The Beat Goes On

Tit for Tat

Before he’d arrived in Edinburgh in 1970, Inspector John Rebus had fixed in his mind an image of tenement life. Tenements were things out of the Gorbals in the early years of the century, places of poverty and despair, safe havens for vermin and disease. They were the enforced homes of the poorest of the working class, a class almost without a class, a sub-class. Though tenements rose high into the air, they might as well have been dug deep into the ground. They were society’s replacement for the cave.

Of course, in the 1960s the planners had come up with something even more outrageous — the tower-block. Even cities with plenty of spare land started to construct these space-saving horrors. Perhaps the moral rehabilitation of the tenement had something to do with this new contender. Nowadays, a tenement might contain the whole of society in microcosm — the genteel spinster on the ground floor, the bachelor accountant one floor above, then the barkeeper, and above the barkeeper, always it seemed right at the top of the house, the students. This mix was feasible only because the top two floors contained flats rented out by absentee landlords. Some of these landlords might own upwards of one hundred separate flats — as was spectacularly the case in Glasgow, where the figure was even rumoured, in one or two particulars, to rise into four figures.

But in Edinburgh, things were different. In Edinburgh, the New Town planners of the nineteenth century had come up with streets of fashionable houses, all of them, to Rebus’s latter-day eyes, looking like tenements. Some prosperous areas of the city, such as Marchmont where Rebus himself lived, boasted almost nothing but tenements. And with the price of housing what it was, even the meaner streets were seeing a kind of renaissance, stone-blasted clean by new owner-occupiers who kept the cooking-range in the living-room as an ‘original feature’.

The streets around Easter Road were as good an example as any. The knock-on effect had reached Easter Road late. People had to decide first that they couldn’t afford Stockbridge, then that they couldn’t quite afford any of the New Town or its immediate surroundings, and at last they might arrive in Easter Road, not by chance but somehow through fate. Soon, an enterprising soul saw his or her opportunity and opened a delicatessen or a slightly upmarket café, much to the bemusement of the ‘locals’. These were quiet, accepting people for the most part, people who liked to see the tenement buildings being restored even if they couldn’t understand why anyone would pay good money for bottled French water. (After all, you were always told to steer clear of the water on foreign holidays, weren’t you?)

Despite this, the occasional Alfa Romeo or Golf GTi might find itself scratched maliciously, as might a too-clean 2CV or a coveted Morris Minor. But arson? Attempted murder? Well, that was a bit more serious. That was a very serious turn of events indeed. The trick was one perfected by racists in mixed areas. You poured petrol through the letter-box of a flat, then you set light to a rag and dropped it through the letter-box, igniting the hall carpet and ensuring that escape from the resulting fire was made difficult if not impossible. Of course, the noise, the smell of petrol meant that usually someone inside the flat was alerted early on, and mostly these fires did not spread. But sometimes... sometimes.

‘His name’s John Brodie, sir,’ the police constable informed Rebus as they stood in the hospital corridor. ‘Age thirty-four. Works for an insurance company in their accounts department.’

None of which came as news to Rebus. He had been to the second-floor flat, just off Easter Road, reeking of soot and water now; an unpleasant clean-up ahead. The fire had spread quickly along the hall. Some jackets and coats hanging from a coat-stand had caught light and sent the flames licking along the walls and ceiling. Brodie, asleep in bed (it all happened around one in the morning) had been wakened by the fire. He’d dialled 999, then had tried putting the fire out himself, with a fair degree of success. A rug from the living-room had proved useful in snuffing out the progress of the fire along the hall and some pans of water had dampened things down. But there was a price to pay — burns to his arms and hands and face, and smoke inhalation. Neighbours, alerted by the smoke, had broken down the door just as the fire engine was arriving. CID, brought to the scene by a police constable’s suspicions, had spoken with some of the neighbours. A quiet man, Mr Brodie, they said. A decent man. He’d only moved in a few months before. Worked for an insurance company. Nobody thought he smoked, but they seemed to assume he’d left a cigarette burning somewhere.

‘Careless that. Even supposing we do live in Auld Reekie.’ And the first-floor occupier had chuckled to himself, until his wife yelped from their flat that there was water coming in through the ceiling. The man looked helpless and furious.

‘Insurance should cover it,’ Rebus commented, pouring oil on troubled... no, not the best image that. The husband went off to investigate further and the other tenement dwellers began slouching off to bed, leaving Rebus to head into the burnt-out hallway itself.

