Set in Darkness (11 page)

‘These two blows were post-mortem?’

Linford looked to Rebus for confirmation. ‘Pathologist seems to think so,’ Rebus obliged. ‘They were to the top of the skull. Grieve was pretty tall –’

‘Six-one,’ Linford interrupted.

‘– so to render a blow like that, the attacker had to be hellish tall or standing on something.’

‘Or Grieve was already prone when the blows arrived,’ Watson said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Yes, makes sense, I suppose. How the devil did he get in there?’

‘Either he climbed the fence,’ Linford guessed, ‘or else
someone had keys. The gates are kept padlocked at night: too much stuff in there worth nicking.’

‘There’s a security guard,’ Rebus continued. ‘He says he was there all night, kept a regular patrol, but didn’t see anything.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think he was kipping in the office. Nice and warm in there. Radio and kettle, all mod cons. Either that or he’d bunked off home.’

‘He says he checked the summer house?’ Watson asked.

‘He says he
thinks
he did.’ Linford quoted from memory: ‘“I always shine my torch inside, just in case. No reason I wouldn’t have that night.”’

The Chief Super leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk. ‘What do you think?’ He had eyes only for Linford.

‘I think we need to concentrate on the motive, sir. Was this a chance encounter? Prospective MSP wants to take a midnight look at his future workplace, happens across someone who decides to bludgeon him to death?’ Linford shook his head persuasively, his eyes dodging Rebus, who was glaring, having said almost exactly the same thing to him about an hour before.

‘I’m not sure,’ Watson said. ‘Say someone was in there stealing tools. Grieve interrupts them, so they whack him.’

‘And after he’s laid out,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘they hit him twice more for luck?’

Watson grunted, acknowledging the point. ‘And the murder weapon?’

‘Not recovered yet, sir,’ Linford said. ‘Lot of building sites around there, places you could conceal something. We’ve got officers out looking.’

‘The contractors are carrying out an inventory,’ Rebus added. ‘Just in case anything’s missing. If your theory about it being a theft is right, maybe the inventory will throw up something.’

‘One more thing, sir. Recent scuff marks on the shoes
and traces of dirt and dust on the inside legs of Grieve’s trousers.’

Watson smiled. ‘God bless forensics. What does it mean?’

‘Means he probably did climb the fence or the gate.’

‘All the same, rule nothing out and everything in. Talk to all the keyholders.
All
of them, understood?’

‘Very good, sir,’ Linford said.

Rebus just nodded, though no one was paying attention.

‘And our friend Skelly?’ the Chief Super asked.

‘Two other members of the PPLC are on it, sir,’ Rebus said.

Watson grunted again, then looked at Linford. ‘Something wrong with your coffee, Derek?’

Linford’s gaze went to the surface of the drink. ‘No, sir, not at all. Just don’t like it too hot.’

‘And how is it now?’

Linford put the mug to his lips, drained it in two swallows. ‘It’s very good, sir. Thank you.’

Rebus suddenly had no doubts: Linford would go far in the force.

When the meeting was over, Rebus told Linford he’d catch him up, and knocked again on Watson’s door.

‘I thought we’d finished?’ The Farmer was busy with paperwork.

‘I’m being sidelined,’ Rebus said, ‘and I don’t like it.’

‘Then do something about it.’

‘Such as?’

The Farmer looked up. ‘Derek’s in charge. Accept the fact.’ He paused. ‘Either that or ask for a transfer.’

‘Wouldn’t want to miss your retirement do, sir.’

The Farmer put down his pen. ‘This is probably the last case I’ll handle, and I can’t think of one with a higher profile.’

‘You saying you don’t trust me with it, sir?’

‘You always think you know better, John. That’s the problem.’

‘All Linford knows are his desk at Fettes and which arses to lick.’

‘The ACC says different.’ The Farmer sat back in his chair. ‘Bit of jealousy there, John? Younger man speeding through the ranks . . . ?’

‘Oh aye, I’ve always been gasping for a promotion.’ Rebus turned to leave.

‘Just this once, John, play for the team. It’s that or the sideline . . .’

Rebus closed the door on his boss’s words. Linford was waiting for him at the end of the corridor, mobile pressed to his ear.

‘Yes, sir, we’re headed there next.’ He listened, raised a hand to let Rebus know he’d only be a minute. Rebus ignored him, stalked past and down the stairs. Linford’s voice carried down a few moments later.

‘I think he’ll be fine, sir, but if not . . .’

Rebus dismissed the nightwatchman, but the man stayed in his seat, eyes shifting nervously between Rebus and Linford.

‘I said you can go.’

‘Go where?’ the watchman asked at last, voice trembling. ‘This is my office.’

Which was true: the three men were seated in the gatehouse of the parliament site. There was a thick register lying on the table, being pored over by Linford. It listed all the visitors to the site since work had begun. Linford had his notebook out, but hadn’t jotted a single name into it.

‘I thought you might want to go home,’ Rebus told the watchman. ‘Shouldn’t you be asleep or something?’

‘Aye, sure,’ the man mumbled. He probably reckoned he wouldn’t have the job much longer. Bad PR for the security firm, a body finding its way on to the premises. It
was a low-pay job, being a security guard, and the hours tended to suit loners and the desperate. Rebus had told the man that they’d be checking up on him – you found a lot of ex-cons in his line of work. The man had admitted to spending some time at what he called the Windsor Hotel Group, meaning in jail. But he swore no one had asked him for copies of his keys. He wasn’t protecting anybody.

‘On you go then,’ Rebus said. The guard left. Rebus let out a long whistle of breath and stretched his vertebrae. ‘Anything?’

‘A few suspicious names,’ Linford announced. He turned the ledger so Rebus could see. The names were their own, along with Ellen Wylie, Grant Hood, Bobby Hogan and Joe Dickie: the group who’d toured Queensberry House. ‘Or how about the Scottish Secretary and the Catalan President?’

Rebus blew his nose. There was a one-bar electric fire in the room, but the heat was having no difficulty escaping through the cracks in the door and window. ‘What did you reckon to our nightwatchman?’

Linford closed the register. ‘I think if my two-year-old nephew asked for the gate keys, he’d hand them over rather than risk a bite to the ankles.’

Rebus went to the window. It was crusted with dirt. Outside, everyone was busy knocking things down and putting things up. An investigation was like that, too: sometimes you were demolishing an alibi or story, sometimes building up the case, each new piece of information another brick in the often unlovely edifice.

‘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?’