Walking into the living room, manoeuvring between boxes, he realised his computer had yet to be unpacked. No rush: they weren’t doing the broadband for another couple of days. At Siobhan’s suggestion he had one night begun composing a list of people he needed to notify of his changed circumstances. It hadn’t even covered half a sheet – and come to think of it, when was the last time he’d seen it? He could hear Brillo in the kitchen, feasting on dry food and fresh water. Rebus hadn’t bothered with dinner; he never seemed particularly hungry these days. There were a few bottles of beer in the kitchen, and several bottles of spirits sitting on the shelf of the alcove adjacent to the window. A couple of nice malts, but he wasn’t really in the mood. Music, though: he should select something special. He remembered moving into the upstairs flat with Rhona half a lifetime ago. He’d had a portable record player then and had put on the second Rolling Stones album, grabbing Rhona and dancing her around the vast-seeming room.
Only later had the walls begun to close in.
When he peered at the spines of his LPs, he saw that they weren’t in anything like the same order as upstairs. Not that there had been any real sense of cataloguing – it was more that he’d known pretty much where he’d find whatever he wanted to hear. Instead of the Stones, he decided on Van Morrison.
‘Aye, you’ll do,’ he said to himself.
Having eased the needle onto the vinyl, he stepped back. The record skipped. He looked down at the floor. Loose floorboard. He placed his foot on it again and the same thing happened. He stabbed a finger at the offender.
‘You’re on my list now, pal,’ he warned it, keeping his footsteps soft as he retreated to his chair.
It wasn’t long before Brillo curled up on the floor next to his feet. Rebus had promised himself that he’d unpack a few more boxes before bedtime, but he realised there was no urgency. When his phone buzzed, he checked the screen before answering: Deborah Quant. He’d asked her a while back if they were courting. She’d replied that they were friends with benefits – which seemed to suit both of them just fine.
‘Hiya, Deb.’
‘Settling in?’
‘Thought you might have popped round to check.’
‘Busy day, mostly thanks to your lot.’
‘I’m long retired, Deb.’ Rebus paused. ‘I’m guessing this is the Saudi student?’
‘Police and Procurator Fiscal don’t seem to trust me to establish cause of death any more.’
‘You reckon pressure’s being applied?’
‘From all sides – government here and in London, plus our friends in the media. Added to which, Muslim burials usually take place within two to three days – embassy are pushing for that to happen.’
‘Handy for whoever killed him, if you can’t keep the body for future examination … ’
‘Which I’ve explained until I’m blue in the face.’
‘So it’s the full tourniquet, eh?’ He paused again. ‘I take it you didn’t find anything out of the ordinary?’
‘Thin-bladed knife, maybe four to six inches long.’
‘Did they know what they were doing?’
‘They went for his neck rather than chest, abdomen or stomach. I’m not a hundred per cent sure what that tells us, but then that’s not my job. Angle of incision suggests someone of similar height and probably right-handed. Can I assume you’ve been discussing it with Siobhan?’
‘She’s champing at the bit.’
‘But she’s a loyal friend, too.’
‘I’ve told her I’ll be fine from here in.’
‘So where are you right now?’
‘Chair in the living room, Brillo at my feet.’
‘And you’ve got the hi-fi set up, so all’s well with the world.’
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘You work too hard.’ He listened to her laughter.
‘It was the right move to make – you do know that, don’t you?’
‘For the sake of my lungs, maybe.’
‘Try spending a day without them, John. Give Brillo a scratch behind the ears from me. We’ll catch up soon.’
‘Night, Deb.’
And then she was gone. She lived less than a mile away, in a modern block where minimalism ruled. Her possessions were few because there was nowhere to keep them – no Edinburgh press or understairs cupboard, no nooks and crannies. Just clean lines that repelled the very notion of clutter. Her office at the mortuary was the same – no files were allowed to linger long on her desk.
Rebus thought again of the books he’d decided he couldn’t live without, even if he would never read them; the albums he played maybe once or twice a decade but still clung to; the boxes of case files that seemed a veritable part of him, like an extra limb. Why would he part with them when he had a spare bedroom no overnight guest ever graced? His only family consisted of his daughter and granddaughter, and they never opted to stay. That was why he had ditched the old bed and replaced it with a two-seater sofa, leaving space for more bookshelves, the suitcase he doubted he would ever use, and his second-best record player, the same one he’d had when dancing with Rhona that first night. It no longer worked but he reckoned he could find someone to fix it. He would put it on his list.
When he went into the kitchen to make a mug of tea, he examined the central heating timer. Mrs Mackay had left the instruction manual but it looked straightforward enough.
‘Heating bills are quite reasonable,’ she’d told him. But then she had always opted for another layer of wool rather than an extra degree on the thermostat. He
