‘Try and keep me away, sir,’ Rebus said, searching in his pockets for his car keys and heading for the exit.
He was in the car park when his mobile sounded. It was Shug Davidson.
‘Seen the paper today, John?’
‘Anything I should know about?’
‘You might want to see what your friend Steve Holly has been saying about us.’
Rebus’s face tightened. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said. Five minutes later, he was pulling over kerbside, lunging into a newsagent’s. He pored over newsprint in the driver’s seat. Holly had printed the photo, but had surrounded it with an article on the sharper practices of bogus asylum-seekers. Mention was made of suspected terrorists who’d entered Britain as refugees. There was anecdotal evidence of spongers and charlatans, along with quotes from Knoxland residents. The message given was twofold: Britain is a soft target, and we can’t allow the situation to continue.
In the middle of which, the photo looked like nothing more than window-dressing.
Rebus called Holly on his mobile, but got an answering service. After a slew of judicious swear-words, he hung up.
He drove to the council housing department on Waterloo Place, where he’d arranged to meet with a Mrs Mackenzie. She was a small, bustling woman in her fifties. Shug Davidson had already faxed her his official request for information, but she still wasn’t happy.
‘It’s a matter of privacy,’ she told Rebus. ‘There are all sorts of rules and restrictions these days.’ She was leading him through an open-plan office.
‘I don’t suppose the deceased will complain, Mrs Mackenzie, especially if we catch his killer.’
‘Well, all the same...’ She had brought them into a tiny glass-walled compartment, which Rebus realised was her office.
‘And I thought the walls out at Knoxland were thin.’ He tapped the glass. She was shifting paperwork from a chair, gesturing for him to sit. Then she squeezed around the desk and sat in her own chair, putting on a pair of half-moon spectacles and sifting through paperwork.
Rebus didn’t think charm was going to work with this woman. Maybe just as well, since he’d never scored high marks in those tests. He decided to appeal to her professionalism.
‘Look, Mrs Mackenzie, we both like to see that whatever job we’re doing is done properly.’ She peered at him over her glasses. ‘My job today happens to be a murder inquiry. We can’t begin that inquiry properly until we know who the victim was. A fingerprint match came through first thing this morning: the victim was definitely your tenant...’
‘Well, you see, Inspector, that’s just my problem. The poor man who died was not one of my tenants.’
Rebus frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’ She handed him a sheet of paper.
‘Here are the tenant’s details. I believe your victim was Asian or similar. Is he likely to have been called Robert Baird?’
Rebus’s eyes were fixed to that name. The flat number was right... right tower block, too. Robert Baird was listed as the tenant.
‘He must have moved.’
Mackenzie was shaking her head. ‘These records are up-to-date. The last rent money we received was only last week. It was paid by Mr Baird.’
‘You’re thinking he sub-let?’
A broad smile lightened Mrs Mackenzie’s face. ‘Which is strictly forbidden by the tenancy agreement,’ she said.
‘But people do it?’
‘Of course they do. The thing is, I decided to do some sleuthing myself...’ She sounded pleased with herself. Rebus leaned forward in his chair, warming to her.
‘Do tell,’ he said.
‘I checked with the city’s other housing areas. There are several Robert Bairds on the list. Plus other forenames, all with the surname Baird.’
‘Some of them could be genuine,’ Rebus said, playing devil’s advocate.
‘And some of them not.’
‘You think this guy Baird’s been applying for council housing on a grand scale?’
She shrugged. ‘There’s only one way to be sure...’
The first address they tried was a tower block in Dumbiedykes, near Rebus’s old police station. The woman who answered the door looked African. There were little kids scurrying around behind her.
‘We’re looking for Mr Baird,’ Mackenzie said. The woman just shook her head. Mackenzie repeated the name.
‘The man you pay rent to,’ Rebus added. The woman kept shaking her head, closing the door slowly but purposefully on them.
‘I think we’re getting somewhere,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Come on.’
Out of the car, she was brisk and businesslike, but in the passenger seat she relaxed, asking Rebus about his job, where he lived, whether he was married.
‘Separated,’ he told her. ‘Long time back. How about you?’
She held up a hand to show him her wedding ring.
‘But sometimes women just wear one so they get less hassle,’ he said.
She snorted. ‘And I thought I had a suspicious mind.’
‘Goes with both our jobs, I suppose.’
She gave a sigh. ‘My job would be a hell of a lot easier without them.’
‘Immigrants, you mean?’
She nodded. ‘I look into their eyes sometimes, and I get a glimpse of what they’ve gone through to get here.’ She paused. ‘And all I can offer them are places like Knoxland...’
‘Better than nothing,’ Rebus said.
‘I hope so...’
Their next stop was a block of flats in Leith. The lifts were out of order, so they’d to climb four storeys, Mackenzie powering ahead in her noisy shoes. Rebus took a moment to catch his breath, then nodded to let her know she could knock on the door. A male answered. He was swarthy and unshaven, wearing a white vest and jogging bottoms. He was running fingers through thick dark hair.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said, in heavily accented English.
‘That’s some elocution teacher you’ve got,’ Rebus said, voice hardening to match the man’s. The man stared at him, not understanding.
Mackenzie turned to Rebus. ‘Slavic maybe? East European?’ She turned to the man. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Fuck you,’ the man replied. There seemed little malice in it; he was trying the words out either to note their effect or because they’d worked for him in the past.
‘Robert Baird,’ Rebus said. ‘You know him?’ The man’s eyes narrowed, and Rebus repeated the name. ‘You pay him money.’ He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, hoping the man might understand. Instead, he grew agitated.
‘Fuck off now!’
‘We’re not asking you for money,’ Rebus tried to explain. ‘We’re looking for Robert Baird. This is his flat.’ Rebus pointed to the interior.
‘Landlord,’ Mackenzie tried, but it was no good. The man’s face was twitching; sweat was beginning to break out on his forehead.
‘No problem,’ Rebus told him, holding his hands up, showing the man his palms — hoping maybe this sign would get through to him. Suddenly he noticed another figure in the shadows down the hallway. ‘You speak English?’ he called.
The man turned his head, barked something guttural. But the figure kept coming forward, until Rebus could see that it was a teenage boy.
‘Speak English?’ he repeated.
‘Little,’ the lad admitted. He was skinny and handsome, dressed in a short-sleeved blue shirt and denims.
‘You’re immigrants?’ Rebus asked.
‘Here our country,’ the boy stated defensively.
‘Don’t worry, son, we’re not from Immigration. You pay money to live here, don’t you?’
‘We pay, yes.’
‘The man you give the money to — he’s the one we’d like to talk to.’