Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin

pint.”
    “Hardly any graffiti. I mean, compared with the other blocks.”
    Rebus looked down towards ground level. It was true: the rough 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. Recognizing 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 gray 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