Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘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.