But even without the Fire Officer, the cause of the fire had been plain to Rebus. Chillingly plain. The smell of petrol was everywhere.

He took a look round the rest of the flat. The kitchen was tiny, but boasted a large sash-window looking down onto back gardens and across to the back of the tenement over the way. The bathroom was smaller still, but kept very neat. No ring of grime around the bath, no strewn towels or underpants, nothing steeping in the sink. A very tidy bachelor was Mr Brodie. The living-room, too, was uncluttered. A series of framed prints more or less covered one wall. Detailed paintings of birds. Rebus glanced at one or two: willow warbler, bearded tit. The rooms would need to be redecorated, of course, otherwise the charred smell would always be there. Insurance would probably cover it. Brodie was an insurance man, wasn’t he? He’d know. Maybe he’d even squeeze a cheque out of the company without too much haggling.

Finally, Rebus went into the bedroom. Messier here, mostly as a result of the hurriedly flung-back bedclothes. Pyjama bottoms lying crumpled on the bed itself. Slippers and a used mug sitting on the floor beside the bed, and in one corner, next to the small wardrobe, a tripod atop which was fixed a good make of SLR camera. On the floor against the wall was a large-format book, Better Zoom Pictures, with a photograph of an osprey on the front. Probably one of the Loch Garten ospreys, thought Rebus. He’d taken his daughter there a couple of times in the past. Tourists, plenty of them, he had seen, but ospreys were there none.

If anyone had asked him what he thought most odd about the flat, he would have answered: there’s no television set. What did Mr Brodie do for company then of an evening?

For no real reason, Rebus bent down and peered beneath the bed itself, and was rewarded with a pile of magazines. He pulled one out. Soft porn, a ‘readers’ wives’ special. He pushed it back into place. The tidy bachelor’s required bedtime companion. And, partly, an answer to his earlier question.

He left the flat and sought out one or two of the still wakeful neighbours. No one had seen or heard anything. Access to the tenement itself was easy; you just pushed open the communal front door, the lock of which had broken recently and was waiting to be fixed.

‘Any reason,’ Rebus asked, ‘why anyone would bear Mr Brodie a grudge?’

That gave them pause. No smouldering cigarette then, but arson. But there were shakes of rumpled heads. No reason. A very quiet man. Kept himself to himself. Worked in insurance. Always stopped for a chat if you met him on the stairs. Always cleaned the stairs promptly when his turn came, not like some they could mention. Probably paid his rent promptly, too. Tea was being provided in the kitchen of one of the first-floor flats, where the ‘Auld Reekie’ wag was being consoled.

‘I only painted that ceiling three months back. Do you know how much textured paint costs?’

Soon enough everyone found the answer. The man’s wife looked bored. She smiled towards the tea-party’s hostess.

‘Wasn’t that first fireman dishy?’ she said.

‘Which one?’

‘The one with the blue eyes. The one who told us not to worry. He could give me a fireman’s lift anytime.’

The hostess snorted into her tea. Rebus made his excuses and left.

Rebus had dealt with racist arson attacks before. He’d even come across ‘anti-yuppie’ attacks, usually in the form of graffiti on cars or the outside walls of property. A warehouse conversion in Leith had been sprayed with the slogan HOUSES FOR THE NEEDY, NOT THE GREEDY. The attack on Brodie seemed more personal, but it was worth considering all the possible motives. He was crossing things off from a list in his mind as he drove to the hospital. Once there, he talked to the police constable in the corridor and, after nodding his head a few times, he entered the ward where John Brodie had been ‘made comfortable’. Despite the hour, Brodie was far from asleep. He was propped up against a pillow, his arms lying out in front of him on top of the sheets. Thick creamy white cotton pads and delicate-looking bandages predominated. Part of his hair had been shaved away, so that burns to the scalp could be treated. He had no eyebrows, and only remnants of eyelashes. His face was round and shiny; easy to imagine it breaking into a chuckle, but probably not tonight.

Rebus picked a chair out from a pile against the far wall and sat down, only then introducing himself.

Brodie’s voice was shaky. ‘I know who did it.’

‘Oh?’ Rebus kept his voice low, in deference to the sleeping bodies around him. This was not quite how he’d expected the conversation to begin.

Brodie swallowed. ‘I know who did it and I know why she did it. But I don’t want to press charges.’

