Ancram looked around the bar, as though begging for witnesses to Rebus’s remarks.

‘Would you care to name any names, Inspector, or is hearsay good enough for Edinburgh CID? The way I hear it, there’s no cupboard-space left in Fettes, they’re so jam-packed with skeletons.’ He picked up his drink. ‘And half those skeletons seem to have your fingerprints all over them.’

The smile again, sparkling eyes, laughter lines. How did he know? Rebus turned to go. Ancram’s voice followed him out of the pub.

‘We can’t all go running to friends in Barlinnie! I’ll see you around, Inspector …’

7

Aberdeen.

Aberdeen meant away from Edinburgh; no Justice Programme, no Fort Apache, no shite for him to skite in. Aberdeen looked good.

But Rebus had things to do in Edinburgh. He wanted to see the locus in daylight, so drove out there, not risking his own Saab; leaving it at Fort Apache and taking the spare Escort. Jim MacAskill wanted him on the case because he hadn’t been around long enough to make enemies; Rebus was wondering how you ever made friends in Niddrie. The place was if anything bleaker by day: blocked-in windows, glass like shrapnel on the tarmac, kids playing in the sunshine with no real enthusiasm, eyes and mouths narrowing as his car cruised past.

They’d knocked a lot of the estate down; behind it was better housing, semi-detached. Satellite dishes a status symbol: the owners’ status – unemployed. The estate boasted a derelict pub – insurance job blaze – and one all-purpose corner shop, its window full of video posters. The kids made this last their base. BMX bandits blowing bubble-gum. Rebus drove past slowly, his eyes on them. The death flat wasn’t quite on the edge of the estate, not quite visible from Niddrie Mains Road. Rebus was thinking: Tony El didn’t come from round here, and if he’d picked the spot by chance, there were other derelict flats nearer the main road.

Two men plus the victim. Tony El and an accomplice.

The accomplice had local knowledge.

Rebus climbed the stairs to the flat. The place had been sealed, but he had keys to both padlocks. The living room as before, upside-down table, blanket. He wondered who’d slept there, maybe they’d seen something. He reckoned his chances of finding them were one per cent; of getting them to talk, slightly less. Kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms, hallway. He kept close to the walls, so as not to fall through the floor. There was no one living in the block, but the next block along had glass in a couple of its windows: one on the first storey, one on the second. Rebus knocked on the first door. A dishevelled woman answered, an infant clinging round her neck. He didn’t need to introduce himself.

‘I don’t know anything, and I didn’t see or hear anything.’ She made to close the door.

‘You married?’

She opened the door again. ‘What’s it to you?’

Rebus shrugged; good question.