The SOCOs were concentrating on the kitchen.

‘What have we got?’ Rebus asked. Someone shone their torch into a corner.

‘Bag full of booze, sir. Whisky, rum, some tinnies and nibbles.’

‘Party time.’

Rebus walked to the window. A woolly suit was standing there, looking down on to the street, where a team of four were trying to manoeuvre the body from the railings.

‘That’s just about as potted heid as you can get.’ The young constable turned to Rebus. ‘What’s the odds, sir? Alky commits suicide?’

‘Get used to that uniform, son.’ Rebus turned back into the room. ‘I want prints from the bag and its contents. If it’s from an off-licence, you’ll probably find price stickers. If not, could be from a pub. We’re looking for one, more likely two people. Whoever sold them the hooch might give a description. How did they get here? Their own transport? Bus? Taxi? We need to know. How did they know about this place? Local knowledge? We need to ask the neighbours.’ He was walking through the room now. He recognised a couple of junior CID from St Leonard’s, plus Craigmillar uniforms. ‘We’ll split the tasks later. It could all be some hideous accident or joke gone wrong, but whatever it was the victim wasn’t here on his tod. I want to know who was here with him. Thank you and good night.’

Outside, they were taking final photographs of the chair and the bonds around it, before separating chair from body. The chair would be bagged, too, along with any splinters they found. Funny how orderly it all became; order out of chaos. Dr Curt said he’d do the post mortem in the morning. That was fine by Rebus. He got back into the patrol car, wishing it were his own: the Saab had a half bottle of whisky tucked under the driver’s seat. Many of the pubs would still be open: midnight licences. Instead, he drove back to the station. It was less than a mile away. Maclay and Bain looked like they’d just got in, but they’d already heard the news.

‘Murder?’

‘Something like it,’ Rebus said. ‘He was tied to a chair with a plastic bag over his head, mouth taped shut. Maybe he was pushed, maybe he jumped or fell. Whoever was with him left in a rush – forgot to take their carry-out.’

‘Junkies? Dossers?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘New jeans by the look of them, and new Nikes on his feet. Wallet with plenty of cash, bank card and credit card.’

‘So we’ve got a name?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Allan Mitchison, address off Morrison Street.’ He shook a set of keys. ‘Anybody want to tag along?’

Bain went with Rebus, leaving Maclay to ‘hold the fort’ – a phrase overused at Fort Apache. Bain said he didn’t make a good passenger, so Rebus let him drive. DS ‘Dod’ Bain had a rep; it had followed him from Dundee to Falkirk and from there to Edinburgh. Dundee and Falkirk weren’t exactly spa towns either. He sported a nick in the skin beneath his right eye, souvenir of a knife attack. Every so often, his finger strayed to the spot; it wasn’t something he was conscious of. At five-eleven he was a couple of inches shorter than Rebus, maybe ten pounds lighter. He used to box middleweight amateur, southpaw, leaving him one ear which hung lower than the other and a nose which covered half his face. His shorn hair was salt-and-pepper. Married, three sons. Rebus hadn’t seen much at Craigmillar to justify Bain’s hardman rep; he was a regular soldier, a form-filler and by-the-book investigator. Rebus had just dispatched one nemesis – DI Alister Flower, promoted to some Borders outpost, chasing sheep-shaggers and tractor racers – and wasn’t looking to fill the vacancy.