Rebus wasn’t about to say that this decision was not up to Brodie himself. He didn’t want the man clamming up. He wanted jaw-jaw. He nodded as if in agreement. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ he said, inviting further confessions, as though from one friend to another.

‘She must be a bit cracked,’ Brodie went on, as though Rebus hadn’t spoken at all. ‘I told the police that at the time. She’s doolally, I said. Must be. Well, this proves it, doesn’t it?’

‘You think she needs help?’

‘Maybe. Probably.’ He seemed deep in thought for a moment. ‘Yes, almost certainly. I mean, it’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Even if you think you’ve got grounds. But she didn’t have grounds. The police told her that.’

‘But they didn’t manage to convince her.’

‘That’s right.’

Rebus thought he was playing this fairly well. Obviously, Brodie was in shock. Maybe he was even babbling a bit, but as long as he was kept talking, Rebus would be able to piece together whatever the story was that he was trying to tell. There was a wheezy, dry laugh from the bed.

Brodie’s eyes twinkled. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’ Rebus was obliged to shake his head. ‘Of course you don’t. Well, I’ll have a sip of water and then I’ll tell you.’

And he did.

The morning was bright but grey: ‘sunshine and showers’, the weatherman would term it. It wasn’t quite autumn yet. The too-short summer might yet have some surprises. Rebus waited in his room — his desk located not too far from the radiator — until the two police constables could be found. They were uneasy when they came in, until he reassured them. Yes, as requested, they had brought their notebooks with them. And yes, they remembered the incident very well indeed.

‘It started with anonymous phone calls,’ one of them began. ‘They seemed to be genuine enough. Miss Hooper told us about one of them in particular. Her phone rings. Man on the other end identifies himself as a police inspector and tells her there’s an anonymous caller who’s going through the Edinburgh directory trying number after number. He says her number might come up soon, but the police have put a trace on her line. So can she keep the man talking for as long as possible.’

‘Oh yes.’ Really, Rebus didn’t need to hear the rest. But he listened patiently to the constable’s story.

‘Later on that day, a man did ring. He asked her some very personal questions and she kept him talking. Afterwards, she rang the police station to see if they’d caught him. Only, of course, the name the so-called inspector had given wasn’t known to the station. It was the anonymous caller himself, setting her up.’

Rebus shook his head slowly. It was old, but clever. ‘So she complained about anonymous calls?’

‘Yes, sir. But then the calls stopped. So that didn’t seem too bad. No need for an operator to intercept or a change of number or anything.’

‘How did Miss Hooper seem at the time?’

The constable shrugged and turned to his colleague, who now spoke. ‘A bit nervy, sir. But that was understandable, wasn’t it? A very nice lady, I’d say. Not married. I don’t think she even had a boyfriend.’ He turned his head towards his colleague. ‘Didn’t she say something like that, Jim?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘So then what happened?’ asked Rebus.

‘A few weeks later, this would be just over a week ago, we had another call from Miss Hooper. She said a man in the tenement across the back from her was a peeping Tom. She’d seen him at a window, aiming his binoculars towards her building. More particularly, she thought, towards her own flat. We investigated and spoke to Mr Brodie. He appeared quite concerned about the allegations. He showed us the binoculars and admitted using them to watch from his kitchen window. But he assured us that he was bird-watching.’ The other constable smiled at this. ‘“Bird-watching,” he said.’

‘Ornithology,’ said Rebus.

‘That’s right, sir. He said he was very interested in birds, a bird-fancier sort of thing.’ Another smile. They were obviously hoping Rebus would come to enjoy the joke with them. They were wrong, though they didn’t seem to sense this just yet.

‘Go on,’ he said simply.

‘Well, sir, there did seem to be a lot of pictures of birds in his flat.’

‘You mean the prints in the living-room?’

‘That’s right, sir, pictures of an ornithological nature.’

Now the other constable interrupted. ‘You won’t believe it, sir. He said he was watching the tenement and the garden because he’d seen some...’ pause for effect... ‘bearded tits.’

Now both the young constables were grinning.

‘I’m glad you find your job so amusing,’ Rebus said. ‘Because I don’t think frightening phone calls, peeping Toms and arson attacks are material for jokes!’

The grins disappeared.

‘Get on with it,’ Rebus demanded. The constables looked at one another.

