‘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.’