hall became a wider rectangle, off which were three doors. One was a cupboard, one the kitchen. Back along the narrow hall they’d passed the bathroom on one side and Murdock’s bedroom on the other. Which left just this last door.
It led them into a very small, very tidy bedroom. The room itself would be no more than ten feet by eight, yet it managed to contain single bed, wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a writing desk and chair. A hi-fi unit, including speakers, sat atop the chest of drawers. The bed had been made, and there was nothing left lying around.
‘You haven’t tidied up, have you?’
Murdock shook his head. ‘Billy was always tidying. You should see the kitchen.’
‘Do you have a photograph of Billy?’ Rebus asked.
‘I might have some from one of our parties. You want to look at them?’
‘Just the best one will do.’
‘I’ll fetch it then.’
‘Thank you.’ When Murdock had gone, Siobhan squeezed into the room beside Rebus. Until then, she’d been forced to stay just outside the door.
‘Initial thoughts?’ Rebus asked.
‘Neurotically tidy,’ she said, the comment of one whose own flat looked like a cross between a pizza franchise and a bottle bank.
But Rebus was studying the walls. There was a Hearts pennant above the bed, and a Union Jack flag on which the Red Hand of Ulster was centrally prominent, with above it the words ‘No Surrender’ and below it the letters FTP. Even Siobhan Clarke knew what those stood for.
‘Fuck the Pope,’ she murmured.
Murdock was back. He didn’t attempt to squeeze into the narrow aisle between bed and wardrobe, but stood in the doorway and handed the photo to Siobhan Clarke, who handed it to Rebus. It showed a young man smiling manically for the camera. Behind him you could see a can of beer held high, as though someone were about to pour it over his head.
‘It’s as good a photo as we’ve got,’ Murdock said by way of apology.
‘Thank you, Mr Murdock.’ Rebus was almost sure. Almost. ‘Billy had a tattoo?’
‘On his arm, aye. It looked like one of those things you do yourself when you’re a daft laddie.’
Rebus nodded. They’d released details of the tattoo, looking for a quick result.
‘I never really looked at it close up,’ Murdock went on, ‘and Billy never talked about it.’
Millie had joined him in the doorway. She had discarded the sleeping bag and was wearing a modestly long t-shirt over bare legs. She put an arm around Murdock’s waist. ‘I remember it,’ she said. ‘SaS. Big S, small a.’
‘Did he ever tell you what it stood for?’
She shook her head. Tears were welling in her eyes. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? He’s the one you found dead?’
Rebus tried to be non-committal, but his face gave him away. Millie started to bawl, and Murdock hugged her to him. Siobhan Clarke had lifted some cassette tapes from the chest of drawers and was studying them. She handed them silently to Rebus. They were collections of Orange songs, songs about the struggle in Ulster. Their titles said it all: The Sash and other Glories, King Billy’s Marching Tunes, No Surrender . He stuck one of the tapes in his pocket.
They did some more searching of Billy Cunningham’s room, but came up with little excepting a recent letter from his mother. There was no address on the letter, but it bore a Glasgow postmark, and Millie recalled Billy saying something about coming from Hillhead. Well, they’d let Glasgow deal with it. Let Glasgow break the news to some unsuspecting family.
In one of the drawers, Siobhan Clarke came up with a Fringe programme. It contained the usual meltdown of Abigail’s Partys and Krapp’s Last Tapes , revues called things like Teenage Alsatian Orgy , and comic turns on the run from London fatigue.
‘He’s ringed a show,’ said Clarke.
So he had, a country and western act at the Crazy Hose Saloon. The act had appeared for three nights back at the start of the Festival.
‘There’s no country
It led them into a very small, very tidy bedroom. The room itself would be no more than ten feet by eight, yet it managed to contain single bed, wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a writing desk and chair. A hi-fi unit, including speakers, sat atop the chest of drawers. The bed had been made, and there was nothing left lying around.
‘You haven’t tidied up, have you?’
Murdock shook his head. ‘Billy was always tidying. You should see the kitchen.’
‘Do you have a photograph of Billy?’ Rebus asked.
‘I might have some from one of our parties. You want to look at them?’
‘Just the best one will do.’
‘I’ll fetch it then.’
‘Thank you.’ When Murdock had gone, Siobhan squeezed into the room beside Rebus. Until then, she’d been forced to stay just outside the door.
‘Initial thoughts?’ Rebus asked.
‘Neurotically tidy,’ she said, the comment of one whose own flat looked like a cross between a pizza franchise and a bottle bank.
But Rebus was studying the walls. There was a Hearts pennant above the bed, and a Union Jack flag on which the Red Hand of Ulster was centrally prominent, with above it the words ‘No Surrender’ and below it the letters FTP. Even Siobhan Clarke knew what those stood for.
‘Fuck the Pope,’ she murmured.
Murdock was back. He didn’t attempt to squeeze into the narrow aisle between bed and wardrobe, but stood in the doorway and handed the photo to Siobhan Clarke, who handed it to Rebus. It showed a young man smiling manically for the camera. Behind him you could see a can of beer held high, as though someone were about to pour it over his head.
‘It’s as good a photo as we’ve got,’ Murdock said by way of apology.
‘Thank you, Mr Murdock.’ Rebus was almost sure. Almost. ‘Billy had a tattoo?’
‘On his arm, aye. It looked like one of those things you do yourself when you’re a daft laddie.’
Rebus nodded. They’d released details of the tattoo, looking for a quick result.
‘I never really looked at it close up,’ Murdock went on, ‘and Billy never talked about it.’
Millie had joined him in the doorway. She had discarded the sleeping bag and was wearing a modestly long t-shirt over bare legs. She put an arm around Murdock’s waist. ‘I remember it,’ she said. ‘SaS. Big S, small a.’
‘Did he ever tell you what it stood for?’
She shook her head. Tears were welling in her eyes. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? He’s the one you found dead?’
Rebus tried to be non-committal, but his face gave him away. Millie started to bawl, and Murdock hugged her to him. Siobhan Clarke had lifted some cassette tapes from the chest of drawers and was studying them. She handed them silently to Rebus. They were collections of Orange songs, songs about the struggle in Ulster. Their titles said it all: The Sash and other Glories, King Billy’s Marching Tunes, No Surrender . He stuck one of the tapes in his pocket.
They did some more searching of Billy Cunningham’s room, but came up with little excepting a recent letter from his mother. There was no address on the letter, but it bore a Glasgow postmark, and Millie recalled Billy saying something about coming from Hillhead. Well, they’d let Glasgow deal with it. Let Glasgow break the news to some unsuspecting family.
In one of the drawers, Siobhan Clarke came up with a Fringe programme. It contained the usual meltdown of Abigail’s Partys and Krapp’s Last Tapes , revues called things like Teenage Alsatian Orgy , and comic turns on the run from London fatigue.
‘He’s ringed a show,’ said Clarke.
So he had, a country and western act at the Crazy Hose Saloon. The act had appeared for three nights back at the start of the Festival.
‘There’s no country
Similar Books