‘Not much more to tell, sir,’ said the one called Jim. ‘The gentleman, Mr Brodie, seemed genuine enough. But he promised to be a bit more careful in future. Like I say, he seemed genuinely concerned. We informed Miss Hooper of our findings. She didn’t seem entirely convinced.’

‘Obviously not,’ said Rebus, but he did not go on to clarify. Instead, he dismissed the two officers and sat back in his chair. Brodie suspected Hooper of the arson attack, not, it would appear, without reason. What was more, Brodie had said he couldn’t think of any other enemies he might have made. Either that or he wasn’t about to tell Rebus about them. Rebus leaned back in his chair and rested his arm along the radiator, enjoying its warmth. The next person to speak to, naturally, was Miss Hooper herself. Another day, another tenement.

‘Bearded tits,’ Rebus said to himself. This time, he allowed himself a smile.

‘It’s your lucky day,’ Miss Hooper told him. ‘Normally I don’t come home for lunch, but today I just felt like it.’

Lucky indeed. Rebus had knocked on the door of Miss Hooper’s first-floor flat but received no answer. Eventually, another door on the landing had opened, revealing a woman in her late forties, stern of face and form.

‘She’s not in,’ the woman had stated, unnecessarily.

‘Any idea when she’ll be back?’

‘Who are you then?’

‘Police.’

The woman pursed her lips. The nameplate above her doorbell, to the left of the door itself, read McKAY. ‘She works till four o’clock. She’s a schoolteacher. You’ll catch her at school if you want her.’

‘Thank you. Mrs McKay, is it?’

‘It is.’

‘Could I have a word?’

‘What about?’

By now, Rebus was standing at Mrs McKay’s front door. Past her, he caught sight of a dark entrance hall strewn with bits and pieces of machinery, enough to make up most, but not quite all, of a motorbike.

‘About Miss Hooper,’ he said.

‘What about her?’

No, she was not about to let him in. He could hear her television blaring. Lunchtime game-show applause. The resonant voice of the questionmaster. Master of the question.

‘Have you known her long?’

‘Ever since she moved in. Three, four years. Aye, four years.’ She had folded her arms now, and was resting one shoulder against the door-jamb. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I suppose you must know her quite well, living on the same landing?’

‘Well enough. She comes in for a cuppa now and again.’ She paused, making it quite clear to Rebus that this was not an honour he was about to receive.

‘Have you heard about the fire?’

‘Fire?’

‘Across the back.’ Rebus gestured in some vague direction with his head.

‘Oh aye. The fire engine woke me right enough. Nobody hurt though, was there?’

‘What makes you say that?’

She shuffled now, unfolding her arms so one hand could rub at another. ‘Just... what I heard.’

‘A man was injured, quite seriously. He’s in hospital.’

‘Oh.’

And then the main door opened and closed. Sound of feet on stone echoing upwards.

‘Oh, here’s Miss Hooper now,’ said Mrs McKay. Said with relief, Rebus thought to himself. Said with relief...

Miss Hooper let him in and immediately switched on the kettle. She hoped he wouldn’t mind if she made herself a sandwich? And would he care for one himself? Cheese and pickle or peanut butter and apple? No, on second thoughts, she’d make some of both, and he could choose for himself.

A teacher? Rebus could believe it. There was something in her tone, in the way she seemed to have to utter all of her thoughts aloud, and in the way she asked questions and then answered them herself. He could see her standing in her classroom, asking her questions and surrounded by silence.

Alison Hooper was in her early thirties. Small and slim, almost schoolboyish. Short straight brown hair. Tiny earrings hooked into tiny ears. She taught in a primary school only ten minutes’ walk from her flat. The flat itself was scattered with books and magazines, from many of which had been cut illustrations, clearly intended to find their way into her classroom. Mobiles hung from her living-room ceiling: some flying pigs, an alphabet, teddy bears waving from aeroplanes. There were colourful rugs on her walls, but no rugs at all on the stripped floor. She had a breathy, nervous way with her and an endearing twitch to her nose. Rebus followed her into the kitchen and watched her open a loaf of brown sliced bread.

‘I usually take a packed lunch with me, but I slept in this morning and didn’t have time to make it. I could have eaten in the canteen, of course, but I just felt like coming home. Your lucky day, Inspector.’

‘You had trouble sleeping last night then?’

‘Well, yes. There was a fire in the tenement across the back.’ She pointed through her window with a buttery knife. ‘Over there. I heard sirens and the fire-engine’s motor kept rumbling away, so I couldn’t for the life of me get back to sleep.’

