Maybe next time he’d take the bus. After all, Chris Kemp’s flat was only a quarter of an hour from Great London Road. The harassed-sounding woman on the news desk had given him the address as soon as he asked for it. And he had asked for it only when told that Kemp was on his day off. She’d given him the reporter’s home phone number first, and, recognizing the first three digits as designating a local code, Rebus had asked for the address.

‘You could just as easily have looked in the book,’ she’d said before ringing off.

‘Thank you, too,’ he answered to the dead connection.

It was a second-floor flat. He pressed the intercom button beside the main door of the tenement, and waited. And waited. Should have phoned first, John. But then a crackle, and after the crackle: ‘Yeah?’ The voice groggy. Rebus glanced at his watch. Quarter to two.

‘Didn’t wake you, did I, Chris?’

‘Who is that?’

‘John Rebus. Get your breeks on and I’ll buy you a pie and a pint.’

A groan. ‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly two.’

‘Christ . . . Never mind the alcohol, I need coffee. There’s a shop at the corner. Fetch some milk, will you? I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Back in two ticks.’

The intercom crackled into silence. Rebus went and fetched the milk, then buzzed the intercom again. There was a louder buzz from behind the door, and he pushed it open, entering the dim stairwell. By the time he reached the second floor, he was peching and remembering exactly why he liked living in Patience’s basement. The door to Kemp’s flat was ajar. Another name had been fixed to the door with Sellotape, just below Kemp’s own. V. Christie. The girlfriend, Rebus supposed. A bicycle wheel, missing its tyre, rested against the hall wall. So did books, dozens of them, rickety, towering piles of them. He tiptoed past.

‘Milkman!’ he called.

‘In here.’

The living room was at the end of the hall. It was large, but contained almost no space. Kemp, dressed in last week’s t-shirt and the week before’s denims, ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Morning, Inspector. A timely alarm call. I’m supposed to be meeting someone at three o’clock.’

‘Hint taken. I was just passing and –’

Kemp threw him a disbelieving glance, then busied himself at the sink, where he was trying his damnedest to get the stains off two mug-rims. The room served as living room and kitchen both. There was a fine old cooking range in the fireplace, but it had become a display case for pot plants and ornamental boxes. The actual cooker was a greasy-looking electrical device sited just next to the sink. On a dining table sat a word processor, boxes of paper, files, and next to the table stood a green metal filing cabinet, four drawers high, its bottom drawer open to show more files. Books, magazines, and newspapers were stacked on most of the available floor space, but there was room for a sofa, one armchair, TV and video, and a hi-fi.