Set in Darkness

by Ian Rankin

  Hutton looked from one officer to the other. ‘You’re kidding?’

  Wylie unfolded the list of people who’d worked in the building. ‘Recognise these names, sir?’

  Hutton ended up smiling. ‘Brings back memories.’

  ‘None of them went missing?’

  The smile vanished. ‘No.’

  ‘Was anyone else working there, casual labour maybe?’

  ‘Not that I remember. Not unless you’re counting me.’

  ‘We did notice your name was a late addition.’

  Hutton nodded. He was short, maybe five-eight, skinny but with a developing paunch and jowls. His black suit was shiny new, and all three buttons were done up. His black brogues gleamed, the leather not yet broken in. He had small, dark, deep-set eyes, his brown hair cut above the ears but with prominent sideburns. Wylie knew she wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd as being especially rich or influential.

  ‘Work experience. I fancied the building trade. Looks like I made the right decision.’ His smile invited them to join in his good fortune. Neither detective did so.

  ‘Do you ever have any dealings with Peter Kirkwall?’ Wylie asked.

  ‘He’s a builder, I’m a developer. Different game.’

  ‘That doesn’t quite answer the question.’

  Hutton smiled again. ‘I’m wondering why you asked it.’

  ‘Just that we talked to him, too. His office was full of plans, photos of his projects . . .’

  ‘And mine isn’t? Maybe Peter’s got an ego, and I haven’t.’

  ‘You do know him then?’

  Hutton acknowledged as much with a shrug. ‘I’ve used his firm occasionally. What’s that got to do with your body?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Wylie conceded. ‘Just curious.’ All the same, she sensed she’d touched a nerve.

  ‘So,’ Grant Hood said, ‘getting back to Queensberry House . . .’

  ‘What can I tell you? I was eighteen, nineteen. They had me mixing concrete, all the unskilled jobs. It’s called learning from the floor up.’

  ‘You remember that room, though? The fireplaces?’

  Hutton nodded. ‘Putting in a DPC, yes. I was there when we opened the wall.’

  ‘Was anyone told about the fireplaces?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, Dean had the feeling they’d want to send in the historians, which would knock our schedule on the head. Something about not getting paid till the work was complete. If we were hanging around waiting for them to do their stuff, it’d be time lost.’

  ‘So you just covered it up again?’

  ‘Must’ve done. I came to work one morning, and the wall was back up.’

  ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘Dean himself maybe, or Harry Connors. Harry was pretty close to Dean, like a right-hand man.’ He nodded. ‘I see what you’re getting at, though: whoever covered that fireplace over had to know there was a body inside.’

  ‘Any theories?’ Wylie asked. Hutton shook his head. ‘You must have read about the case in the papers, Mr Hutton. Any reason you didn’t come forward?’

  ‘I didn’t know the body dated from back then. That fireplace could have been opened and closed again a dozen times since we worked there.’

  ‘Any other reason?’

  Hutton looked at her. ‘I’m a businessman. Any stories about me get into the press, it can affect how I’m seen in the business community.’

  ‘In other words, not all publicity is good publicity?’ Hood asked.

  Hutton smiled at him. ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Before we get too cosy,’ Wylie interrupted, ‘can I just ask how you got your job with Mr Coghill’s firm.’

  ‘I applied, same as everyone else.’

  ‘Really?’

  Hutton frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was just wondering if maybe your uncle put in a word, or maybe more than a word.’

  Hutton rolled his eyes. ‘I wondered when this would come up. Look, my mum happens to be Bryce Callan’s sister, okay? It doesn’t make me a criminal.’

  ‘Are you saying your uncle’s a criminal?’ Wylie asked.

  Hutton looked disappointed in her. ‘Don’t get glib. We all know what the police think of my uncle. All the rumours and insinuations. But nothing’s ever been proved, has it? Never even been to a court of law. What does that say, eh? To me, it says you’re wrong. It says I’ve worked to get where I am. Taxes, VAT and the rest: I’m cleaner than anybody. And the idea that you can walk in here and start—’

  ‘I think we get the picture, Mr Hutton,’ Hood interrupted. ‘Sorry if you thought we were suggesting anything. This is a murder inquiry, which means every angle ends up being considered, no matter how insignificant.’