Rebus went across to the window and looked out. John Brodie’s tenement stared back at him. It could have been any tenement anywhere in the city. Same configuration of windows and drainpipes, same railing-enclosed drying-green. He angled his head further to look into the back garden of Alison Hooper’s tenement. Movement there. What was it? A teenager working on his motorbike. The motorbike standing on the drying-green, and all the tools and bits and pieces lying on a piece of plastic which had been spread out for the purpose. The nearby garden shed stood with its door propped open by a wooden stretcher. Through the doorway Rebus could see yet more motorbike spares and some oil cans.

‘The fire last night,’ he said, ‘it was in a flat occupied by Mr John Brodie.’

‘Oh!’ she said, her knife-hand pausing above the bread. ‘The peeping Tom?’ Then she swallowed, not slow on the uptake. ‘That’s why you’re here then.’

‘Yes. Mr Brodie gave us your name, Miss Hooper. He thought perhaps—’

‘Well, he’s right.’

‘Oh?’

‘I mean, I do have a grudge. I do think he’s a pervert. Not that I seem able to convince the police of that.’ Her voice was growing shriller. She stared at the slices of bread in a fixed, unblinking way. ‘No, the police don’t seem to think there’s a problem. But I know. I’ve talked to the other residents. We all know.’ Then she relaxed, smiled at the bread. She slapped some peanut butter onto one slice. Her voice was calm. ‘I do have a grudge, Inspector, but I did not set fire to that man’s flat. I’m even pleased that he wasn’t injured.’

‘Who says he wasn’t?’

‘What?’

‘He’s in hospital.’

‘Is he? I thought someone said there’d been no—’

‘Who said?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. One of the other teachers. Maybe they’d heard something on the radio. I don’t know. Tea or coffee?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’

She made two mugs of decaffeinated instant. ‘Let’s go through to the living-room,’ she said.

There, she gave him the story of the phone calls, and the story of the man with the binoculars.

‘Bird-watching my eye,’ she said. ‘He was looking into people’s windows.’

‘Hard to tell, surely.’

She twitched her nose. ‘Looking into people’s windows,’ she repeated.

‘Did anyone else see him?’

‘He stopped after I complained. But who knows? I mean, it’s easy enough to see someone during the day. But at night, in that room of his with the lights turned off. He could sit there all night watching us. Who would know?’

‘You say you spoke to the other residents?’

‘Yes.’

‘All of them?’

‘One or two. That’s enough, word gets round.’

I’ll bet, thought Rebus. And he had another thought, which really was just a word: tenementality. He ate the spicy sandwich and the sickly sandwich quickly, drained his mug and said he’d leave her to finish her lunch in peace. (‘Finish your piece in peace,’ he’d nearly said, but hadn’t, just in case she didn’t get the joke.) He walked downstairs, but instead of making along the passage to the front door, turned right and headed towards the tenement’s back door.

Outside, the biker was fitting a bulb to his brake-light. He took the new bulb from a plastic box and tossed the empty box onto the sheet of plastic.

‘Mind if I take that?’ asked Rebus. The youth looked round at him, saw where he was pointing, then shrugged and returned to his work. There was a small cassette recorder playing on the grass beside him. Heavy Metal. The batteries were low and the sound was tortuous.

‘Can if you like,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ Rebus lifted the box by its edges and slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘I use them to keep my flies in.’

The biker turned and grinned.

‘Fishing flies,’ Rebus explained, smiling himself. ‘It’s just perfect for keeping my fishing flies in.’

‘No flies on you, eh?’ said the youth.

Rebus laughed. ‘Are you Mrs McKay’s son?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’ The bulb was fitted, the casing was being screwed back into place.

‘I’d test that before you put the casing on. Just in case it’s a dud. You’d only have to take it apart again.’

The boy looked round again. ‘No flies on you,’ he repeated. He took the casing off again.

‘I’ve just been up seeing your mum.’

‘Oh aye?’ The tone told Rebus that the boy’s parents were either separated, or else the father was dead. You’re her latest, are you? the tone implied. Mum’s latest fancy-man.

‘She was telling me about the fire.’

The boy examined the casing closely. ‘Fire?’

‘Last night. Have you noticed any of your petrol-cans disappearing? Or maybe one’s got less in than you thought?’

