by Ian Rankin
‘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.
‘Well,’ Lorna Grieve said, ‘what have I done to deserve this?’
‘Deserve what, Mrs Cordover?’ Linford asked.
She snorted.
‘I think, DI Linford,’ Rebus said slowly, ‘she means what has she done to deserve being left alone here with two complete duds like us. Would that be accurate, Mrs Cordover?’
‘It’s Grieve, Lorna Grieve.’ There was some venom in her eyes, but not enough to kill her prey, merely stun it. But at least she was focused again – focused on Rebus. ‘Do we know one another?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ he admitted.
‘It’s just the way you keep staring at me.’
‘And how’s that?’
‘Like a lot of photographers I’ve met along the way. Sleazeballs with no film in the camera.’
Rebus hid his smile behind the whisky glass. ‘I used to be a big fan of Obscura.’
Her eyes widened a little, and her voice softened. ‘Hugh’s band?’
Rebus was nodding. ‘You were on one of their album sleeves.’
‘God, so I was. It seems like a lifetime ago. What was it called . . . ?’
‘Continuous Repercussions.’
‘My God, I think you’re right. It was their last record, wasn’t it? I never really liked their stuff, you know.’
‘Really?’
They were talking now, having a conversation. Linford was on the periphery of Rebus’s vision, and if Rebus concentrated on Lorna Grieve, the younger man faded away until he could have been a trick of the light.
‘Obscura,’ Lorna reminisced. ‘That name was Hugh’s idea.’
‘It’s up near the Castle, isn’t it, the Camera Obscura?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure Hugh ever went there. He chose the name for another reason. You know Donald Cammell?’
Rebus was stumped.
‘He was a film director. He made Performance.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘He was born there.’
‘In the Camera Obscura?’
Lorna nodded, smiled across the room at him with something approaching warmth.
Linford cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been to the Camera Obscura,’ he said. ‘It’s quite amazing, the view.’
There was silence for a moment. Then Lorna Grieve smiled again at Rebus. ‘He doesn’t have a clue, does he, Monkey Man? Not the slightest clue what we’ve been talking about.’
Rebus was shaking his head in agreement as Cammo walked back into the room. He’d removed his coat, but not the jacket. Now that Rebus thought of it, the house was none too warm. These big old places, you put in central heating but not double glazing. High ceilings and draughts. Maybe it was time to turn the makeshift drinks cabinet back to its original use.
‘Sorry about that,’ Cammo said. ‘Blair was saddened by the news, apparently.’
Lorna snorted, back to her old self. ‘Tony Blair: I’d trust him as far as I could throw him.’ She looked at her brother. ‘Bet he’s never heard of you either. Roddy would have made twice the MP you’ll ever be. What’s more, at least he had the guts to stand for the Scottish parliament, somewhere he felt he could do some good!’
Her voice had risen, and with it the colour in her brother’s cheeks.
‘Lorna,’ he said quietly, ‘you’re distraught.’
‘Don’t you dare patronise me!’
The MP looked at his two guests, his smile attempting to reassure them that there was nothing here to worry about, nothing to take to the outside world.
‘Lorna, I really think—’
‘All the crap this family’s been through over the years, it’s all down to you!’ Lorna was growing hysterical. ‘Dad tried his damnedest to hate you!’
‘That’s enough!’
‘And Roddy, poor bastard, actually wanted to be you! And everything with Alasdair—’
Cammo Grieve raised his hand to slap his sister. She reared back from him, shrieking. And then there was someone in the doorway, shaking slightly, leaning heavily on a black walking cane. And someone else in the hall, hand clutching at the neck of her dressing-gown.
‘Stop this at once!’ Alicia Grieve shouted, stamping down hard with her cane. Behind her, Seona Grieve looked almost ghostly, as if alabaster had replaced the blood in her veins.
8
‘I didn’t even know this place had a restaurant.’ Siobhan looked around her. ‘You can smell the paint.’
‘It’s only been open a week,’ Derek Linford said, sitting down opposite her. They were in the Tower restaurant at the top of the Museum of Scotland on Chambers Street. There was a terrace outside, but no one was eating alfresco this December night. Their window table gave a view of the Sheriff’s Court and the Castle. The rooftops shone with frost. ‘I hear it’s pretty good,’ he added. ‘Same owner as the Witchery.’
‘Busy enough.’ Siobhan was studying the other diners. ‘I recognise that woman over there. Doesn’t she do restaurant reviews for one of the papers?’
‘I never read them.’
She looked at him. ‘How did you hear about it?’
‘What?’
‘This place.’
‘Oh.’ He was already studying the menu. ‘Some guy from Historic Scotland mentioned it.’
