Free Fleshmarket Alley (2004) by Ian Rankin Page B

. . or didn’t know how to go about buying any.”
    “Are there really that many immigrants in Knoxland?”
    Rebus shook his head. “Probably not more than sixty or seventy.”
    “Which would be sixty or seventy more than a few years ago.”
    “I hope you’re not turning into Rat-Arse Reynolds.”
    “Just thinking from the locals’ point of view. People don’t like incomers: immigrants, travelers, anyone the least bit different . . . Even an English accent like mine can get you into trouble.”
    “That’s different. Plenty of good historical reasons for the Scots to hate the English.”
    “And vice versa, obviously.”
    They had passed out of the far end of the passage. Here, there was a gathering of lower-rise blocks, four stories high, along with a few rows of terraced houses.
    “The houses were built for pensioners,” Rebus explained. “Something to do with keeping them within the community.”
    “Nice dream, as Thom Yorke would say.”
    That was Knoxland, all right: a nice dream. Plenty more like it elsewhere in the city. Their architects would have been so proud of the scale drawings and cardboard models. Nobody ever set out to design a ghetto, after all.
    “Why Knoxland?” Siobhan asked eventually. “Not named after Knox the Calvinist, surely.”
    “I wouldn’t think so. Knox wanted Scotland to be a new Jerusalem. I doubt Knoxland qualifies.”
    “All I know about him is that he didn’t want statues in any of his churches, and he wasn’t keen on women.”
    “He also didn’t want people having fun. There were ducking stools and witch trials waiting for the guilty . . .” Rebus paused. “So he did have his good points.”
    Rebus didn’t know where they were walking to. Siobhan seemed all twitching energy, something needing to be grounded somehow. She’d turned back and was walking towards one of the higher tower blocks.
    “Shall we?” she said, making to pull open the door. But it was locked.
    “A recent addition,” Rebus explained. “Security cameras beside the lifts, too. Trying to keep out the barbarians.”
    “Cameras?” Siobhan watched Rebus punch a four-figure code into the door’s keypad. He was shaking his head at her question.
    “Turns out they’re never switched on. Council couldn’t afford the security man to keep charge of them.” He pulled the door open. There were two lifts in the lobby. Both were working, so maybe the keypad was doing its job.
    “Top floor,” Siobhan said as they entered the left-hand lift. Rebus hit the button and the doors shuddered together.
    “Now, about that story . . .” Rebus said. So she told him. It didn’t take long. By the time she finished, they were on one of the walkways, leaning against its low wall. The wind was whistling and gusting around them. There were views to the north and east, glimpses of Corstorphine Hill and Craiglockhart.
    “Look at all the space,” she said. “Why didn’t they just build houses for everybody?”
    “What? And ruin the sense of community?” Rebus twisted his body towards her, so she would know he was giving her his full attention. He didn’t even have a cigarette in his hand.
    “You want to bring Cruikshank in for questioning?” he asked. “I could hold him down while you give him a good kicking.”
    “Old-fashioned policing, eh?”
    “I’ve always found the notion refreshing.”
    “Well, it won’t be necessary: I’ve already given him a doing . . . in here.” She tapped her skull. “But thanks for the thought.”
    Rebus shrugged, turning to stare out at the scenery. “You know she’ll turn up if she wants to?”
    “I know.”
    “She doesn’t qualify as a MisPer.”
    “And you’ve never done a favor for a friend?”
    “You’ve got a point,” Rebus conceded. “Just don’t expect a result.”
    “Don’t worry.” She pointed to the tower block diagonal to the one they were standing in. “Notice anything?”
    “Nothing I wouldn’t see torched for the price of a