Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin Page B

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 doorjamb, then turned the handle. “Not locked,” he said, confirming her theory. The noise had brought people out on to the landing: not just neighbors, 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 flashlights.
    “All clear,” the leader said.
    Rebus reached into the hall and tried the light switch: nothing. “Mind if I borrow a flashlight?” He could see that the leader minded very much. “I’ll bring it back, promise.” He held out a hand.
    “Alan, give him your flashlight,” the leader snapped.
    “Yes, sir.” The flashlight was handed over.
    “Tomorrow morning,” the leader instructed.
    “I’ll hand it in first thing,” Rebus assured him. The leader glowered, then signaled 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 flashlight, 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 apologized.
    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 flashlight on the countertop. “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 teacups, and a tea caddy half filled with loose tea. A bag of sugar sat on the countertop 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-colored 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 polyethylene bin liner. Rebus upended it and saw ragged clothes, neatly folded. “Stuff must’ve come from a jumble