Now, the red see-through casing might have been a gem under a microscope. But the boy was saying nothing.

‘My name’s Rebus, by the way, Inspector Rebus.’

Rebus had a little courtroom conversation with himself on the way back to the station.

And did the suspect drop anything when you revealed your identity to him?

Yes, he dropped his jaw.

Dropped his jaw?

That’s right. He looked like a hairless ape with a bad case of acne. And he lost his nut.

Lost his nut?

A nut he’d been holding. It fell into the grass. He was still looking for it when I left.

What about the plastic box, Inspector, the one in which the new brake-light bulb had been residing? Did he ask for it back?

I didn’t give him the chance. It’s my intention never to give a sucker an even chance.

Back at the station, comfortable in his chair, the desk solid and reliable in front of him, the heater solid and reliable behind, Rebus thought about fire, the easy assassin. You didn’t need to get your hands on a gun. Didn’t even need to buy a knife. Acid, poison, again, difficult to find. But fire... fire was everywhere. A disposable lighter, a box of matches. Strike a match and you had fire. Warming, nourishing, dangerous fire. Rebus lit a cigarette, the better to help him think. There wouldn’t be any news from the lab for some time yet. Some time. Something was niggling. Something he’d heard. What was it? A saying came to mind: prompt payment will be appreciated. You used to get that on the bottom of invoices. Prompt payment.

Probably pays his rent promptly, too.

Well, well. Now there was a thing. Owner-occupier. Not every owner did occupy, and not every occupier was an owner. Rebus recalled that Detective Sergeant Hendry of Dunfermline CID was a keen bird-watcher. Once or twice, on courses or at conferences, he’d collared Rebus and bored him with tales of the latest sighting of the Duddingston bittern or the Kilconquhar red-head smew. Like all hobbyists, Hendry was keen to have others share his enthusiasm. Like all anti-hobbyists, Rebus would yawn with more irony than was necessary.

Still, it was worth a phone-call.

‘I’ll have to call you back, John,’ said a busy DS Hendry. ‘It’s not the sort of thing I could tell you offhand. Give me your number at home and I’ll ring you tonight. I didn’t know you were interested.’

‘I’m not, believe me.’

But his words went unheeded. ‘I saw siskins and twite earlier in the year.’

‘Really?’ said Rebus. ‘I’ve never been one for country and western music. Siskins and twite, eh? They’ve been around for years.’

By the following morning, he had everything he needed. He arrived as Mrs McKay and her son were eating a late breakfast. The television was on, providing the noise necessary to their lives. Rebus had come accompanied by two other officers, so that there could be no doubting he meant business. Gerry McKay’s jaw dropped again as Rebus began to speak. The tale itself was quickly told. John Brodie’s front door had been examined, the metal letterbox checked for fingerprints. Some good, if oily, prints had been found, and these matched those found on the plastic box Rebus had taken from Gerry McKay. There could be no doubting that Gerry McKay had pushed open John Brodie’s letterbox. If Gerry would accompany the officers to the station.

‘Mum!’ McKay was on his feet, yelling, panicky. ‘Mum, tell them! Tell them!’

Mrs McKay had a face as dark as ketchup. Rebus was glad he had brought the other officers. Her voice trembled when she spoke. ‘It wasn’t Gerry’s idea,’ she said. ‘It was mine. If there’s anyone you want to talk to about it, it should be me. It was my idea. Only, I knew Gerry’d be faster getting in and out of the stairwell. That’s all. He’s got nothing to do with it.’ She paused, her face turning even nastier. ‘Besides, that wee shite deserved all he got. Dirty, evil little runt of a man. You didn’t see the state Alison was in. Such a nice wee girl, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and to be got into a state like that. I couldn’t let him get away with it, hell. And if it were up to you lot, he’d have gotten off scot-free, wouldn’t he? It’s nothing to do with Gerry.’

‘It’ll be taken into account at the trial,’ Rebus said quietly.

John Brodie looked not to have moved since Rebus had left him. His arms still lay on the top of the bed-cover, and he was still propped up against a pillow.

‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said. ‘Back again.’

‘Back again,’ said Rebus, placing a chair by the bed and seating himself. ‘The doctor says you’re doing fine.’

‘Yes,’ said Brodie.

