Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘I knew Stew,’ Cordover said.

‘Stew?’ Lorna narrowed her eyes.

‘Ian Stewart,’ Rebus explained. ‘The sixth Stone.’

Cordover nodded. ‘His face didn’t fit the image, so he couldn’t be in the band. Played session for them instead.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘You know he came from Fife? And Stu Sutcliffe was born in Edinburgh.’

‘And Jack Bruce was Glaswegian.’

Cordover smiled. ‘You know your stuff.’

‘I know some stuff. For example, I know that Peter’s mother is called Billie Collins. Has anyone been in touch with her?’

‘Why the hell should we care?’ Lorna said. ‘She can buy a paper, can’t she?’

‘I think Peter’s spoken with her,’ Cordover added.

‘Where does she live?’

‘St Andrews, I think.’ Cordover looked to his wife for confirmation. ‘She teaches at a school there.’

‘Haugh Academy,’ Lorna said. ‘Is she a suspect?’

Rebus was writing in his notebook. ‘Do you want her to be?’ Asked casually, not looking up.

‘The more the merrier.’

Cordover leapt from his perch. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lorna!’

‘Oh, yes,’ his wife spat back, ‘you always did have a soft spot for her. Or should that be a hard spot?’ She looked at Rebus. ‘Hugh always excused his rutting by saying he was an artist. Only he’s never been much of a sack artist, have you, sweetie?’

‘Stories, that’s all they were.’ Cordover was pacing now.

‘Speaking of stories,’ Rebus said, ‘had you heard anything about Josephine Banks?’

Lorna Grieve chuckled, cupped her hands in mock prayer. ‘Oh yes, let it be her. That would be too perfect.’

‘Roddy was a public figure, Inspector,’ Cordover said, his eyes on his wife. ‘You get all sorts of rumours. It goes with the territory.’

‘Does it?’ Lorna said. ‘How fascinating. And tell me, what rumours have you heard about me ?’

Cordover stayed silent. Rebus could tell the man had some reply formed, something wounding: none, which just proves how far you’ve fallen . Something like that. But he stayed silent.

It seemed as good a time as any to toss a grenade into the room. ‘Who’s Alasdair?’

There was silence. Lorna gulped at her drink. Cordover rested against the pool table. Rebus was content to let the silence do his work.

‘Lorna’s brother,’ Cordover said at last. ‘Not that I ever knew him.’

‘Alasdair was the best of us,’ Lorna said quietly. ‘That’s why he couldn’t bear to stay.’

‘What happened to him?’ Rebus asked.

‘He ran off into the wild blue yonder.’ She made a sweeping motion with her glass. It was all ice now, nothing left to drink.

‘When?’

‘Ancient history, Monkey Man. He’s in warm climes now, and good luck to him.’ She turned towards Rebus, pointed to his left hand. ‘No wedding ring. Would I make a good detective, do you think? And you’re a drinker, too. You’ve been eyeing up my glass.’ She pouted. ‘Or is there something else you’re interested in?’

‘Please ignore her, Inspector.’

She flung the tumbler at her husband. ‘Nobody ignores me! I’m not the has-been here.’

‘That’s right, the agencies are clamouring at your door. The phone never stops ringing.’ The tumbler had missed him; he brushed ice-water from his arm.

Lorna pushed herself off the sofa. Rebus got the idea the pair were used to arguing in public, that they considered it their inalienable right as artists .

‘Hey, you two.’ A voice of reason from the doorway. ‘We can’t hear ourselves think in there. So much for soundproofing.’ It was a drawl, easy, relaxed. Peter Grief reached into the fridge for a bottle of water. ‘Besides, it’s the rock star who should be having the tantrums, not his aunt and uncle.’

Rebus and Peter Grief sat in the control room. Everyone else was upstairs in the dining room. A baker’s van had arrived, bearing trays of sandwiches and patisserie. Rebus had a little paper plate in his hand, just the one triangle of bread on it: chicken tikka filling. Peter Grief was using a finger to remove the cream from a wedge of sponge cake. It was all he’d eaten so far. He’d asked if it was all right to have music on in the background. Music helped him to think.

‘Even when it’s a rough mix of one of my own songs.’

Which is what they were listening to. Rebus said he considered three-piece bands a rarity. Grief corrected him by mentioning Manic Street Preachers, Massive Attack, Supergrass, and half a dozen others, then added: ‘And Cream, of course.’

‘Not forgetting Jimi Hendrix.’

Grief bowed his head. ‘Noel Redding: not many bassists could keep up with James Marshall.’

Niceties dispensed with, Rebus put down his plate. ‘You know why I’m here, Peter?’

‘Hugh told me.’

‘I’m sorry about your father.’

Grief shrugged. ‘Bad career move for a politician. Now if he’d only been in my business...’ It had the sound of a rehearsed line, something to be used over and again as self-protection.

‘How old were you when your parents separated?’

‘Too young to remember.’

‘You were brought up by your mother?’

Grief nodded. ‘But they stayed close. You know, “for the sake of the child”.’

‘Something like that still hurts though, doesn’t it?’ Grief glanced up. There was a seam of anger in his voice. ‘How would you know?’

‘I left my wife. She had to bring up our daughter.’

‘And how’s your daughter doing?’ The anger quickly replaced by curiosity.

‘She’s okay.’ Rebus paused. ‘Now, that is. Back then... I’m not so sure.’

‘You are a cop, right? I mean, this isn’t some cheap trick to get me discussing my feelings with a counsellor?’

Rebus smiled. ‘If I was a counsellor, Peter, my next question would be, “Do you think you need to discuss your feelings?”’

Grief smiled, bowed his head. ‘Sometimes I wish I was like Hugh and Lorna.’

‘They don’t exactly keep things bottled up, do they?’

‘Not exactly.’ Another smile, dying slowly on his lips. Grief was tall and slender with black hair, possibly dyed, and slicked back from a semi-quiff. His face was long and angular, prominent cheekbones and dark, haunted eyes. He looked right for the part: soiled white T-shirt baggy at the sleeves. Black drainpipe denims and biker boots. Thin leather braids around both wrists and a pentangle hanging from his throat. If Rebus had been casting for bassist in a rock band, he’d have told the other applicants to head for home.

‘You know we’re trying to figure out who might have wanted to kill your father?’

‘Yes.’

‘When you spoke with him, did he ever...? Did you get the feeling he had enemies, anyone he was worried about?’

Grief was shaking his head. ‘He wouldn’t have told me.’

‘Who would he have told?’

‘Maybe Uncle Cammo.’ Grief paused. ‘Or Grandma.’ His fingers were busy imitating the loudspeaker bass-line. ‘I wanted you to hear this song. It’s about the last time Dad and I spoke.’

Rebus listened; the rhythm wasn’t exactly funereal.

‘We had this big falling-out. He thought I was wasting my time, blamed Uncle Hugh for stringing me along.’

Rebus couldn’t make out the words. ‘So what’s the song called?’

‘Here’s the chorus coming.’ Grief began to sing along, and now Rebus could make out the words only too well.