Set in Darkness

by Ian Rankin

  ‘All the paperwork. There’s a filing-cabinet somewhere, too . . .’

  ‘Under that blanket maybe?’ Wylie suggested, pointing towards the far corner.

  ‘If you want to know anything about Queensberry House, it’ll be here somewhere.’

  Wylie and Hood shared a look. Hood puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘Another job for the Time Team,’ Ellen Wylie said.

  Hood nodded, looked around. ‘Any heating in here, Mrs Coghill?’

  ‘I could bring you out an electric fire.’

  ‘Show me where it is,’ Hood said, ‘I’ll fetch it.’

  ‘And something tells me you wouldn’t say no to that cup of tea now,’ said Mrs Coghill, seeming delighted by the thought of their company.

  Siobhan Clarke sat at her desk with ‘Supertramp’’s effects spread before her. To wit: the contents of his carrier bag, his building society passbook, the briefcase (which its most recent owner hadn’t given up without a fight) and the photographs. She also had a pile of crank letters and telephone messages, including three from Gerald Sithing.

  It was one of the tabloids who had coined the name Supertramp. They’d also dragged up the sex-on-church-steps story, with an archive photo of Dezzi. Siobhan knew the vultures would be out there, trying to track Dezzi down for an interview, for some juicy morsel. Maybe Dezzi would tell them about the briefcase. It wouldn’t be chequebook journalism – she doubted Dezzi had a bank account. Call it cashpoint journalism then. Maybe they’d talk to Rachel Drew, too. She wouldn’t say no to a cheque. A few more titbits for the readers and gold-diggers.

  And as long as the story ran, the letters and calls would keep coming.

  She rose from the desk, pushed at her spine until the vertebrae clicked. It was gone six, and the office was empty. She’d had to move desks – the Grieve murder had taken priority – and was squeezed into a corner of the long, narrow room. No window near by. Mind you, Hood and Wylie had it even worse: no natural light at all in the shoebox they’d been given. The Chief Super had been blunt with her this afternoon: take a few more days, but if there was no ID on Supertramp by then, that was an end of it. The cash went to the Treasury; the suicide, Mackie’s whole prehistory, would remain unexplained.

  ‘We’ve got real work to be getting on with,’ her boss had said. He looked like a candidate for a stroke. ‘Dossers kill themselves every day.’

  ‘No suspicious circumstances, sir?’ she’d dared to ask.

  ‘The money doesn’t make for suspicious circumstances, Siobhan. It’s a mystery, that’s all. Life’s full of them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ve been too close to John Rebus for too long.’

  She’d looked up, frowning. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you’re looking for something here that probably doesn’t exist.’

  ‘The money exists. He walked into a building society, all of it in cash. Next thing he’s living as a down and out.’

  ‘A rich eccentric; money does strange things to some people.’

  ‘He erased his past. It’s like he was in hiding.’

  ‘You think the money was stolen? Then why didn’t he spend it?’

  ‘That’s just one other question, sir.’

  A sigh; a scratch of the nose. ‘A few more days, Siobhan. All right?’

  She’d nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ she’d said . . .

  ‘Evening all.’

  John Rebus was standing in the doorway.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘How long have you been staring at that wall?’

  She realised she was halfway down the office, and had been gazing at photos of the Grieve locus. ‘I was dreaming. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Working, same as you.’ He came into the office, leaned against one of the desks with his arms folded.

  You’ve been too close to John Rebus for too long.

  ‘How’s the Grieve case?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t your first question be “How’s Derek?”’

  She half-turned from him, cheeks reddening slightly.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That was bad taste, even for me.’

  ‘We just didn’t hit it off,’ she told him. ‘I’m having the selfsame problem.’

  She turned to him. ‘Is Derek the problem though, or is it you?’

  He feigned a pained look, then winked and walked up the central aisle between the rows of desks. ‘Is this your man’s stuff?’ he asked. She followed him back to her desk. She could smell whisky.