‘Anything I can get you?’ Brodie shook his head. ‘No? Juice? A bit of fruit maybe? How about something to read? I notice you like girlie mags. I saw one in your flat. I could get you a few of those if you like.’ Rebus winked. ‘Readers’ wives, eh? Amateurs. That’s your style. All those blurry Polaroid shots, heads cut off. That’s what you like, eh, John?’

But John Brodie was saying nothing. He was looking at his arms. Rebus drew the chair closer to the bed. Brodie flinched, but could not move.

‘Panurus biarmicus,’ Rebus hissed. Now Brodie looked blankly at him. Rebus repeated the words. Still Brodie looked blank. ‘Go on,’ Rebus chided, ‘take a guess.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No?’ Rebus was wide-eyed. ‘Curious that. Sounds like the name of a disease, doesn’t it? Maybe you know it better as the bearded tit.’

‘Oh.’ Brodie smiled shyly, and nodded. ‘Yes, the bearded tit.’

Rebus smiled too, but coldly. ‘You didn’t know, you didn’t have a clue. Shall I tell you something about the bearded tit? No, better yet, Mr Brodie, you tell me something about it.’ He sat back and folded his arms expectantly.

‘What?’

‘Go on.’

‘Look, what’s all this about?’

‘It’s quite simple, you see.’ Rebus sat forward again. ‘The bearded tit isn’t commonly found in Scotland. I got that from an expert. Not commonly found, that’s what he said. More than that, its habitat — and I’m quoting here — is “extensive and secluded reed-beds”. Do you see what I’m getting at? You’d hardly call Easter Road a reed-bed, would you?’

Brodie raised his head a little, his thin lips very straight and wide. He was thinking, but he wasn’t talking.

‘You see what I’m getting at, don’t you? You told those two constables that you were watching bearded tits from your window. But that’s just not true. It couldn’t possibly be true. You said the name of the first bird that came into your head, and it came into your head because there was a drawing on your living-room wall. I saw it myself. But it’s not you that’s the bird-watcher, John. It’s your landlord and landlady. You rented the place furnished and you haven’t changed anything. It’s their drawings on the wall. They got in touch about the insurance, you see. Wondering whether the fire was accidental. They saw a bit about it in the newspaper. They could appreciate that they hadn’t heard from you, what with you being in hospital and all, but they wanted to sort out the insurance. So I was able to ask them about the birds on the wall. Their birds, John, not yours. It was quick thinking of you to come up with the story. It even fooled those two PCs. It might have fooled me. That book about zoom photography, even that had a picture of birds on the front.’ He paused. ‘But you’re a peeper, John, that’s all. That’s what you are, a nasty little voyeur. Miss Hooper was right all the time.’

‘Was it her who—?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

‘It’s all lies, you know. Hearsay, circumstantial. You’ve no proof.’

‘What about the photos?’

‘What photos?’

Rebus sighed. ‘Come on, John. All that gear in your bedroom. Tripod, camera, zoom lenses. Photographing birds, were you? I’d be interested to see the results. Because it wasn’t just binoculars, was it? You took piccies, too. In your wardrobe, are they?’ Rebus checked his watch. ‘With luck I’ll have the search warrant inside the hour. Then I intend to take a good look round your flat, John. I intend taking a very good look.’

‘There’s nothing there.’ He was shaking now, his arms moving painfully in their gauze bandages. ‘Nothing. You’ve no right. Someone tried to kill... No right. They tried to kill me.’

Rebus was willing to concede a point. ‘Certainly they tried to scare you. We’ll see what the courts decide.’ He rose to his feet. Brodie was still twittering on. Twit, twit, twit. It would be a while before he’d be able to use a camera again.

‘Do you want to know something else, John?’ Rebus said, unable to resist one of his parting shots. ‘Something about the bearded tit? It’s classified as a babbler.’ He smiled a smile of warm sunshine. ‘A babbler!’ he repeated. ‘Looks to me like you’re a bit of a babbler yourself. Well,’ he picked up the chair and pretended to be considering something, ‘at any rate, I’d certainly classify you as a tit.’

He returned that evening to his own tenement and his roaring gas fire. But there was a surprise awaiting him on the doorhandle of his flat. A reminder from Mrs Cochrane downstairs. A reminder that it was his week for washing the stairs and that he hadn’t done it yet and it was nearly the end of the week and when was he going to do it? Rebus sent a roar into the stairwell before slamming shut the door behind him. It was only a moment before other doors started to open, faces peering out, and another Edinburgh tenement conversation began, multi-storeyed, undertone and echoing.