  Hutton stared at Hood, trying to read something into that last word.

  ‘When did you leave Mr Coghill’s firm?’ Wylie asked.

  Hutton had to think about it. ‘April, May, something like that.’

  ‘Of ’79?’ Hutton nodded. ‘And you joined . . . ?’

  ‘October, ’78.’

  ‘Just the six months then? Not very long.’

  ‘I had a better offer.’

  ‘And what was that, sir?’ Hood asked.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide!’ Hutton spat.

  ‘We appreciate that, sir,’ Wylie said, her voice soothing.

  Hutton calmed quickly. ‘I went to work for my uncle.’

  ‘For Bryce Callan?’ Hutton nodded.

  ‘Doing what?’ Hood asked.

  Hutton took his time finishing the bottle. ‘Some land development thing of his.’

  ‘That was your big break then?’ Wylie asked.

  ‘It’s how I got started, yes. But as soon as I could, I branched off on my own.’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course.’ Hood’s tone said: I’ve worked to get where I am; but with a helping hand the size of a football field.

  As they were leaving, Wylie asked one more question. ‘This must be an exciting time for you?’

  ‘We’ve got plenty of ideas.’

  ‘Sites around Holyrood?’

  ‘The parliament’s just the beginning. Out-of-town shopping, marina developments. It’s astonishing how much of Edinburgh is still under-developed. And not just Edinburgh. I’ve got projects in Glasgow, Aberdeen, Dundee . . .’

  ‘And there are enough clients?’ Hood asked.

  Hutton laughed. ‘They’re queuing up, pal. All we need is less red tape.’

  Wylie nodded. ‘Planning permission?’

  At mention of the words, Hutton made the sign of the cross with the index fingers of both hands. ‘The curse of the developer.’

  But he could afford a final laugh as he closed his office door on them.

  24

  ‘Fair warning,’ Rebus said as they walked up the drive, ‘the mother’s a bit fragile.’

  ‘Understood,’ Siobhan Clarke replied. ‘So you’ll be your usual charming self?’

  ‘It’s Lorna Grieve we want to talk to,’ he reminded her. Then he nodded towards the Fiat Punto parked to the right of the front door. ‘That’s her car.’ He’d called High Manor, spoken with Hugh Cordover, listening intently for any new or accusing tone, but all Cordover had done was tell him Lorna was in Edinburgh.

  ‘I’m still not sure this is a good idea,’ Siobhan was saying.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve told you—’

  ‘John, you can’t go getting involved with—’

  He grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her so she was facing him. ‘I’m not involved!’

  ‘You didn’t sleep with her?’ Siobhan was trying to keep her voice down.

  ‘What does it matter if I did?’

  ‘We’re working a murder case. We’re about to question her.’

  ‘I’d never have guessed.’

  She stared at him. ‘You’re hurting my shoulder.’

  He released his grip, mumbled an apolo
gy.

  They rang the doorbell and waited. ‘How was your weekend?’ Rebus asked. She just glared at him. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if we go in there spitting at one another, we’re not going to get very far.’

  She seemed to consider this. ‘Hibs won again,’ she said at last. ‘What did you get up to?’

  ‘I went into the office, can’t say I achieved much.’

  Alicia Grieve answered the door. She looked older than when Rebus had last seen her, as if she’d lived too long already and was realising the fact. Age could dupe you like that, almost its cruellest trick. You lost a loved one, and time seemed to go into fast forward, so that you withered, sometimes even died. Rebus had seen it before: fit spouses dying in their sleep only days or weeks after burying their partner. It was as if a switch had been flicked, voluntary or involuntary, you could never tell.

  ‘Mrs Grieve,’ he said. ‘Remember me? DI Rebus?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Her voice was reedy, parched. ‘And who is this?’

  ‘DC Clarke,’ Siobhan said by way of introduction. She was smiling the smile of youth when faced with the aged: sympathetic yet not quite understanding. Rebus realised that he was closer to Alicia Grieve’s age than Siobhan’s. He had to push that thought away.

  ‘Can we bury Roddy? Is that why you’ve come?’ She didn’t sound hopeful; she would accept whatever they had to tell her. That was her role now in what was left of the world.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grieve,’ Rebus said. ‘Just a little longer.’

