She wondered how he would be spending his evening: in the pub with Steve Holly maybe; either that or in the pub by himself. Well, she’d have a quiet night in, and be the better for it in the morning. She decided she would read two chapters before laying assault to the ice cream...

When she woke up, her phone was ringing. She stumbled from the sofa and picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Didn’t wake you, did I?’ It was Rebus.

‘What time is it?’ She tried to focus on her watch.

‘Half past eleven. Sorry if you were in bed...’

‘I wasn’t. So where’s the fire?’

‘Not a fire exactly; more a bit of smouldering. The couple whose daughter’s walked out...’

‘What about them?’

‘They’ve been asking for you.’

She rubbed a hand over her face. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘They were picked up in Leith.’

‘Arrested, you mean?’

‘Hassling some of the street girls. The mother was hysterical... Taken to Leith cop-shop to make sure she was all right.’

‘And how do you know all this?’

‘Leith phoned here, looking for you.’

Siobhan frowned. ‘You’re still at Gayfield Square?’

‘It’s nice when it’s quiet — I can have any desk I want.’

‘You’ve got to go home some time.’

‘Actually, I was just on my way when the call came.’ He chuckled. ‘Know what Tibbet’s up to? Nothing on his computer but train timetables.’

‘So what you’re actually doing is snooping on the rest of us?’

‘My way of getting acquainted with new surroundings, Shiv. Do you want me to come pick you up, or will I meet you at Leith?’

‘I thought you were on your way home.’

‘This sounds a lot more entertaining.’

‘Then I’ll meet you at Leith.’

Siobhan put down the phone and went into the bathroom to get dressed. The remaining half-tub of choc mint-chip had turned liquid, but she put it back in the freezer.

Leith police station was situated on Constitution Street. It was a glum stone building, hard-faced like its surroundings. Leith, once a prosperous shipping port, with a personality distinct from that of the city, had seen hard times in the past few decades: industrial decline, the drugs culture, prostitution. Parts of it had been redeveloped, and others tidied up. Newcomers were moving in, and didn’t want the old, sullied Leith. Siobhan thought it would be a pity if the area’s character was lost; then again, she didn’t have to live there...

Leith had for many years provided a ‘tolerance zone’ for prostitutes. It wasn’t that police turned a blind eye, but they wouldn’t go out of their way to interfere either. But this had come to an end, and the street-walkers had been scattered, leading to more instances of violence against them. A few had tried to move back to their old haunt, while others headed out along Salamander Street or up Leith Walk to the city centre. Siobhan thought she knew what the Jardines had been up to; all the same, she wanted to hear it from them.

Rebus was waiting for her in the reception area. He looked tired, but then he always looked tired: dark bags under his eyes, hair unkempt. She knew he wore the same suit all week, then had it dry-cleaned each Saturday. He was chatting with the Duty Officer, but broke off when he saw her. The Duty Officer buzzed them through a locked door, which Rebus held open for her.

‘They’ve not been arrested or anything,’ he stressed. ‘Just brought in for a chat. They’re in here...’ ‘Here’ being IR1 — Interview Room 1. It was a cramped, windowless space boasting a table and two chairs. John and Alice Jardine sat opposite one another, arms reaching out so they could hold hands. There were two drained mugs on the table. When the door opened, Alice flew to her feet, tipping one of them over.

‘You can’t keep us here all night!’ She broke off, mouth open, when she saw Siobhan. Her face lost some of its tension, while her husband smiled sheepishly, placing the mug upright again.

‘Sorry to drag you down here,’ John Jardine said. ‘We thought maybe if we mentioned your name, they’d just let us go.’

‘As far as I’m aware, John, you’re not being held. This is DI Rebus, by the way.’

There were nodded greetings. Alice Jardine had sat down again. Siobhan stood next to the table, arms folded.

‘Way I hear it, you’ve been terrorising the honest, hardworking ladies of Leith.’

‘We were just asking questions,’ Alice remonstrated.

‘Sadly, they don’t make any money from chit-chat,’ Rebus informed the couple.

‘It was Glasgow last night,’ John Jardine said quietly. ‘That seemed to go all right...’

Siobhan and Rebus shared a look. ‘And all this because Susie told you Ishbel had been seeing a man who looked like a pimp?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Look, let me fill you in on something. The girls in Leith might have a drug habit, but that’s all they’re supporting — no pimps like the ones you see in the Hollywood films.’

‘Older men,’ John Jardine said, eyes on the tabletop. ‘They get hold of girls like Ishbel and exploit them. You read about it all the time.’

‘Then you’re reading the wrong papers,’ Rebus informed them.

‘It was my idea,’ Alice Jardine added. ‘I just thought...’

‘What made you lose your rag?’ Siobhan asked.

‘Two nights of trying to get hookers to talk to us,’ John Jardine explained. But Alice was shaking her head.

‘This is Siobhan we’re talking to,’ she chided him. Then, to Siobhan: ‘The last woman we spoke to... she said she thought Ishbel might be... I need to think of her exact words...’

John Jardine helped her out. ‘“Up the pubic triangle”,’ he said.

His wife nodded to herself. ‘And when we asked her what that meant, she just started laughing... told us to go home. That’s when I lost my temper.’

‘Police car happened to be passing,’ her husband added with a shrug. ‘They brought us here. I’m sorry we’re being a nuisance, Siobhan.’

‘You’re not,’ Siobhan assured him, only half believing her own words.

Rebus had slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘The pubic triangle’s just off Lothian Road: lap-dancing bars, sex shops...’

Siobhan gave him a warning look, but too late.

‘Maybe that’s where she is then,’ Alice said, voice trembling with emotion. She gripped the edge of the table as though about to stand up and be on her way.