  ‘They’re calling him Supertramp.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘The media.’

  He was smiling. She asked him why.

  ‘Supertramp: I saw them in concert once. Usher Hall, I think it was.’

  ‘Before my time.’

  ‘So what’s the story with Mr Supertramp anyway?’

  ‘He had all this money he either couldn’t spend or didn’t want to. He took on a new identity. My theory is that he was hiding.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He was rifling through the scraps on the desk. She folded her arms, gave him a hard look which he failed to notice. He opened the bread bag and shook out the contents: disposable razor, a sliver of soap, toothbrush. ‘An organised mind,’ he said. ‘Makes himself a washbag. Doesn’t like being dirty.’

  ‘It’s like he was acting the part,’ she said.

  He caught her tone, looked up. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ She couldn’t say the words: my case, my pitch.

  Rebus lifted the arrest photograph. ‘What did he do?’ She told him and he laughed.

  ‘I’ve tracked him back as far as 1980. That was when “Chris Mackie” was born.’

  ‘You should talk to Hood and Wylie. They’re checking MisPers from ’78 and ’79.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll do that.’

  ‘You sound tired. What if I offered to buy you dinner?’

  ‘And we talk shop all through the meal? Yes, that would be a real break from routine.’

  ‘I happen to have a wide range of conversational topics.’

  ‘Name three.’

  ‘Pubs, progressive rock, and . . .’

  ‘And you’re struggling.’

  ‘Scottish history: I’ve been reading up on it lately.’

  ‘How thrilling. Besides, pubs are where you have conversations; they’re not what you talk about.’

  ‘I talk about them.’

  ‘That’s because you’re obsessed.’

  He was sorting through her messages. ‘Who’s G. Sithing?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘His first name’s Gerald. He came to see me this morning: the first of many, no doubt.’

  ‘He’s keen to talk to you.’

  ‘Once was enough.’

  ‘Woodwork creaks and out come the freaks, eh?’

  ‘I’ve a feeling that’s a line from a song.’

  ‘Not a song, a classic. So who is he?’

  ‘He runs some bunch of nutters called the Knights of Rosslyn.’

  ‘As in Rosslyn Chapel?’

  ‘The same. He says Supertramp was a member.’

  ‘Sounds unlikely.’

  ‘Oh, I think they knew one another. I just can’t see Mackie leaving all that money to Mr Sithing.’

  ‘So who are these Knights of Rosslyn?’

  ‘They think there’s something beneath the chapel floor. Come the millennium, up it pops and they’re in the vanguard.’

  ‘I was out there the other day.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were interested.’

  ‘I’m not. But Lorna Grieve lives out that way.’ Rebus had turned his attention to the newspaper which had been in Mackie’s carrier. ‘Was this folded like this?’

  The newspaper looked filthy, as though it had been fished out of a bin. It had been opened to an inside page, and folded into quarters.

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Yes, it was crumpled like that.’

&n
bsp; ‘Not crumpled, Siobhan. Look what story it’s open at.’

  She looked: a follow-up article on the ‘body in the fireplace’. She took the paper from Rebus and unfolded it. ‘Could be one of these other stories.’

  ‘Which one: traffic congestion or the doctor who’s prescribing Viagra?’

  ‘Don’t forget the advert for New Year in County Kerry.’ She gnawed her bottom lip, turned to the paper’s front page: the lead was Roddy Grieve’s murder. ‘Are you seeing something I’m not?’ Thinking of the Chief Super’s words: you’re looking for something here that probably doesn’t exist.

  ‘Seems to me maybe Supertramp had some interest in Skelly. You should ask the people who knew him.’

  Rachel Drew at the hostel; Dezzi, heating burgers by hand-dryer; Gerald Sithing. Siobhan managed not to look thrilled by Rebus’s suggestion.

