Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin Page A

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 neighbors 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 endeavor?” 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