Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘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.’