‘Wait a second.’ Siobhan held up a hand. ‘One woman tells you — probably jokingly — that Ishbel might be working as a lap-dancer... and you’re just going to go barging in?’

‘Why not?’ Alice asked.

Rebus gave her the answer: ‘Some of those places, Mrs Jardine, they’re not always run by the most scrupulous individuals. Unlikely to be the patient types either, when someone comes nosing around...’

John Jardine was nodding.

‘Might help,’ Rebus added, ‘if there was one particular establishment the young lady was thinking of...’

‘Always supposing she wasn’t just winding you up,’ Siobhan warned.

‘One way to find out,’ Rebus said. Siobhan turned to face him. ‘Your car or mine?’

They took hers, the Jardines in the back seat. They hadn’t gone far when John Jardine indicated that the ‘young lady’ had been standing across the road, against the wall of a disused warehouse. There was no sign of her now, though one of her colleagues was pacing the pavement, shoulders hunched against the cold.

‘We’ll give it ten minutes,’ Rebus said. ‘Not many punters about tonight. With luck she’ll be back soon.’

So Siobhan drove out along Seafield Road, all the way to the Portobello roundabout, turning right at Inchview Terrace and right again at Craigentinny Avenue. These were quiet residential streets. The lights in most of the bungalows were off, owners tucked up in bed.

‘I like driving this time of night,’ Rebus said conversationally.

Mr Jardine seemed to agree. ‘Place is completely different when there’s no traffic about. Bit more relaxed.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Plus it’s easier to spot the predators...’

The back seat went quiet after that, until they were back in Leith. ‘There she is,’ John Jardine said.

Skinny, short black hair, most of it blowing into her eyes with each gust of wind. She wore knee-length boots and a black mini-skirt with a buttoned denim jacket. No make-up, face pallid. Even from this distance, bruises were visible on her legs.

‘Know her?’ Siobhan asked.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Looks like the new kid in town. That other one...’ meaning the woman they’d passed earlier, ‘can’t be more than twenty feet away, but they’re not talking.’

Siobhan nodded. Having nothing else, the city’s street-walkers often showed solidarity with each other, but not here. Which meant that the older woman felt her pitch had been invaded by the incomer. Having driven past, Siobhan did a three-point turn and drew up next to the kerb. Rebus had wound his window down. The prostitute stepped forward, wary of the number of people in the car.

‘No group stuff,’ she said. Then she recognised the faces in the back. ‘Christ, not you two again.’ She turned and started to walk away. Rebus got out of the car and grabbed her arm, spinning her round. His ID was open in his other hand.

‘CID,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Cheyanne.’ She raised her chin. ‘Not that I am shy.’ Trying to sound tougher than she was.

‘And that’s your patter, is it?’ Rebus said, sounding unconvinced. ‘How long’ve you been in town?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Is that a Brummie accent?’

‘None of your business.’

‘I could make it my business. Might need to check your real age, for one thing...’

‘I’m eighteen!’

Rebus ploughed on as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘That would mean looking at your birth certificate, which would mean talking to your parents.’ He paused. ‘Or you could help us out. These people have lost their daughter.’ He nodded towards the car and its occupants. ‘She’s done a runner.’

‘Good luck to her.’ Sounding sulky.

‘But her parents care about her... maybe like you wish yours did.’ He paused to let this sink in, studying her without seeming to: no apparent signs of recent drug use, but maybe that was because she hadn’t made enough money yet for a hit. ‘But this is your lucky night,’ he continued, ‘because you might be able to help them... always supposing you weren’t spinning them a line about the pubic triangle.’

‘All I know is, a few new girls have been hired.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘The Nook. I know ’cos I went asking... said I was too skinny.’

Rebus turned towards the back seat of the car. The Jardines had wound down their window. ‘Did you show Cheyanne a picture of Ishbel?’ Alice Jardine nodded, and Rebus turned back to the girl, whose attention was already wandering. She looked to left and right, as if for potential clients. The woman further along was pretending to ignore everything but the roadway in front of her.

‘Did you recognise her?’ he asked Cheyanne.

‘Who?’ Still not looking at him.

‘The girl in the picture.’

She shook her head briskly, then had to push the hair out of her eyes.

‘Not much of a career this, is it?’ Rebus said.

‘It’ll do me for now.’ She tried burrowing her hands into the tight pockets of her jacket.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything that might help Ishbel?’

Cheyanne shook her head again, eyes focused on the road ahead. ‘Just... sorry about earlier. Don’t know what got me laughing... happens sometimes.’

‘Look after yourself,’ John Jardine called from the back seat. His wife was holding their photograph of Ishbel out of the window.

‘If you see her...’ she said, the words trailing off.

Cheyanne nodded, and even accepted one of Rebus’s business cards. He got back into the car and closed the door. Siobhan signalled out into the road and took her foot off the brake.

‘Where are you parked?’ she asked the Jardines. They named a street at the other end of Leith, so she did another turn, taking them past Cheyanne again. The girl ignored them. The woman further along stared at them though. She was walking towards Cheyanne, ready to ask what had just happened.

‘Could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’ Rebus mused, folding his arms. Siobhan wasn’t listening. She stared into her rearview mirror.

‘You’re not to go there, understood?’

No one answered.

‘Best if myself and DI Rebus intercede on your behalf. That is, if DI Rebus is willing.’

‘Me? Go to a lap-dancing bar?’ Rebus tried for a pout. ‘Well, if you really think it necessary, DS Clarke...’

‘We’ll go tomorrow then,’ Siobhan said. ‘Some time before opening.’ Only now did she look at him.

And smiled.