  ‘We’ve a body in Queensberry House,’ Rebus said, ‘dates back to late ’78 or early ’79. A year later, Supertramp is born.’ He held up a finger on his right hand. ‘Supertramp suddenly decides to top himself, having read in the paper about the find in the fireplace.’ He held up a finger on his left hand, touched the two together.

  ‘Careful,’ Siobhan said, ‘that means something rude in several countries.’

  ‘You don’t see a connection?’ He sounded disappointed.

  ‘Sorry to play Scully to your Mulder, but couldn’t it be that you’re seeing connections here because nothing’s happening in your own case?’

  ‘Which translated means: get your nose out of my business, Rebus?’

  ‘No, it’s just that I . . .’ She rubbed at her forehead. ‘I only know one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’ She looked at him. ‘The dinner offer still stand?’

  20

  They ate at Pataka’s on Causewayside. She asked how his daughter was doing. Sammy was down south, some specialist physiotherapy place. Rebus told her there wasn’t much news.

  ‘She’ll get over it though?’

  Meaning the hit and run which had left Sammy in a wheelchair. Rebus nodded; didn’t say anything for fear of tempting fate.

  ‘And how’s Patience?’

  Rebus helped himself to more tarka dal, though he’d eaten way too much as it was. Siobhan repeated the question.

  ‘Nosy little beggar, aren’t you?’

  She smiled: Dezzi had said the selfsame thing. ‘Sorry, I thought maybe at your age it was just that your hearing was going.’

  ‘Oh, I heard you all right.’ He lifted a forkful of ginger murgh, but put it down again untouched.

  ‘Me, too,’ Siobhan said. ‘I always eat too much in Indian restaurants.’

  ‘I always eat too much all the time.’

  ‘So the pair of you have split up then?’ Siobhan hid behind her glass of wine.

  ‘We parted amicably.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘How did you want us to part?’

  ‘No, I just . . . the two of you seemed . . .’ She looked down at her plate. ‘Sorry, I’m talking rubbish here. I only met her four or five times, and here I am pontificating.’

  ‘You don’t look much like a pontiff.’

  ‘Bless you for that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Not bad: eighteen minutes without shop talk.’

  ‘Is that a new record?’ He finished his beer. ‘I notice we haven’t been talking much about your private life. Seen anything of Brian Holmes?’

  She shook her head, made show of looking around the restaurant. Three other couples in the place, and one family of four. Ethnic music kept low enough that it didn’t intrude but ensured a conversation stayed private.

  ‘I saw him a couple of times after he left the force. Then we lost touch.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Last I heard,’ Rebus said, ‘he was in Australia; thinking of staying there.’ He pushed some of the food around his plate. ‘You don’t think it’s worth asking around about Supertramp and Queensberry House?’

  Siobhan mimicked the noise of a buzzer as she checked her watch again. ‘Twenty minutes dead. You’ve let the side down, John.’

  ‘Come on.’

  She sat back. ‘You’re probably right. Thing is, the boss has only given me a couple more days.’

  ‘Well, what other leads have you got?’

  ‘None,’ she admitted. ‘Just a slew of cranks and gold-diggers to put out of the frame.’

  Their waiter materialised and asked if they wanted any more drinks. Rebus looked at Siobhan. ‘I’m driving,’ he told her. ‘You go ahead.’

  ‘In that case I’ll have another glass of white.’

  ‘And another pint for me,’ Rebus said, handing the waiter his empty glass. Then, to Siobhan: ‘It’s only my second. My vision doesn’t start blurring till four or five.’

  ‘But you were drinking earlier; I could smell it.’

  ‘So much for the extra-strong mints,’ Rebus muttered.

  ‘How long till it starts affecting your job.’

  His eyes smouldered. ‘Et tu, Siobhan?’

  ‘Just wondering,’ she said, not about to apologise for the question.

  He shrugged. ‘I could stop drinking tomorrow.’

  ‘But you won’t.’

