Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘But is that what happened?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Let’s see what the background check digs up.’

‘I think we’re wasting our time. I don’t think he knows anything.’

‘Oh?’

‘I don’t even think he was here. Remember how vague he was about the weather that night? He couldn’t even be sure which route he took when he patrolled.’

‘He’s not the brightest of specimens, John. We still have to do the check.’

‘Because it’s procedure?’

Linford nodded. Outside, something was making a noise: rugga rugga rugga rugga rugga .

‘Has that thing been going all the time?’ Rebus asked.

‘What thing?’

‘That noise, the cement mixer or whatever it is.’

‘I don’t know.’

There was a knock at the door. The site manager came in, holding his yellow hard hat by its rim. He wore a yellow oilskin jacket over brown cord trousers. His walking boots were covered in glaur.

‘Just a few follow-up questions,’ Linford informed him, gesturing for the man to sit.

‘I’ve inventoried the tools,’ the site manager said, unfolding a sheet of paper. ‘Of course, things do go walkabout on any job.’

Rebus looked at Linford. ‘You take this one. I need some fresh air.’

He stepped out into the cold and breathed deeply, then searched his pockets for cigarettes. He’d been going off his head in there. Christ, and a drink would go down too well. There was a mobile van parked outside the gates, selling burgers and tea to the construction workers.

‘Double malt,’ Rebus said to the woman.

‘And do you take water with that?’

He smiled. ‘Just a tea, thanks. Milk, no sugar.’

‘Right, love.’ She kept rubbing her hands together between tasks.

‘Must get pretty cold, working here.’

‘Perishing,’ she admitted. ‘I could do with a tot now and again myself.’

‘What sort of hours are you open?’

‘Andy opens at eight, does breakfasts and things. I usually take over at two, so he can hit the cash and carry.’

Rebus checked his watch. ‘It’s just gone eleven.’

‘Sure you don’t want anything else? I’ve just cooked a couple of burgers.’

‘Go on then. Just the one.’ He patted his midriff.

‘You need feeding up, you do,’ she told him, winking as she spoke.

Rebus took the tea from her, then the burger. There were sauce bottles on a ledge. He spiralled some brown on to the contents of the roll.

‘Andy’s not been too good,’ she said. ‘So it’s down to me just now.’

‘Nothing serious?’ Rebus took a bite of scalding meat and melting onions.

‘Just flu, and maybe not even that. You men are all hypochondriacs.’

‘Can’t blame him for trying, this weather.’

‘Don’t see me complaining, do you?’

‘Women are made of stronger stuff.’

She laughed, rolled her eyes.

‘What time do you finish?’

She laughed again. ‘You chatting me up?’

He shrugged. ‘I might want another of these later.’ He held up the burger.

‘Well, I’m here till five. But they go quick, come lunchtime.’

‘I’ll risk it,’ Rebus said. It was his turn to wink, as he headed back through the gate. He drank the tea as he walked. When the roof workers started to winch another load of slates down towards the waiting skip, he remembered he wasn’t wearing a hard hat. There were some in the gatehouse, but he didn’t want to go back there. Instead, he headed into Queensberry House. The stairs down to the basement were unlit. He could hear voices echoing at the end of the hall. Shadows were moving in the old kitchen. When he stepped into the room, Ellen Wylie glanced towards him and nodded a greeting. She was listening to an elderly woman speak. They’d found a chair for her to sit in. It was one of those director’s chairs with a canvas seat and back, and it complained every time its occupant moved, which she did often and in animated fashion. Grant Hood was standing by a side wall, taking notes. He was keeping out of the woman’s eyeline, so as not to distract her.

‘It was always covered in wood,’ the woman was saying. ‘That’s my recollection.’ She had one of those high-pitched, authoritative accents.

‘This sort of stuff?’ Wylie asked. She pointed to a section of tongue-and-groove, still fixed to the wall near the door.

‘I believe so, yes.’ The woman noticed Rebus, gave him a smile.

‘This is Detective Inspector Rebus,’ Wylie said.

‘Good morning, Inspector. My name is Marcia Templewhite.’

Rebus stepped forward, took her hand for a moment.

‘Miss Templewhite worked for the Health Board back in the seventies,’ Wylie explained.

‘And for many years before that, too,’ Miss Templewhite added.

‘She remembers some building work,’ Wylie went on.

‘ Lots of work,’ Miss Templewhite corrected. ‘The whole basement was gutted. New heating system, floor repairs, pipework... It was quite a guddle, I can tell you. Everything had to be moved upstairs, and then we didn’t know where to put it. Went on for weeks.’

‘And the wooden sections were removed?’ Rebus asked.

‘Well, I was just telling...’

‘DS Wylie,’ Wylie reminded her.

‘I was just telling DS Wylie, if they’d found these fireplaces, surely they’d have said something?’

‘You didn’t know about them?’

‘Not until DS Wylie told me.’

‘But the building work’, Grant Hood said, ‘coincides fairly well with the skeleton’s age.’

‘You don’t suppose one of the workers could have got himself bricked up?’ Miss Templewhite asked.

‘I think he’d have been noticed,’ Rebus told her. All the same, he knew they’d be asking the builders that very question. ‘Who were the contractors?’

Miss Templewhite threw up her hands. ‘Contractors, subcontractors... I could never really keep up with them.’

Wylie looked at Rebus. ‘Miss Templewhite thinks there’ll be records somewhere.’

‘Oh yes, most definitely.’ She looked around her at her surroundings. ‘And now Roddy Grieve’s dead, too. It was never a lucky place this. Never was, never will be.’ She nodded at all three of them, her confident words accompanied by a solemn, knowing face, as if she took no comfort from the truth.

Back at the snack van, he paid for the teas.

‘Guilty conscience?’ Wylie said, accepting hers. A patrol car had arrived to take Miss Templewhite home. Grant Hood was seeing her safely into the back of it, waving her off.

‘Why should I feel guilty?’ Rebus asked.

‘Story is, it was you that put our names down for this.’

‘Who told you that?’

She shrugged. ‘Word gets around.’

‘Then you should be thanking me,’ Rebus said. ‘High-profile case like this could make your career.’

‘Not as high profile as Roddy Grieve.’ She was staring at him.

‘Spit it out,’ he said. But she shook her head. He handed the spare styrofoam beaker to Grant Hood. ‘Seemed like a nice old sort.’

‘Grant likes the more mature woman,’ Wylie said.

‘Get lost, Ellen.’

‘Him and his pals go to Grab-a-Granny night at the Marina.’

Rebus looked at Hood, who was blushing. ‘That right, Grant?’

Hood just looked at Wylie, concentrated on his tea.

Seemed to Rebus they were getting on okay, felt comfortable enough to talk about their private lives, then to joke about it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘getting back to business...’ He moved away from the van, where workers were queuing for lunchtime treats of crisps and chocolate bars, their eyes roving towards Ellen Wylie. Wylie and Hood were both wearing hard hats, but didn’t look right in them. The line of workers knew they were just visiting. ‘What have we got so far?’