Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.’