  She mimicked the final phrase, and added: ‘Time is elastic, don’t you find?’

  ‘We’re actually here to see Mrs Cordover,’ Siobhan stressed, trying to draw the woman back from wherever she was headed.

  ‘Lorna,’ Rebus added.

  ‘Is she here?’ Alicia Grieve asked.

  A voice from the interior: ‘Of course I’m here, Mother. We were talking not two minutes ago.’

  Mrs Grieve stood aside, letting them in. Lorna Grieve stood in the doorway of one of the rooms, a cardboard box in her arms.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said to Rebus, ignoring Siobhan.

  ‘Could we have a word, do you think?’ Rebus asked. He wasn’t quite looking at her. She became amused, nodded towards the room she’d just left.

  ‘I’m trying to tidy some of this crap away.’

  Mrs Grieve’s fingers touched the back of Rebus’s hand. They were as cold as a slab. ‘She wants to sell my paintings. She needs the money.’

  Rebus looked to Lorna, who was shaking her head.

  ‘I want them cleaned and reframed, that’s all.’

  ‘She’ll sell them,’ Mrs Grieve warned. ‘I know that’s what she’s up to.’

  ‘Mother, for Christ’s sake. I don’t need money.’

  ‘Your husband needs it. He has debts and only the last vestige of anything resembling a career.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ Lorna muttered.

  ‘Don’t you get cheeky with me, my girl!’ Mrs Grieve’s voice was trembling. Her fingers still held Rebus’s hand. They were talons; fleshless claws.

  Lorna sighed. ‘What do you two want anyway? I hope you’re here to arrest me; anything would be better than this.’

  ‘You can always go home!’ her mother shrieked.

  ‘And leave you here to wallow in self-pity? Oh no, Mummy dearest, we can’t have that.’

  ‘Seona looks after me.’

  ‘Seona’s too busy with her political career,’ Lorna spat. ‘She doesn’t need you now. She’s found a more useful cause.’

  ‘You’re a monster.’

  ‘Which must make you Dr Frankenstein, I presume?’

  ‘Vile body.’

  ‘Yes, on you go. You’ll be telling us you knew him next.’ She turned to Rebus and Siobhan. ‘Evelyn Waugh,’ she explained. ‘Vile Bodies.’

  ‘Putrid. You threw yourself at every man you ever met.’

  ‘I still do,’ Lorna snarled. She didn’t so much as glance at Rebus. ‘While you only ever threw yourself at Father, because you knew he’d be useful to you. And once your reputation was established, that was, in a phrase, the end of the affair.’

  ‘How dare you.’ Cold rage, the rage of a much younger woman.

  Siobhan was touching Rebus’s sleeve, edging back towards the door. Lorna saw what she was doing. ‘Oh look, we’re frightening off the filth! Isn’t that precious, Mother? Did you realise we possessed such power?’ She started to laugh. A few moments later, Alicia Grieve joined her.

  Rebus’s thought: it’s a fucking mad house. Then he realised that this was normal behaviour for mother and daughter: fighting and spitting the prelude to catharsis. They’d been in the public’s eye so long, they’d become actors in their own melodrama; played out their quarrels as though each one had measure and meaning.

  Scenes from family life.

  Bloody hell.

  Lorna was wiping an imaginary tear from her eye, still cradling the paintings. ‘I’ll put these back,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said her mother, ‘leave them in the hall with the others.’ She pointed to where a dozen or so framed paintings sat against the wall. ‘You’re right, we’ll have them looked at: cleaned up, maybe a few new frames.’

  ‘We should get an insurance quote while we’re at it.’ Her mother was about to interrupt, so Lorna went on quickly. ‘That’s not so I can sell them. But if they were stolen . . .’

  Alicia seemed about to argue, but sucked in a deep breath and just nodded. The paintings were laid with the others. Lorna stood up again, brushing her hands free of dust.

  ‘Must be forty years since you painted some of these.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Maybe even longer.’ Alicia nodded. ‘But they’ll survive long after I’m gone. It’s just that they won’t mean the same.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Siobhan felt compelled to ask.

  Alicia looked at her. ‘They mean things to me which they never can to anyone else.’

  ‘That’s why they’re here,’ Lorna explained, ‘rather than on some collector’s walls.’