She smiled at ‘guy’, reminded that Linford was her own age, maybe even a year or two younger. His dress sense was so conservative – dark wool suit, white shirt, blue tie – that he seemed older. It might help explain his popularity with the ‘high hiedyins’ at the Big House. When he’d asked her to dinner, her first instinct had been to refuse. It wasn’t as if they’d exactly hit it off in the Botanics. But at the same time
she wondered if she could learn anything from him. Her own mentor, Chief Inspector Gill Templer, didn’t seem to be helping much – too busy proving to her male colleagues that she was every bit their equal. Which wasn’t the truth. Truth was, she was better than most male CIs Siobhan had worked for. But Gill Templer didn’t seem to know that.
‘Would this be the guy who discovered the body in Queensberry House?’
‘That’s him,’ Linford said. ‘See anything you fancy?’
With some men, it would have come out as a chat-up line, trying to hook the expected response from her. But Linford was checking the menu like it was evidence.
‘I’m not much of a meat-eater,’ she told him. ‘Any news on Roddy Grieve?’
The waitress arrived and they ordered. Linford checked that Siobhan wasn’t driving before asking for a bottle of white wine.
‘Did you walk?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Taxied it.’
‘I should have asked. I could’ve picked you up.’
‘That’s all right. You were telling me about Roddy Grieve.’
‘God, that sister of his.’ Linford shook his head at the memory.
‘Lorna? I’d like to meet her.’
‘She’s a monster.’
‘Good-looking monster.’ Linford shrugged, as if looks meant nothing to him. ‘If I look half as good at her age,’ Siobhan went on, ‘I’ll be doing well.’
He busied himself with his wineglass. Maybe he thought she was fishing for a compliment. Maybe she was.
‘She seemed to hit it off with your bodyguard,’ he said at last.
‘My what?’
‘Rebus. The one who doesn’t want me seeing you.’
‘I’m sure he—’
Linford leaned back suddenly in his chair. ‘Oh, let’s forget it. Sorry I said anything.’
Siobhan was confused now. She didn’t know what kind of signals her dinner partner was giving off. She brushed non-existent crumbs from her red crushed-velvet dress, checked the knees of her black tights for runs that weren’t there. With her coat off, her arms and shoulders were bare. Was she making him nervous?
‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.
He shook his head, eyes everywhere but on her. ‘It’s just . . . I’ve never dated anyone from work before.’
‘Dated?’
‘You know, gone out for a meal with them. I mean, I’ve been to official functions, but never . . .’ His eyes finally rested on hers. ‘Just two people, me and one other. Like this.’
She smiled. ‘We’re having dinner, Derek, that’s all.’ She swallowed the sentence back, but too late. Was that all they were going to do, have dinner? Was he expecting anything more?
But he seemed to relax a little. ‘Bloody strange house, too,’ he said, as though his mind had been on the Grieves all along. ‘Paintings and newspapers and books spread everywhere. Deceased’s mother lives alone, should probably be in a home, someone to look after her.’
‘She’s a painter, isn’t she?’
‘Was. Not sure she still is.’
‘Her stuff fetches a small fortune. It was in the papers.’
‘Bit gaga if you ask me, but then she’d just lost a son. Not really for me to say, is it?’ He looked at her to see how he was doing. Her eyes told him to go on. ‘Cammo Grieve was there, too.’
‘He’s supposed to be a rake.’
Linford seemed surprised. ‘Bit fat to be a rake.’
‘Not a garden rake. You know, a bit of a ladies’ man, not to be trusted.’
She was grinning, but he took her at her word. ‘Not to be trusted? Hmm.’ He went thoughtful again. ‘God knows what they were talking about.’
‘Who?’
‘Rebus and Lorna Grieve.’
‘Rock music,’ Siobhan stated, leaning back so the waitress could pour the wine.
‘Some of the time, yes.’ Linford studied her. ‘How did you know?’
‘She’s married to a record producer, and John loves all that. Immediate connection.’
‘I can see why you’re in CID.’
She shrugged. ‘He’s probably the only man I know who plays Wishbone Ash on surveillance.’
‘Who are Wishbone Ash?’
‘Exactly.’
Later, when they’d finished their starters, Siobhan asked again about Roddy Grieve. ‘I mean, we are talking suspicious death here, aren’t we?’
‘Autopsy’s not been done yet, but it’s a racing certainty. He didn’t kill himself and it doesn’t look like an accident.’
‘Killing a politician.’ Siobhan tutted.
‘Ah, but he wasn’t, was he? He was a financial analyst who just happened to be running for parliament.’
‘Making it harder to fathom why he was killed?’
Linford nodded. ‘Could be a client with a grudge. Maybe Grieve made some bad investments.’
