‘Better,’ Rebus said, placing the torch on the worktop. ‘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 tea-cups and a tea caddy half filled with loose-leaf tea. A bag of sugar sat on the worktop 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-coloured 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 polythene bin-liner. Rebus upended it, and saw ragged clothes, neatly folded. ‘Stuff must’ve come from a jumble sale,’ he said.
‘Or a charity — plenty of those working with asylum-seekers.’
‘You reckon that’s what he was?’
‘Well, let’s just say he doesn’t look exactly settled here. I’d say he arrived with a bare minimum of personal effects.’
Rebus picked up the sleeping-bag and gave it a shake. It was the old-fashioned sort: wide and thin. Half a dozen photographs tumbled from it. Rebus picked them up. Snapshots, softened at their edges by regular handling. A woman and two young children.
‘Wife and kids?’ Siobhan guessed.
‘Where do you think they were taken?’
‘Not Scotland.’
No, because of the background: the plaster-white walls of an apartment, window looking out across the roofs of a city. Rebus got the sense of a hot country, cloudless deep blue sky. The kids looked bemused; one had his fingers in his mouth. The woman and her daughter were smiling, arms around one another.
‘Someone might recognise them, I suppose,’ Siobhan offered.
‘They might not have to,’ Rebus stated. ‘This is a council flat, remember?’
‘Meaning the council will know who he was?’
Rebus nodded. ‘First thing we need to do is fingerprint this place, make sure we’re not jumping to conclusions. Then it’ll be down to the council to give us a name.’
‘And does any of that get us nearer to finding the killer?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Whoever did it, they went home covered in blood. No way they walked through Knoxland without being noticed.’ He paused. ‘Which doesn’t mean anyone’s going to come forward.’
‘He might be a murderer, but he’s their murderer?’ Siobhan guessed.
‘Either that or they could just be scared of him. Plenty of hard cases in Knoxland.’
‘So we’re no further forward.’
Rebus held up one of the photos. ‘What do you see?’ he asked.
‘A family.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘You see a widow, and two kids who’ll never see their dad again. They’re the ones we should be thinking of, not ourselves.’
Siobhan nodded her agreement. ‘I suppose we could always go public with the photos.’
‘I was thinking the same thing. I even think I know the man for the job.’
‘Steve Holly?’
‘The paper he writes for might be a rag, but plenty of people read it.’ He looked around. ‘Seen enough?’ Siobhan nodded again. ‘Then let’s go tell Shug Davidson what we’ve found...’
Davidson got on the phone to the fingerprints team, and Rebus persuaded him to let him keep one of the photos, to be passed on to the media.
‘Can’t do any harm,’ was Davidson’s unenthusiastic reaction. He was lifted, however, by the realisation that Council Housing would have a name on the tenancy agreement.
‘And by the way,’ Rebus said, ‘however much is in the budget, it just dropped by a pound.’ He gestured towards Siobhan. ‘Had to put money in the meter.’
Davidson smiled, reached into his pocket, and produced a couple of coins. ‘There you go, Shiv. Get yourself a drink with the change.’
‘What about me?’ Rebus complained. ‘Is this sex discrimination or what?’
‘You, John, are about to hand an exclusive to Steve Holly. If he doesn’t buy you a few beers on the back of that, he should be run out of the profession...’
As Rebus drove out of the estate, he suddenly remembered something. He called Siobhan on her mobile. She, too, was heading into town.
‘I’ll probably be seeing Holly at the pub,’ he said, ‘if you fancy tagging along.’
‘Tempting as that offer sounds, I have to be elsewhere. But thanks for asking.’
‘It wasn’t why I called... You don’t fancy nipping back to the victim’s flat?’
‘No.’ She was silent for a moment, then it dawned on her. ‘You promised you’d take that torch back!’
‘Instead of which, it’s lying on the worktop in the kitchen.’
‘Phone Davidson or Wylie.’
Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘Ach, it can wait. I mean, what’s going to happen to it — lying out in the open in an empty flat with a broken-down door? I’m sure they’re all honest, God-fearing souls...’
‘You’re really hoping it’ll go walkies, aren’t you?’ He could almost hear her grinning. ‘Just to see what they do about it.’
‘What do you reckon: dawn raid, streaming down my hall looking for something they can replace it with?’
‘There’s an evil streak in you, John Rebus.’
‘Of course there is — no reason for me to be different from anyone else.’
He ended the call, drove to the Oxford Bar, where he slowly sank a single pint of Deuchar’s, using it to wash down the last corned-beef-and-beetroot roll on the shelf. Harry the barman asked him if he knew anything about the satanic ritual.
‘What satanic ritual?’
‘The one in Fleshmarket Close. Some kind of coven...’
‘Christ, Harry, do you believe every story you get told in here?’
Harry tried not to look disappointed. ‘But the baby’s skeleton...’
‘Fake... planted there.’
‘Why would anybody do that?’
Rebus sought out an answer. ‘Maybe you’re right, Harry — could’ve been the barman, selling his soul to the devil.’
The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. ‘Reckon mine would be worth doing a deal on?’
‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell,’ Rebus said, lifting the pint to his mouth. He was thinking of Siobhan’s I have to be elsewhere. Probably meant she was planning to pin down Dr Curt. Rebus took out his phone, checking that there was enough of a signal for him to make a call. He had the reporter’s number in his wallet. Holly picked up straight away.
‘DI Rebus, an unexpected pleasure...’ Meaning he had caller ID, and was in company, letting whoever he was with know the sort of person who might call him out of the blue, wanting them to be impressed...
‘Sorry to interrupt you when you’re in a meeting with your editor,’ Rebus said. The phone was silent for a few moments, and Rebus allowed himself a nice big smile. Holly seemed to be apologising, stepping out of whatever room he was in. His voice became a hushed hiss.