  Alicia Grieve nodded. ‘Meaning is precious. The personal is all we have; without it, we’re animals, pure and simple.’ She suddenly perked up, her hand dropping from Rebus’s. ‘Tea,’ she barked, clapping her hands together. ‘We must all have some tea.’

  Rebus was wondering if there was any chance of a tot of whisky on the side.

  They sat in the sitting room, making small talk while Lorna coped in the kitchen. She brought in a tray, started pouring.

  ‘I’m bound to have forgotten something,’ she said. ‘Tea’s not my strong point.’ She looked at Rebus as she spoke, but he was focused on the fireplace. ‘Something stronger, Inspector? I seem to remember you enjoy a malt.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ he felt compelled to say.

  ‘Sugar,’ Lorna said, studying the tray. ‘Told you.’ She made for the door, but Rebus and Siobhan announced that neither of them took it, so she returned to her seat. There were crumbly digestives on a plate. They turned down the offer, but Alicia took one, dunking it into her tea, where it broke into pieces. They ignored her as she fished the morsels out, popping them into her mouth.

  ‘So,’ Lorna said at last, ‘what brings you to Happy Acres?’

  ‘It might be something or nothing,’ Rebus said. ‘DC Clarke has been investigating the suicide of a homeless person. It looks like he was very interested in your family.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And the fact of his suicide, so soon after the murder . . .’

  Lorna sat forward in her chair. She was looking at Siobhan. ‘This wouldn’t be the millionaire tramp by any chance?’

  Siobhan nodded. ‘Though he wasn’t quite a millionaire.’

  Lorna turned to her mother. ‘You remember me telling you?’

  Her mother nodded, but appeared not to have been listening. Lorna turned back to Siobhan. ‘But what’s it got to do with us?’

  ‘Maybe noth
ing,’ Siobhan conceded. ‘The deceased was calling himself Chris Mackie. Does that name mean anything?’

  Lorna thought hard, then shook her head.

  ‘We have some photos,’ Siobhan said, handing them over. She glanced at Rebus.

  Lorna studied the photos. ‘Grim-looking creature, isn’t he?’

  Siobhan was still looking at Rebus, willing him to ask the question.

  ‘Mrs Cordover,’ he said, ‘there’s no easy way to ask this.’

  She looked at him. ‘Ask what?’

  Rebus took a deep breath. ‘He’s a lot older . . . been living rough.’ He dived in. ‘It couldn’t be Alasdair, could it?’

  ‘Alasdair?’ Lorna took another look at the top photo. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ She looked towards her mother, who seemed to have turned whiter than ever. ‘Alasdair’s got fair hair, nothing like this.’ Alicia’s hand was reaching out, but Lorna passed the photos back to Siobhan. ‘What are you trying to do? This man’s nothing like Alasdair, nothing like him at all.’

  ‘People can change in twenty years,’ Rebus said quietly.

  ‘People can change overnight,’ she retorted coldly, ‘but that’s not my brother. What made you think it was?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘A hunch.’

  ‘I’ll show you Alasdair,’ Alicia Grieve said, rising to her feet. She put her cup down on the table. ‘Come with me, and I’ll show you him.’

  They followed her into the kitchen. The glass-fronted china cabinet was full, and piles of clean crockery covered the worktops, awaiting space that would never be there. The sink was full of dirty dishes. An ironing board was piled with clothes. A radio was playing softly: some classical station.

  ‘Bruckner,’ Alicia said, unlocking the back door. ‘They always seem to be playing Bruckner.’

  ‘Her studio,’ Lorna explained as they followed Alicia into the garden. It was overgrown now, untended, but the notion of the garden it had once been was still there. A free-standing swing, its pipework corroded. A stone urn, waiting to be put upright on its plinth. The leaves on the lawn had turned to mulch, making progress difficult. And at the far end of the garden, a stone outhouse.

  ‘The servants’ quarters?’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Lorna said. ‘It was our secret place when we were kids. Then Mother turned it into a studio, and we were locked out.’ She was watching her mother lead the way, the old woman’s back stooped. ‘Time was, Father and she painted in the same room – his studio’s in the attic.’ She pointed back to two skylights in the roof. ‘Then Mother decided she needed her own space, her own light. She was locking him out of her life, too.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘It wasn’t easy, growing up a Grieve.’