Set in Darkness (8 page)

‘I don’t mind being quoted,’ Rebus said quietly. The reporter lifted a tape-recorder from his jacket pocket.

‘Bit closer, please.’

The reporter obliged, switched the machine on.

Rebus was careful to enunciate slowly and clearly. After eight or nine words, the reporter flicked the machine off, the look on his face somewhere between a sneer and a grudging smile. Behind him, his colleagues were staring at their shoes.

‘Need a spell-check for any of that?’ Rebus asked. Then he crossed the road and headed back into the mortuary.

The ID was over, the paperwork complete. The family members looked numb. Even Linford looked a bit shaken: maybe it was another of his acts. Rebus approached the widow.

‘We can arrange for a couple of cars . . .’

She sniffed back tears. ‘No, that’s all right. Thanks anyway.’ She blinked, eyes finally focusing on him. ‘A taxi should be coming.’ The deceased’s sister came across, leaving her mother stony-faced and straight-backed on one of the chairs.

‘Mum has a funeral home she wants to use, if that’s all right with you.’ Lorna Cordover was speaking to the widow, but it was Rebus who answered.

‘You realise we can’t release the body just yet.’

She stared at him with eyes he’d stared at a thousand times in newspapers and magazines. Lorna Grieve: her modelling name. She wasn’t yet fifty, but was closing in on it fast. Rebus had first come across her towards the end of the sixties, when she’d have been in her late teens. She’d dated rock stars, was rumoured to have caused the break-up of at least one successful band. She’d been in
Melody Maker
and
NME
. Long straw-blond hair back then, and thin to the point of emaciation. She’d filled out
quite a bit, and her hair was shorter, darker. But there was still something about her, even in this place, at this time.

‘We’re his bloody family,’ she snapped.

‘Please, Lorna,’ her sister-in-law cautioned.

‘Well, we are, aren’t we? Last thing we need is some jumped-up little squirt with a clipboard telling us—’

‘I think maybe you’re confusing me with the staff here,’ Rebus cut in.

She looked at him again, eyes narrowing. ‘Then just who the hell are you?’

‘He’s the policeman,’ Seona Grieve explained. ‘He’ll be the one who looks into . . .’ But she couldn’t find the words, and the sentence died softly with an exhalation.

Lorna Grieve snorted, pointed towards Derek Linford, who had seated himself next to the mother, Alicia. He was leaning towards her, his hand touching the back of hers. ‘That’, Lorna informed them, ‘is the officer who’ll be investigating Roddy’s murder.’ She squeezed Seona’s shoulder. ‘
He
’s the one we should be talking to,’ she said. Then, with a final glance towards Rebus, ‘Not his monkey.’

Rebus watched her move back towards the chairs. Beside him, the widow spoke so softly he didn’t catch it.

‘Sorry,’ she repeated.

He smiled, nodded. There were a dozen platitudes scrawled and waiting in his head. He rubbed a hand across his forehead to erase them.

‘You’ll want to ask us questions,’ she said.

‘When you’re ready.’

‘He didn’t have any enemies . . . not really.’ She seemed to be speaking to herself. ‘That’s what they always ask on TV, isn’t it?’

‘We’ll get round to it.’ He was watching Lorna Grieve, who was crouched in front of her mother. Linford was looking at her, drinking her in. The main door opened, a head appearing.

‘Somebody order a taxi?’

Rebus watched as Derek Linford escorted Alicia Grieve all the way out. It was a shrewd move: not the widow, but the matriarch. Linford knew power when he saw it.

They gave the family a few hours, then drove to Ravelston Dykes.

‘What do you reckon then?’ Linford asked. From his tone, he might have been asking what Rebus thought of the BMW.

Rebus just shrugged. Between them, they’d managed to sort out a Murder Room at St Leonard’s, it being the closest station to the
locus
. Not that it was a murder inquiry yet, but they knew it would be, just as soon as the autopsy was finished. Calls had gone out to Joe Dickie and Bobby Hogan. Rebus had also hooked up with Grant Hood and Ellen Wylie, neither of whom objected to the idea of working together on the Skelly case.

‘It’ll be a challenge,’ both had said, independently of one another. Their bosses would have the final say, but Rebus didn’t foresee problems. He’d told Hood and Wylie to get together, thrash out a plan of attack.

‘And who do we report to?’ Wylie had asked.

‘Me,’ he’d told her, making sure Linford wasn’t in earshot.