  ‘No, I won’t. And I won’t stop smoking either, or swearing, or cheating at crosswords.’

  ‘You cheat at crosswords?’

  ‘Doesn’t everybody?’ He watched as one of the couples got up to leave. They left the restaurant hand in hand. ‘Funny,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lorna Grieve’s husband, he has an interest in Rosslyn, too.’

  Siobhan snorted. ‘Speaking of changing the subject . . .’

  ‘They bought a house in the village,’ Rebus went on, ‘that’s how serious he is.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He might know your Mr Sithing. He could even be a member of the Knights.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you’re beginning to sound like a record with the needle stuck.’ He stared at her until, suitably chastened, she mouthed the word ‘sorry’ before taking another glug of wine. ‘An interest in Rosslyn connects your Supertramp to my murder case. And Mr Supertramp also might have had an interest in Queensberry House.’

  ‘You’re turning three cases into one?’

  ‘I’m just saying there are—’

  ‘Connections, I know. The old six degrees of separation.’

  ‘The old what?’

  She looked at him. ‘Okay, maybe it was after your time. It’s to do with how anyone on the planet is connected to anyone else by only six links.’ She paused. ‘I think that’s right anyway.’

  As her second glass of wine arrived, she drained the first.

  ‘It’s at least got to be worth talking to Sithing.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘I didn’t like him.’

  ‘I’ll sit in with you, if you like.’

  ‘You are trying to hijack my case.’ She smiled to let him know she was joking. But inside, she wasn’t so sure.

  After their meal, Rebus asked if she fancied a nightcap in Swany’s, but she shook her head.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to lead you into temptation,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift home then.’ Rebus, heading for the Saab, gave a valedictory wave towards the pub’s bright lights. Sleet was blowing horizontally down Causewayside. They got into the car and he started the engine, making sure the heating was on full.

  ‘Did you notice the weather today?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, it was cold, raining, windy and sunny – all at the same time. It was like four seasons in one.’

  ‘You can’t say you don’t get your money’s worth in Edinburgh. Here, hang on a sec.’ He reached over to open the glove compartment, saw Siobhan stiffen her body, thinking he was going to touch her. He smiled, found the tape he was looking for.

  ‘Little treat for you,’ he said, pushing the tape h
ome. She’d flinched; she’d thought he was making a move on her. Jesus. She wasn’t much older than Sammy.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. He had the idea she was blushing; hard to tell in the semi-dark interior. He handed her the case. ‘Crime of the Century,’ she recited.

  ‘Supertramp’s finest moment,’ he explained.

  ‘You like all this old music, don’t you?’

  ‘And that Blue Nile tape you made for me. I might be a dinosaur in many respects, but I’m open-minded about rock.’

  They headed for the New Town. Divided city, Rebus was thinking. Divided between the Old Town to the south and the New Town to the north. And divided again between the east end (Hibs FC) and west (Hearts). A city which seemed defined by its past as much as by its present, and only now, with the parliament coming, looking towards the future.

  ‘Crime of the Century,’ Siobhan repeated. ‘Which one, do you think – your dead MSP or my mystery suicide?’

  ‘Don’t forget the body in the fireplace. Where’s your flat again?’

  ‘Just off Broughton Street.’

  As they drove, they watched the buildings and the pedestrians, were aware of other cars drawing level with them at traffic lights. Cop instinct: always on the lookout. Most people just got on with their lives, but a detective’s life was made up of other people’s lives. The city seemed quiet enough. Not yet late enough for drunks, and the weather was keeping people off the streets.

  ‘You have to worry about the homeless, this time of year,’ Siobhan said.

  ‘You should take a look at the cells on the run-up to Christmas. The woolly suits take in as many as they can.’

  She looked at him. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You’ve never worked Christmas.’

  ‘They arrest them?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Ask to be locked up. That way there’s a hot meal for them right through to New Year. Then we let them out again.’

  She leaned back against the headrest. ‘God, Christmas.’