Free Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin Page A

for the inquiry and didn’t look thrilled with the result.
    “No interpreters?” Rebus guessed.
    “Oh, we can have all the interpreters we want,” Davidson responded. “Thing is, we can’t pay them. Our esteemed Assistant Chief Constable says we should ask around, maybe see if the council could provide one or two free of charge.”
    “Along with everything else,” Reynolds muttered.
    “What’s that?” Davidson snapped.
    “Nothing, Shug, nothing.” Reynolds stamped on the remains of his cigarette forcefully.
    “Charlie reckons the locals rely a touch too much on handouts,” Rebus explained.
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “I can mind-read sometimes. Runs in the family, passed down from father to son. My granddad probably gave it to my dad . . .” Rebus stubbed out his own cigarette. “He was Polish, by the way, my granddad. We’re a bastard nation, Charlie—get used to it.” Rebus walked over to greet another arrival: Siobhan Clarke. She spent a few moments studying her surroundings.
    “Concrete was such an attractive option in the sixties,” she commented. “And as for the murals . . .”
    Rebus had ceased to notice them: WOGS OUT . . . PAKIS ARE SHIT . . . WHITE POWER . . . Some wag had tried sneaking a “d” into “power” to make “powder.” Rebus wondered how strong a hold the drug dealers had around here. Maybe another reason for the general disaffection: immigrants probably couldn’t afford drugs, even supposing they wanted them. SCOTLAND FOR THE SCOTS . . . A venerable piece of graffiti had been altered from JUNKIE SCUM to BLACK SCUM.
    “This looks cozy,” Siobhan said. “Thanks for inviting me.”
    “Did you bring your invitation?”
    She held out the packs of cigarettes. Rebus kissed them and slipped them into his pocket. Davidson and Reynolds had disappeared inside the cabin.
    “You going to tell me that story?” he asked.
    “You going to give me the tour?”
    Rebus shrugged. “Why not?” They started walking. There were four main tower blocks in Knoxland, each one eight stories high, and sited as if at the corners of a square, looking down onto the central, devastated play area. There were open walkways on each level, and every flat had a balcony with a view of the highway.
    “Plenty of satellite dishes,” Siobhan observed. Rebus nodded. He’d wondered about these dishes, about the versions of the world they transmitted into each living room and life. Daytimes, the ads would be for accident compensation; at night, they’d be for alcohol. A generation growing up in the belief that life could be controlled by a TV remote.
    There were kids circling them now on their bikes. Others were congregating against a wall, sharing a cigarette and something in a lemonade bottle that didn’t look like lemonade. They wore baseball caps and sneakers, a fashion beamed down to them from another culture.
    “He’s too old for ye!” one voice barked out, followed by laughter and the usual piglike grunting.
    “I’m young but I’m hung, ya hoor!” the same voice called.
    They kept walking. One uniform was stationed either end of the murder scene, showing ebbing patience as locals queried why they couldn’t use the passageway.
    “Jist ’cause some chinky got topped, man . . .”
    “Wisnae a chinky . . . towel-head, I heard.”
    The voices rising. “Hey, man, how come they get past ye and we dinnae? Pure discrimination, by the way . . .”
    Rebus had led Siobhan behind the uniform. Not that there was much to see. The ground was still stained; the place still had about it the faint whiff of urine. Scrawls covering every inch of wall space.
    “Whoever he was, somebody misses him,” Rebus said quietly, noting a small bundle of flowers marking the spot. Except that they weren’t really flowers, just some strands of wild grass and a few dandelions. Picked from waste ground.
    “Trying to tell us something?” Siobhan guessed.
    Rebus shrugged. “Maybe they just couldn’t afford flowers .