The BMW eased down into second as they approached an amber light. Had Rebus been driving, he’d have accelerated, probably just missing red. Maybe not on his own, but with a passenger – he’d have done it to impress. He’d have laid money on Linford doing it, too. The BMW stopped at the lights. Linford applied the handbrake and turned towards him.

‘Investment analyst, Labour candidate, high-profile family. What do you think?’

Rebus shrugged again. ‘I’ve seen the newspaper stories, same as you. Some people haven’t always liked the way candidates were selected.’

Linford was nodding. ‘Maybe some bad blood there?’

‘We’ll ask. Could just be a mugging gone wrong.’

‘Or a liaison.’

Rebus glanced at him. Linford was staring at the lights, fingers poised on the handbrake. ‘Maybe the SOCOs will work their magic.’

‘Fingerprints and fibres?’ Linford sounded sceptical.

‘Lot of mud around. Could be we’ll find footprints.’

The light turned green. With an empty road ahead, the BMW quickly changed up through its gears.

‘The boss has already been on to me,’ Linford told his passenger. Rebus knew that by boss he didn’t mean anything as middle-management as a chief super. ‘The
ACC
,’ Linford explained: Colin Carswell, Assistant Chief Constable (Crime). ‘He wanted to bring in a special team, something as high profile as this.’

‘Crime Squad?’

It was Linford’s turn to shrug. ‘Hand picked. I don’t know who he had in mind.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I said with me in charge, he didn’t have to worry.’ Linford couldn’t help it, had to turn towards Rebus to enjoy his reaction. Rebus was trying to look unmoved by it all. All his years on the force, he’d probably spoken with the ACC no more than two or three times.

Linford smiled, knew he’d hit some soft, fleshy part beneath Rebus’s shell-like exterior.

‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘when I mentioned that DI Rebus would be assisting . . .’

‘Assisting?’ Rebus bristled, and only now recollected that Linford had also spoken of being in charge.

‘He was a bit more dubious,’ Linford went on, ignoring the outburst. ‘But I told him you’d be fine, said we were working well together. That’s what I mean by assisting – you helping me, me helping you.’

‘But with you in charge?’

Hearing his own phrase thrown back at him seemed to
please Linford: another palpable hit. ‘Your own chief super doesn’t want you on the case, John. Why is that?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Everyone knows about you, John. I could say that your reputation precedes you.’

‘But it’ll be different with you in charge?’ Rebus guessed.

Linford shrugged and was silent for a moment, then shifted in his seat. ‘While we’re enjoying this time together,’ he said, ‘maybe I should throw in that I’m seeing Siobhan tonight. But don’t worry, I’ll have her home by eleven.’

Roddy Grieve and his wife had lived together somewhere in Cramond, but Seona Grieve had intimated that she would be with Roddy’s mother. Situated at the end of a short narrow street, the huge detached house had a jagged feel to it. Maybe it was to do with the several crow-step gables, or the stone relief thistle set into the wall above the front door. There were no cars in the drive, and curtains had been drawn closed in every window – a sensible precaution: the reporters and cameraman were back, parked kerbside in a silver Audi 80. TV crews were probably on their way. Rebus had no doubt the Grieves would cope with the attention.

Grieve: the resonance of the name hit him for the first time. The grieving Grieves.

Linford rang the doorbell. ‘Nice place,’ he said.

‘I was brought up in something similar,’ Rebus told him. Then, after a pause: ‘Well, we lived in a cul-de-sac.’

‘And there’, Linford guessed, ‘the comparison ends.’

The door was opened by a man dressed in a camel-hair coat with dark brown lapels. The coat was unbuttoned. Beneath it could be glimpsed a tailored pinstripe suit and white shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. In his left hand, the man carried a plain black tie.

‘Mr Grieve?’ Rebus guessed. He’d seen Cammo Grieve
on TV many times. In the flesh he seemed taller and more distinguished, even in his present confused-looking state. His cheeks were red, either from cold or a few airline drinks. A couple of strands of silver and black hair were out of place.

‘You the police? Come inside.’

Linford followed Rebus into the hallway. There were paintings and drawings everywhere, not just covering the wood-panelled walls, but resting against the skirting boards, too. Books were piled high on the bottom step of the stone staircase. Several pairs of dusty-looking rubber wellington boots – men’s and women’s, and all of them black – sat at the foot of an overloaded coat rack. There were walking sticks protruding from an umbrella stand, and umbrellas hooked over the banister. An open jar of honey sat on a telephone table, as did an answering machine. The machine wasn’t plugged in, and there was no sign of a phone. Cammo Grieve seemed to take in his surroundings.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘In a bit of a . . . well, you understand.’ He stroked the stray hairs back into place.

