Free Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin

Where the hell are you?”
    “Banehall.”
    “And where’s that when it’s at home?”
    “West Lothian, just off the motorway before you get to Whitburn.”
    “I know it—pub called The Bane?”
    Despite herself, she smiled. “That’s the place,” she said.
    “What takes you out there?”
    “It’s a long story. What are you up to?”
    “Nothing that can’t be shoved to one side if a long story’s on offer. Are you heading back to town?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you’ll practically be passing Knoxland.”
    “And that’s where I’ll find you?”
    “You can’t miss me—we’ve got the wagons circled to keep the natives at bay.”
    Siobhan saw that the door to the pub was opening from within, Donny Cruikshank throwing curses back into the place. A two-fingered salute followed by a volley of saliva. Looked like Malky had had enough of him. Siobhan turned the ignition.
    “I’ll see you in forty minutes or so.”
    “Bring ammunition, will you? Forty Bensons Gold.”
    “I draw the line at cigarettes, John.”
    “The last request of a dying man, Shiv,” Rebus pleaded.
    Watching the mix of anger and despair on Donny Cruikshank’s face, Siobhan couldn’t help breaking into a smile.

4
    R ebus’s “circled wagons” actually consisted of a single-roomed Portakabin placed in the car park next to the nearest tower block. It was dark green on the outside, with a grille protecting the only window and a reinforced door. When he’d parked his car, the ubiquitous draggle of kids had asked for money to look after it. He’d pointed a finger at them.
    “A sparrow so much as farts on my windscreen, you’ll be licking it off.”
    He stood in the doorway of the Portakabin now, smoking a cigarette. Ellen Wylie was typing on a laptop. It had to be a laptop, so they could unplug it at day’s end and take it with them. It was either that or post a nighttime guard on the door. No way of hooking up a phone line, so they were using mobiles. DC Charlie Reynolds, known behind his back as “Rat-Arse,” was approaching from one of the high-rises. He was in his late forties, almost as broad as he was tall. He’d played rugby at one time, including a stint at national level with the police team. As a result, his face was a mangle of botched repairs, rips, and nicks. The haircut wouldn’t have looked out of place on a street urchin circa the 1920s. Reynolds had a reputation as a windup merchant, but he wasn’t smiling now.
    “Bloody waste of time,” he snarled.
    “Nobody’s talking?” Rebus guessed.
    “It’s the ones that are talking, they’re the problem.”
    “How so?” Rebus decided to offer Reynolds a cigarette, which the big man accepted without thanks.
    “Don’t speak bloody English, do they? Fifty-seven bloody varieties up there.” He gestured towards the tower block. “And the smell . . . Christ knows what they’re cooking, but I’ve not noticed many cats in the vicinity.” Reynolds saw the look on Rebus’s face. “Don’t get me wrong, John, I’m not a racist. But you do have to wonder . . .”
    “About what?
    “The whole asylum thing. I mean, say you had to leave Scotland, right? You were being tortured or something . . . You’d make for the nearest safe country, right, ’cause you wouldn’t want to be too far from the old homeland. But this lot . . .” He stared up at the tower block, then shook his head. “You take my point though, eh?”
    “I suppose I do, Charlie.”
    “Half of them can’t even be bothered to learn the language . . . just pick up their cash from the government, thank you very much.” Reynolds concentrated on his cigarette. He smoked with some violence, teeth clamping the filter, mouth drawing hard. “Least you can sod off back to Gayfield whenever you like; some of us are stuck out here for the duration.”
    “Wait till I go and get my violin, Charlie,” Rebus said. Another car was drawing up alongside: Shug Davidson. He’d been to a meeting to fix the budget