‘He’s down the boozer, most likely,’ she said.

‘How many kids have you got?’

‘Three.’

‘Must be pushed for space.’

‘That’s what we keep telling them. All they’ll say is our name’s on the list.’

‘What age is your oldest?’

Eyes narrowing. ‘Eleven.’

‘Any chance he saw something?’

She shook her head. ‘He’d’ve told me.’

‘What about your man?’

She smiled. ‘He’d have seen everything twice.’

Rebus smiled too. ‘Well, if you hear anything … from the kids or your man …’

‘Aye, right.’ Slowly, so as not to cause offence, she shut the door on him.

Rebus climbed the next flight. Dog shit on the landing, a used condom: he tried not to connect the two. Felt-marker graffiti on the door – Wanker, HMFC, cartoon coitus. The occupier had given up trying to wipe it off. Rebus pushed the doorbell. No answer; he tried again.

A voice from within: ‘Bugger off!’

‘Could I have a word?’

‘Who is it?’

‘CID.’

A chain rattled, and the door opened two inches. Rebus saw half a face: an old woman, or maybe an old man. He showed his warrant card.

‘You’re not moving me out. I’ll be here when they pull the place down.’

‘I don’t want to move you out.’

‘Eh?’

Rebus raised his voice. ‘Nobody wants to move you out.’

‘Aye they do, but I’m not moving, you can tell them that.’ Rebus caught foul breath, a meaty smell.

‘Look, have you heard what happened next door?’

‘Eh?’

Rebus peered through the gap. The hallway was littered with sheets of newspaper, empty cat-food tins. One more try.

‘Someone was killed next door.’

‘Don’t try your tricks with me, boyo!’ Anger in the voice.

‘I’m not trying any … ach, to hell with it.’ Rebus turned, started back downstairs. Suddenly the outside world looked good to him in the warm sunshine. It was all relative. He walked over to the corner shop, asked the kids a few questions, handed out mints to anyone who wanted one. He didn’t learn anything, but ended up with an excuse to go inside. He bought a packet of extra-strong, put it in his pocket for later, asked the Asian behind the counter a couple of questions. She was fifteen, maybe sixteen, extraordinarily pretty. A video was playing on the TV, high up on one wall. Hong Kong gangsters shooting chunks out of each other. She didn’t have anything to tell him.

‘Do you like Niddrie?’ he asked.

‘It’s all right.’ Her voice was pure Edinburgh, eyes on the TV.

Rebus drove back to Fort Apache. The Shed was empty. He drank a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. Niddrie, Craigmillar, Wester Hailes, Muirhouse, Pilton, Granton … They all seemed to him like some horrible experiment in social engineering: scientists in white coats sticking families down in this maze or that, seeing what would happen, how strong they’d have to become to cope, whether or not they’d find the exit … He lived in an area of Edinburgh where six figures bought you a three-bedroom flat. It amused him that he could sell up and be suddenly rich … except, of course, that he’d have nowhere to live, and couldn’t afford to move anywhere nicer in the city. He realised he was just about as trapped as anyone in Niddrie or Craigmillar, nicer model of trap, that was all.