paltry like not having a licence. Besides, if you ask me most of that cash goes straight into the collector’s pocket. It never reaches Northern Ireland.’
‘But it’s the principle of the thing.’
‘Christ, listen to you.’ Principles: they were slow to go, and some coppers never lost them entirely. ‘Here we are.’
He reversed into a space in front of a tenement block on Mayfield Gardens. The address was a top floor flat.
‘Why is it always the top floor?’ Siobhan complained.
‘Because that’s where the poor people live.’
There were two doors on the top landing. The name on one doorbell read MURDOCK. There was a brown bristle welcome-mat just outside the door. The message on it was GET LOST!
‘Charming.’ Rebus pressed the bell. The door was opened by a bearded man wearing thick wire-framed glasses. The beard didn’t help, but Rebus would guess the man’s age at mid-twenties. He had thick shoulder-length black hair, through which he ran a hand.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebus. This is –’
‘Come in, come in. Mind out for the motorbike.’
‘Yours, Mr Murdock?’
‘No, it’s Billy’s. It hasn’t worked since he moved in.’
The bike’s frame was intact, but the engine lay disassembled along the hall carpet, lying on old newspapers turned black from oil. Smaller pieces were in polythene bags, each bag tied at the neck and marked with an identifying number.
‘That’s clever,’ said Rebus.
‘Oh aye,’ said Murdock, ‘he’s organised is Billy. In here.’ He led them into a cluttered living area. ‘This is Millie, she lives here.’
‘Hiya.’
Millie was sitting on the sofa swathed in a sleeping bag, despite the heat outside. She was watching the television and smoking a cigarette.
‘You phoned us, Mr Murdock.’
‘Aye, well, it’s about Billy.’ Murdock began to pad around the room. ‘See, the description in the paper and on the telly, well … I didn’t think about it at the time, but as Millie says, it’s not like Billy to stay away so long. Like I say, he’s organised. Usually he’d phone or something, just to let us know.’
‘When did you last see him?’
Murdock looked to Millie. ‘When was it, Thursday night?’
‘I saw him Friday morning.’
‘So you did.’
Rebus turned to Millie. She had short fair hair, dark at the roots, and dark eyebrows. Her face was long and plain, her chin highlighted by a protruding mole. Rebus reckoned she was a few years older than Murdock. ‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘He didn’t say anything. There’s not a lot of conversation in this flat at that hour.’
‘What hour?’
She flicked ash into the ashtray which was balanced on her sleeping bag. It was a nervous habit, the cigarette being tapped even when there was no ash for it to surrender. ‘Seven thirty, quarter to eight,’ she said.
‘Where does he work?’
‘He doesn’t,’ said Murdock, resting his hand on the mantelpiece. ‘He used to work in the Post Office, but they laid him off a few months back. He’s on the dole now, along with half of Scotland.’
‘And what do you do, Mr Murdock?’
‘I’m a computer consultant.’
Sure enough, some of the living room’s clutter was made up of keyboards and disk drives, some of them dismantled, piled on top of each other. There were piles of fat magazines too, and books, hefty operating manuals.
‘Did either of you know Billy before he moved in?’
‘I did,’ said Millie. ‘A friend of a friend, casual acquaintance sort of thing. I knew he was looking for a room, and there was a room going spare here, so I suggested him to Murdock.’ She changed channels on the TV. She was watching with the sound turned off, watching through a squint of cigarette smoke.
‘Can we see Billy’s room?’
‘Why not?’ said Murdock. He’d been glancing nervously towards Millie all the time she’d been talking. He seemed relieved to be in movement. He took them back into where the narrow entrance
‘But it’s the principle of the thing.’
‘Christ, listen to you.’ Principles: they were slow to go, and some coppers never lost them entirely. ‘Here we are.’
He reversed into a space in front of a tenement block on Mayfield Gardens. The address was a top floor flat.
‘Why is it always the top floor?’ Siobhan complained.
‘Because that’s where the poor people live.’
There were two doors on the top landing. The name on one doorbell read MURDOCK. There was a brown bristle welcome-mat just outside the door. The message on it was GET LOST!
‘Charming.’ Rebus pressed the bell. The door was opened by a bearded man wearing thick wire-framed glasses. The beard didn’t help, but Rebus would guess the man’s age at mid-twenties. He had thick shoulder-length black hair, through which he ran a hand.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebus. This is –’
‘Come in, come in. Mind out for the motorbike.’
‘Yours, Mr Murdock?’
‘No, it’s Billy’s. It hasn’t worked since he moved in.’
The bike’s frame was intact, but the engine lay disassembled along the hall carpet, lying on old newspapers turned black from oil. Smaller pieces were in polythene bags, each bag tied at the neck and marked with an identifying number.
‘That’s clever,’ said Rebus.
‘Oh aye,’ said Murdock, ‘he’s organised is Billy. In here.’ He led them into a cluttered living area. ‘This is Millie, she lives here.’
‘Hiya.’
Millie was sitting on the sofa swathed in a sleeping bag, despite the heat outside. She was watching the television and smoking a cigarette.
‘You phoned us, Mr Murdock.’
‘Aye, well, it’s about Billy.’ Murdock began to pad around the room. ‘See, the description in the paper and on the telly, well … I didn’t think about it at the time, but as Millie says, it’s not like Billy to stay away so long. Like I say, he’s organised. Usually he’d phone or something, just to let us know.’
‘When did you last see him?’
Murdock looked to Millie. ‘When was it, Thursday night?’
‘I saw him Friday morning.’
‘So you did.’
Rebus turned to Millie. She had short fair hair, dark at the roots, and dark eyebrows. Her face was long and plain, her chin highlighted by a protruding mole. Rebus reckoned she was a few years older than Murdock. ‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘He didn’t say anything. There’s not a lot of conversation in this flat at that hour.’
‘What hour?’
She flicked ash into the ashtray which was balanced on her sleeping bag. It was a nervous habit, the cigarette being tapped even when there was no ash for it to surrender. ‘Seven thirty, quarter to eight,’ she said.
‘Where does he work?’
‘He doesn’t,’ said Murdock, resting his hand on the mantelpiece. ‘He used to work in the Post Office, but they laid him off a few months back. He’s on the dole now, along with half of Scotland.’
‘And what do you do, Mr Murdock?’
‘I’m a computer consultant.’
Sure enough, some of the living room’s clutter was made up of keyboards and disk drives, some of them dismantled, piled on top of each other. There were piles of fat magazines too, and books, hefty operating manuals.
‘Did either of you know Billy before he moved in?’
‘I did,’ said Millie. ‘A friend of a friend, casual acquaintance sort of thing. I knew he was looking for a room, and there was a room going spare here, so I suggested him to Murdock.’ She changed channels on the TV. She was watching with the sound turned off, watching through a squint of cigarette smoke.
‘Can we see Billy’s room?’
‘Why not?’ said Murdock. He’d been glancing nervously towards Millie all the time she’d been talking. He seemed relieved to be in movement. He took them back into where the narrow entrance
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