‘Why me?’ Rebus had asked when he’d called in.

‘Because,’ his boss had said, ‘you’re new. You haven’t been around long enough to make enemies on the estate.’

And besides, Rebus could have added, you can’t find Maclay or Bain.

A resident walking his greyhound had called it in. ‘A lot of stuff gets chucked on to the street, but not like this.’

When Rebus arrived, there were a couple of patrol cars on the scene, creating a sort of cordon, which hadn’t stopped the locals gathering. Someone was making grunting noises in imitation of a pig. They didn’t go much for originality around here; tradition stuck hard. The tenements were mostly abandoned, awaiting demolition. The families had been relocated. In some of the buildings, there were still a few occupied flats. Rebus wouldn’t have wanted to stick around.

The body had been pronounced dead, the circumstances suspicious to say the least, and now the forensic and photography crews were gathering. A Fiscal Depute was in conversation with the pathologist, Dr Curt. Curt saw Rebus and nodded a greeting. But Rebus had eyes only for the body. An old-fashioned spike-tipped set of railings ran the length of the tenement, and the body was impaled on the fence, still dripping blood. At first, he thought the body grossly deformed, but as he stepped closer he saw what it was. A chair, half of it smashed in the fall. It was attached to the body by runs of silver tape. There was a plastic bag over the corpse’s head. The bag, once translucent, was now half-filled with blood.

Dr Curt walked over. ‘I wonder if we’ll find an orange in his mouth.’

‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘I’ve been meaning to phone. I was sorry to hear about your … well …’

‘Craigmillar’s not so bad.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I know you didn’t.’ Rebus looked up. ‘How many storeys did he fall?’

‘Looks like a couple. That window there.’

There was a noise behind them. One of the woolly suits was vomiting on to the road. A colleague had an arm around his shoulders, encouraging the flow.

‘Let’s get him down,’ Rebus said. ‘Get the poor bastard into a body bag.’

‘No electricity,’ someone said, handing Rebus a torch.

‘Are the floors safe to walk on?’

‘Nobody’s fallen through yet.’

Rebus moved through the flat. He’d been in dens like it a dozen times. Gangs had been in and sprayed their names and their urine around the place. Others had stripped out anything with even a whiff of monetary value: floor coverings, interior doors, wiring, ceiling roses. A table, missing one leg, had been turned upside down in the living room. There was a crumpled blanket lying on it, and some sheets of newspaper. A real home from home. There was nothing in the bathroom, just holes where the fittings had been. There was a large hole, too, in the bedroom wall. You could look right through into the adjoining flat, and see an identical scene.