Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

The team compiled their case. Not just the Roddy Grieve team, but Siobhan and Wylie and Hood, Wylie making sure she had a desk by a window: her reward, she said, for all the hours in the interview room.

They had help from further afield, too — NCIS, Crime Squad, the Big House. And when they were ready, there was still work to be done. A doctor had to be arranged, the suspect contacted and informed that a solicitor might be a good idea. He would know they’d been asking questions; even in his state, he’d have to know — friends tipping him the wink. Again, Carswell argued against Rebus’s involvement; again, he was voted down, but only just.

When Rebus and Siobhan turned up at the detached, walled house on Queensferry Road, there were three cars in the driveway: both doctor and solicitor had already arrived. It was a big house, 1930s vintage, but next to the main artery between the city and Fife. That would knock £50k from the value, easy; even so, it had to be worth a third of a million. Not bad for a ‘toon cooncillor’.

Archie Ure was in bed, but not in his bedroom. To avoid the stairs, a single bed had been erected in the dining room. The dining table now sat out in the hall, six formal chairs upended and resting on its polished surface. The room was redolent of illness: that stuffy, fusty smell of sweat and unbrushed teeth. The patient sat up, breathing noisily. The doctor had just finished his examination. Ure was hooked up to a heart monitor, his pyjama top unbuttoned, thin black wires disappearing beneath circles of flesh-toned tape. His chest was near hairless, falling with each laboured exhalation like a punctured bellows.

Ure’s solicitor was a man called Cameron Whyte, a short, meticulous-looking individual who, according to Ure’s wife, had been a family friend for the past three decades. He was seated on a chair at the bedside, briefcase on his knees and a fresh pad of A4 lined paper resting atop it. Introductions had to be made. Rebus did not shake Archie Ure’s hand, but did ask how he was feeling.

‘Bloody fine till all this nonsense,’ was the gruff response.

‘We’ll try to be as quick as we can,’ Rebus said.

Ure grunted. Cameron Whyte went on to ask some preliminary questions, while Rebus opened one of the two cases he was carrying and brought out the cassette machine. It was a cumbersome piece of kit, but would record two copies of the interview and time-stamp each one. Rebus went over the procedure with Whyte, who watched carefully as Rebus set the date and time, then broke open two fresh tapes. There were problems with the flex, which just barely stretched from the wall socket, and then with the double-headed microphone, whose lead just made it to the bed. Rebus shifted his own chair, so that he was seated in a claustrophobic triangle with lawyer and patient, the mike resting on top of the duvet. The whole process had taken the best part of twenty minutes. Not that Rebus was hurrying: he was hoping the wait might bore Mrs Ure into retreating. She did disappear at one point, returning with a tray containing teacups and pot. Pointedly, she poured for the doctor and lawyer, but told the police officers to ‘serve yourselves’. Siobhan did so smilingly, before moving back to stand by the door, there being no chair for her — and little enough room for one. The doctor was seated at the far side of the bed, beside the heart monitor. He was young, sandy-haired, and seemed bemused by the whole scene being acted out before him.

Mrs Ure, unable to get next to her husband, stood by the solicitor’s shoulder, making him twitch with discomfort. The room grew hotter, stuffier. There was condensation on the window. They were at the rear of the house, with a view on to a sweeping expanse of lawn, ringed by trees and bushes. A bird table had been fixed into the ground near the window, tits and sparrows visiting from time to time, peering into the room, dismayed by the quality of service.

‘I could die of boredom,’ Archie Ure commented, sipping apple juice.

‘Sorry about that,’ Rebus said. ‘I’ll see what I can do to help.’ He was opening his second case, pulling out a fat manila folder. Ure seemed momentarily transfixed by its sheer weight, but Rebus pulled out a single sheet and laid it on top, creating a makeshift desk much like the lawyer’s.

‘I think we can start,’ Rebus said. Siobhan crouched on the floor and activated the recorder. Nodded to let him know both tapes were rolling. Rebus identified himself for the record, then asked the others present to do likewise.

‘Mr Ure,’ he said, ‘do you know a man called Barry Hutton?’

It was one question Ure had been expecting. ‘He’s a property developer,’ he said.

‘How well do you know him?’

Ure took another sip of juice. ‘I run the council’s planning department. Mr Hutton always has schemes coming before us.’

‘How long have you been head of planning?’

‘Eight years.’

‘And before that?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, what positions did you fill.’

‘I’ve been a councillor for the best part of twenty-five years; not many posts I haven’t filled at one time or another.’

‘But mostly planning?’

‘Why bother asking? You already know.’

‘Do I?’

Ure’s face twisted. ‘Quarter of a century, you make a few friends.’

‘And your friends tell you we’ve been asking questions?’

Ure nodded, went back to his drink.

‘Mr Ure nods,’ Rebus said, for the benefit of the tape. Ure looked up at him. There was a measure of loathing there, but something in the man was prepared to enjoy this game, because that’s what it was to him: a game. Nothing they could pin on him; no need to say anything incriminating.

‘You were on the planning board in the late seventies,’ Rebus went on.

‘’Seventy-eight to ’83,’ Ure agreed.

‘You must have come across Bryce Callan?’

‘Not really.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I know his name.’ Both Ure and Rebus watched the lawyer scratch a note on his pad. Rebus noticed he was using a fountain pen, his letters tall and slanting. ‘I don’t recall his name ever cropping up on a planning application.’

‘How about Freddy Hastings?’

Ure nodded slowly: he’d known this name would come up, too. ‘Freddy was around for a few years. Bit of a wide boy, liked to gamble. All the best developers do.’

‘And was Freddy a good gambler?’

‘He didn’t last long, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

Rebus opened the file, pretending to check something. ‘Did you know Barry Hutton back then, Mr Ure?’

‘No.’

‘I believe he was dipping a toe in the water at that time.’

‘Maybe so, but I wasn’t on the beach.’ Ure wheezed out a laugh at his joke. His wife stretched an arm across the solicitor, touched her husband’s hand. He patted hers. Cameron Whyte looked trapped. He’d had to stop scratching on his pad, seemed relieved when Mrs Ure withdrew the arm.

‘Not even selling the ice creams?’ Rebus asked. Both Ures, husband and wife, glared at him.

‘No need to be glib, Inspector,’ the lawyer drawled.

‘I apologise,’ Rebus said. ‘Only it wasn’t cones you were selling, was it, Mr Ure? It was information. As a result of which, to coin a phrase, you ended up with the lolly.’ Behind him, he could hear Siobhan choke back a laugh.

‘That’s a strong accusation, Inspector,’ Cameron Whyte said.

Ure turned his head towards his lawyer. ‘Do I need to deny that, Cam, or do I just wait for him to fail to prove it?’

‘I’m not sure I can prove it,’ Rebus admitted guilelessly. ‘I mean, we know someone in the council tipped off Bryce Callan about the parliament site, and probably about land in the area that could be available for purchase. We know someone smoothed the way for a lot of plans put forward by Freddy Hastings.’ Rebus fixed eyes with Ure. ‘Mr Hastings’ business partner of the time, Alasdair Grieve, has given us a full statement.’ Rebus searched in the folder again, read from a transcript: ‘We were told there wouldn’t be any problems with consents. Callan had that under control. Someone in planning was making sure.’