‘Of course, sir,’ Linford said, his voice deferential.

‘A bit of advice, though,’ Rebus added, waiting till he had the MP’s attention. ‘Anyone at all could turn up claiming to be police officers. Make sure you ask for ID before letting them in.’

Cammo Grieve nodded. ‘Ah yes, the fourth estate. Bastards for the most part.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘Off the record.’

Rebus merely nodded; it was Linford who smiled too brightly at the attempted levity.

‘I still can’t . . .’ Grieve’s face hardened. ‘I trust the police will be working flat-out on this case. If I so much as hear of any corners being cut . . . I know what it’s like these days, tightened budgets, all of that. Labour government, you see.’

It was in danger of turning into a speech. Rebus
interrupted. ‘Well, standing around here isn’t exactly helping matters, sir.’

‘I’m not sure I like you,’ Grieve said, narrowing his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

‘His name’s Monkey Man,’ a voice called from a doorway. Lorna Grieve was carrying two glasses of whisky. She handed one to her brother, clinked her own against it before taking a gulp. ‘And this one’, she said, meaning Linford, ‘is the Organ Grinder.’

‘I’m DI Rebus,’ Rebus informed Cammo Grieve. ‘This is DI Linford.’

Linford turned from the wall. He’d been studying one of the framed prints. It was unusual in that it was a series of handwritten lines.

‘A poem to our mother,’ Lorna Grieve explained. ‘From Christopher Murray Grieve. He wasn’t any relation, in case you’re wondering.’

‘Hugh MacDiarmid,’ Rebus said, seeing the blank look on Linford’s face. The look didn’t change.

‘The Monkey Man has a brain,’ Lorna cooed. Then she noticed the honey. ‘Oh, there it is. Mother thought she’d put it down somewhere.’ She turned back to Rebus. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Monkey Man.’ She was standing right in front of him. He stared at lips he had kissed as a young man, tasting printer’s ink and cheap paper in his mouth. She smelt of good whisky, a perfume he could savour. Her voice was harsh but her eyes were numb. ‘Nobody knows about that poem. He gave it to our mother. No other copy exists.’

‘Lorna . . .’ Cammo Grieve laid a hand against the back of his sister’s neck, but she twisted away from him. ‘It’s a sin beyond redeeming to stand here drinking while our guests go without.’ He ushered them into the morning room. It was wood-panelled like the hall, but boasted only a few small paintings hanging from a picture rail. There were two sofas and two armchairs, a TV and hi-fi. Apart from that, the room was all books, piled on the floor,
squeezed into shelves, filling all the spaces between the potted plants on the window sill. With the curtains closed, the lights were on. The ceiling candelabrum could accommodate three bulbs, but only one was working. Rebus lifted a pile of birthday cards from the sofa: someone had decided the celebrations were over.

‘How is Mrs Grieve?’ Linford asked.

‘My mother’s resting,’ Cammo Grieve said.

‘I meant Mr Grieve’s . . . um, your brother’s . . .’

‘He means Seona,’ Lorna said, dropping on to one of the sofas.

‘Resting also,’ Cammo Grieve explained. He walked over to the marble fireplace, gestured towards the grate, which had become a repository for whisky bottles. ‘No longer a working fire,’ he said, ‘but it can still—’

‘Put fire in our bellies,’ his sister groaned, rolling her eyes. ‘Christ, Cammo, that one wore out long ago.’

Red had risen again in her brother’s cheeks – anger this time. Maybe he’d been angry when he’d answered the door, too. Lorna Grieve could have that effect on a man, no doubt about it.

‘I’ll have a Macallan,’ Rebus said.

‘A man with sharp eyes,’ Cammo Grieve said, making it sound like praise. ‘And yourself, DI Linford?’

Linford surprised Rebus, asked for a Springbank. Grieve produced tumblers from a small cupboard and poured a couple of decent measures.

‘I won’t insult you by offering to dilute them.’ He handed the drinks over. ‘Sit down, why don’t you?’

Rebus took one armchair, Linford the other. Cammo Grieve sat on the sofa beside his sister, who squirmed at the intrusion. They drank their drinks and were silent for a moment. Then there was a trilling sound from Cammo’s coat pocket. He lifted out a mobile phone and got to his feet, making for the door.

‘Hello, yes, sorry about that, but I’m sure you understand . . .’ He closed the door after him.