‘Then there are the people he beat to the Labour nomination.’
‘Agreed: plenty of infighting there.’
‘And there’s his family.’
‘A way of getting at them.’ Linford was still nodding.
‘Or he was just in the wrong place, et cetera.’
‘Goes to take a look at the parliament site, becomes victim of a mugging gone wrong.’ Linford puffed out his cheeks. ‘Lots of possible motives.’
‘And they all have to be looked at.’
‘Yes.’ Linford didn’t look too happy at the prospect. ‘Some hard work ahead. No easy answers.’
It sounded like he was trying to convince himself the whole thing was worth the candle. ‘John’s reliable, is he? Just between you and me.’
She thought it over, nodded slowly. ‘Once he gets his teeth in, he doesn’t let go.’
‘That’s what I’d heard. Doesn’t know when to let go.’ He made it sound like something less than praise. ‘The ACC wants me running the show. How do you think John will take it?’
‘I don’t know.’
He attempted a laugh. ‘It’s all right, I won’t tell him we’ve spoken.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said, though partly it was. ‘I genuinely don’t know.’
Linford looked disappointed in her. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said.
But Siobhan knew that it did.
Nic Hughes was driving his friend Jerry through the city streets. Jerry kept asking him where they were headed.
‘Christ almighty, Jerry, you’re like a broken record.’
‘I just like to know.’
‘What if I say we’re not going anywhere?’
‘That’s what you said before.’
‘And have we reached a destination?’ Jerry didn’t seem to understand. ‘No, we have not.’ Nic told him. ‘Because we’re driving aimlessly, and sometimes that can be fun.’
‘Eh?’
‘Just shut up, will you?’
Jerry Lister stared from his passenger window. They’d been south as far as the bypass, taken it to the Gyle and headed back towards Queensferry Road. But then instead of heading back into the centre, Nic had forked off towards Muirhouse and Pilton. They saw some guy urinating against a lamp-post and Jerry said to watch; pressed the button so his window slid down, and as they passed he let out a blood-curdling scream, laughing afterwards, checking the result in the rearview. You could hear the guy swearing.
‘They’re dogs out here, Jerry,’ Nic had warned him, as if Jerry needed telling.
Jerry liked Nic’s car. It was a shiny black Sierra Cosworth. When they passed a group of lads, Nic sounded the horn, waved as if he knew them. They stared, watching the car, watching its driver watching them.
‘Car like this, Jer, those kids would kill for it. I’m not joking, they’d do their granny in just for the chance of a test drive.’
‘Better not run out of petrol then.’
Nic looked at him. ‘We could take them, pal.’ All bravado with some speed in his system and wearing his blue suede jacket. ‘You don’t think so?’ Slowing the car,
his foot all the way off the accelerator. ‘We could go back there and . . .’
‘Just keep driving, eh?’
A few moments of silence after that, Nic caressing the steering wheel round all the roundabouts they came to.
‘Are we going to Granton?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘What’s there?’ Jerry asked.
‘I don’t know. You’re the one who brought it up.’ A sly glance at his friend. ‘Ladies of the night, Jer, is that it? You want to try another?’ Tongue lolling from his mouth. ‘They won’t get in the car with two of us, you know. Too sussed for that, the night ladies. Maybe you could hide in the boot. I’d pick one up, take her to the car park . . . There’d be two of us, Jer.’
Jerry Lister licked his lips. ‘I thought we’d decided?’
‘Decided what?’
Jerry sounding worried. ‘You know.’
‘Memory’s shot, pal.’ Nic Hughes tapped his head. ‘It’s the drink. I drink to forget, and it seems to work.’ His face hardened, left hand twisting the gear stick. ‘Only I forget all the wrong things.’
Jerry turned to him. ‘Let her go, Nic.’
‘Easy for you to say.’ He bared his teeth as he spoke. There were flecks of white at the corners of his mouth. ‘Know what she told me, pal? Know what she said?’
Jerry didn’t want to hear. James Bond’s car had an ejector seat; all the Cosworth boasted was a sunroof. Jerry looked around anyway, as if seeking the ejector button.
‘She said this was a crap car. Said everyone laughed at it.’
‘They don’t.’
‘These kids out here, they’d tear this car up for an hour and then get bored. That’s all it would mean to them, which is a hundred per cent more than it meant to Cat.’
Some men got sad, emotional; they cried. Jerry had cried himself once or twice – a few cans of beer in him and watching Animal Hospital; and at Christmas when Bambi or The Wizard of Oz was on. But he’d never seen Nic cry. Instead, Nic turned it all into anger. Even when he was smiling, like now, Jerry knew he was angry, close to blowing. Not everyone knew, but Jerry did.