roadside tenements, and people on the dole, in rented flats housing too many bodies, keeping the rent down. But when you thought of Morningside you thought of old ladies and that peculiar pronunciation they had, like they'd all understudied Maggie Smith in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. The Glaswegians joked about it. They said Morningside people thought sex was what the coal came in. Rebus doubted there were coal fires in Morningside any longer, though there would certainly be some wood-burning stoves, brought in by the young professionals who probably outnumbered the old ladies these days, though they weren't nearly so conspicuous.
It was to serve these young professionals, as well as to cater for local businesses, that a thriving little computer shop had opened near the corner of Comiston Road and Morningside Drive.
'Can I help you?’ the male assistant asked, not looking up from his keyboard.
'Is Millie around?’
Rebus asked.
'Through the arch.’
'Thanks.’
There was a single step up to the arch, through which was another part of the shop, specialising in contract work and business packages. Rebus almost didn't recognise Millie, though there was no one else there. She was seated at a terminal, thinking about something, tapping her finger against her lips. It took her a second to place Rebus. She hit a key, the screen went blank, and she rose from her seat.
She was dressed in an immaculate combination of brilliant white skirt and bright yellow blouse, with a single string of crystals around her neck.
'I just can't shake you lot off, can I?’
She did not sound unhappy. Indeed, she seemed almost too pleased to see them, her smile immense. 'Can I fix you some coffee?’
'Not for me, thanks.’
Millie looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shook her head. 'Mind if I make some for myself?’
She went to the arch. 'Steve? Cuppa?’
'Wouldn't say no.’
She came back. 'No, but he might say please, just once.’
There was a cubby-hole at the back of the shop, leading to a toilet cubicle. In the cubbyhole sat a percolator, a packet of ground coffee, and several grim-looking mugs. Millie got to work. While she was occupied, Rebus asked his first question.
'Billy's mum tells us you were good enough to pack up all his stuff.'
'It's still sitting in his room, three bin liners. Not a lot to show for a life, is it?’
'What about his motorbike?’
She smiled. 'That thing. You could hardly call it a bike. A friend of his asked if he could have it. Billy's mum said she didn't mind.’
'You liked Billy?’
'I liked him a lot. He was genuine. You never got bullshit with Billy. If he didn't like you, he'd tell you to your face. I hear his dad's some kind of villain.’
'They didn't know one another.’
She slapped the coffee-maker. 'This thing takes ages. Is that what you want to ask me about, Billy's dad?’
'Just a few general questions. Before he died, did Billy seem worried about anything?’
'I've been asked already, more than once.’
She looked at Clarke. 'You first, and then that big bastard with the voice like something caught in a mousetrap.’
Rebus smiled: it was a fair description of Ken Smylie. 'Billy was just the same as ever, that's all I can say.’
'Did he get along okay with Mr Murdock?’
'What sort of question is that? Christ, you're scraping the barrel if you think Murdock would've done anything to Billy.’
'You know what it's like in mixed flats though, where there's a couple plus one, jealousy can be a problem.’
An electric buzzer announced the arrival of a customer. They could hear Steve talking to someone.
'We've got to ask, Millie,' Clarke said soothingly.
'No you don't. It's just that you like asking!' So much for the good mood. Even Steve and the customer seemed to be listening. The coffee machine started dolloping boiled water into the filter.
'Look,' said Rebus, 'let's calm down, eh? If you like, we can come back. We could come to the flat 'It never ends, does it? What is this? Trying to get a confession out of me?’
She clasped her hands together. 'Yes, I killed him. It was me.’
Slfe held her hands out, wrists prominent. 'I've forgotten my cuff's,' Rebus said, smiling. Millie looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shrugged.
'Great, I can't even get myself arrested.’
She sloshed coffee into a mug. 'And I thought it was the easiest thing in the world.’
'Are we really so bad, Millie?’
She smiled, looked down at her mug. 'I suppose not, sorry about that.’
'You're under a lot of strain,' said Siobhan Clarke, 'we appreciate that. Maybe if we sit down, eh?’
So they sat at Millie's desk, like customers and assistant. Clarke, who liked computers, had actually picked up a couple of brochures.
'That's got a twenty-five megahertz microprocessor,' Millie said, pointing to one of the brochures.
'What size memory?’
'Four meg RAM, I think, but you can select a hard disk up to one-sixty.’
`Does this one have a 486 chip?’
Good girl, thought Rebus. Clarke was calming Millie down, taking her mind off both Billy Cunningham and her recent outburst. Steve brought the customer through to show him a certain screen. He gave the three of them a look full of curiosity.
'Sorry, Steve,' said Millie, 'forgot your coffee.’
Her smile would not have passed a polygraph.
Rebus waited till Steve and the customer had retreated. 'Did Billy ever bring friends back to the flat?’
'I've given you a list.’
Rebus nodded. 'Nobody else you've thought of since?’
'No.’
'Can I try you with a couple of names?. Davey Soutar and Jamesie MacMurray.’
'Last names don't mean much in our flat. Davey and Jamesie… I don't think so.’
Rebus willed her to look at him. She did so then locked away again quickly. You're lying, he thought.
They left the shop ten minutes later. Clarke looked up and down the pavement. 'Want to go see Murdock now?’
'I don't think so. What do you suppose it was she didn't want us to see?’
‘Sorry?’
'You look up, see the police coming towards you, why do you blank your computer screen pronto and then come flying off your seat all bounce and flounce?’
'You think there was something on the computer she didn't want us to see?’
'I thought I just said that,' said Rebus. He got into the Renault's passenger seat and waited for Clarke. 'Jamesie MacMurray knows about The Shield. They killed Billy.’
'So why aren't we pulling him in?’
'We've nothing on him, nothing that would stick. That's not the way to work it.’
She looked at him. 'Too mundane?’
He shook his head. `Like a golf course, too full of holes: We need to get him scared.’
She thought about this. 'Why did they kill Billy?’
'I think he was about to talk, maybe he'd threatened to come to us.’
'Could he be that stupid?’
'Maybe he had insurance, something he thought would save his skin.’
