Set in Darkness (13 page)

But on the day, 1 March, he did something worse than voting No. He didn’t vote at all. He could blame work, the weather, any number of things. But really, it was to make Rhona suffer. He knew this as he watched the office clock, watched the hands pass the referendum’s close. With minutes left, he almost dashed for his car, but told himself it was too late. It was too late.

Felt like hell on the drive home. She wasn’t there; was off somewhere to watch ballot boxes being emptied, or with like-minded people in the back room of a pub, awaiting news of exit polls.

The babysitter left him to it. He looked in on Sammy, who was fast asleep, one arm cradling Pa Broon, her favoured teddy bear. It was late when Rhona returned. She was a little bit drunk, and so was he: four cans of Tartan Special in front of the TV. He had the picture on but the sound down, listening to the hi-fi. He was about to tell her that he’d voted No, but knew she’d see through the lie. Instead, he asked how she was feeling.

‘Numb,’ she said, standing in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter the room. ‘But then,’ she said, turning back into the hall, ‘that’s almost an improvement.’

March 1, 1979. The referendum had a clause attached,
40 per cent of the electorate had to vote Yes. The rumour was the Labour government down in London wanted obstacles put in the way of devolution. They feared that Scottish Westminster MPs would be lost, and that the Conservatives would be gifted a permanent majority in the Commons. Forty per cent had to vote Yes.

It wasn’t even close. Thirty-three said Yes, 31 No. The turnout was just under 64 per cent. The result, as one paper put it, was ‘a nation divided’. The SNP withdrew their support for the Callaghan government – he called them ‘turkeys voting for Christmas’ – an election had to be called, and the Conservatives came back into power, led by Margaret Thatcher.

‘Your SNP did that,’ Rebus told Rhona. ‘Now where’s your devolution?’

She just shrugged a response, beyond goading. They’d come a long way since the cushion fights on the floor. He turned to his work instead, immersing himself in other people’s lives, other people’s problems and miseries.

And hadn’t voted in an election since.

After Josephine Banks had gone, he returned to the Murder Room. DS ‘Hi-Ho’ Silvers was making telephone calls. So were a couple of DCs who’d been brought in from other divisions. Chief Inspector Gill Templer was having a confab with the Farmer. A WPC walked past and handed the Farmer a sheaf of telephone messages – so many they were held by a bulldog clip. The Farmer frowned at them, went on listening to Templer. The Farmer’s jacket was off and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. All around Rebus people were moving, and computer keyboards were being hammered, and ringing phones were being answered. On his desk were copies of inquiry transcripts, initial interviews with the members of the clan. Cammo Grieve had drawn the short straw, ended up under the inquisitorial gaze of Bobby Hogan and Joe Dickie.

Cammo Grieve:
Any idea how long this will take?

Hogan:
Sorry, sir. Don’t mean to inconvenience you.

Grieve:
My brother’s been murdered, you know!

Hogan:
Why else would we be talking to you, sir?

(Rebus had to smile: Bobby Hogan had a way of saying ‘sir’ that made it sound like an insult.)

Dickie:
You went back down to London on the Saturday, Mr Grieve?

Grieve:
First bloody chance I could.

Dickie:
You don’t get on with your family?

Grieve:
None of your bloody business.

Hogan:
(To Dickie) Put down that Mr Grieve refused to answer.

Grieve:
For Christ’s sake!

Hogan:
No need to take Our Lord’s name in vain, sir.

(Rebus laughed out loud this time. Apart from the usual trinity – weddings, funerals and christenings – he doubted Bobby Hogan had ever seen the inside of a church.)

Grieve:
Look, let’s just get on with it, shall we?

Dickie:
Couldn’t agree more, sir.

Grieve:
I was back in London Saturday night. You can check with my wife. We spent Sunday together, except when I had some constituency business to discuss with my agent. Couple of friends joined us for dinner. Monday morning, I was on my way to the House when I got the call on my mobile to say Roddy was dead.

Hogan:
And how did you feel, sir . . . ?

On it went, Cammo Grieve combative, Hogan and Dickie soaking up his hostility like a sponge, hitting back
with questions and comments that illustrated their feelings towards him.

As Hogan had commented afterwards – strictly off the record – ‘Only time that shite would get a cross from me was if he had fangs.’

Lorna Grieve and her partner had, individually, faced up to the easier pairing of DI Bill Pryde and DS Roy Frazer. Neither had seen Roddy on the Sunday. Lorna had gone to visit friends in North Berwick, while Hugh Cordover had busied himself in his home-based studio, with an engineer and various band members as witnesses.

There were still no sightings of Roddy Grieve on the Sunday night, when he’d supposedly been out for a drink with friends. No friends seemed to have seen him. The implication was: Roddy had enjoyed a secret life, something apart from his marriage. And this, by its very nature, would give the investigation all sorts of problems.

Because no matter how hard you tried, some secrets were bound to stay unrevealed.

The building society was on George Street. When Siobhan Clarke had first arrived in Edinburgh, George Street had seemed a windy ghetto of stunning architecture and sluggish business. Half the office space seemed to be empty, with To Let notices strung like pennants from the buildings. Now the street was changing, upmarket shops being joined by a string of bars and restaurants, most of them housed in what had been banks.

That C. Mackie’s building society was still trading seemed, under the circumstances, a minor miracle. Clarke sat in the manager’s office while he found the relevant paperwork. Mr Robertson was a small, rotund man with a large, polished head and beaming smile. The half-moon glasses gave him the appearance of a Dickensian clerk. Clarke tied not to imagine him in period clothes, but failed. He took her smile as one of approbation – either of his character in general or his efficiency – and sat back down at his modern desk in his modern office. The manila file was slim.

‘The C stands for Christopher,’ he remarked.

‘Mystery solved,’ Clarke said, opening her notebook. Mr Robertson beamed at her.

‘The account was opened in the March of 1980. The fifteenth, to be precise, a Saturday. I’m afraid I wasn’t the manager then.’

‘Who was?’

‘My predecessor, George Samuels. I wasn’t even at this branch, prior to my elevation.’

Clarke flipped through Christopher Mackie’s passbook. ‘The opening balance was £430,000?’

Robertson checked the figures. ‘That is correct. Thereafter, we have a history of occasional minor withdrawals and annual interest.’

‘You knew Mr Mackie?’

‘No, I don’t believe so. I took the liberty of asking the staff.’ He ran his fingers down the columns of figures. ‘You say he was a tramp?’

‘His clothing would suggest he was homeless.’

‘Well, I know house prices are extortionate, but all the same . . .’

‘With four hundred thousand to spare, he might have found himself something?’

‘With that sort of money, he might have found just about anything.’ He paused. ‘But then there
is
this address in the Grassmarket.’

‘I’ll be going there later, sir.’

Robertson nodded distractedly. ‘One of the staff, our Mrs Briggs. He seemed to deal with her when he made a withdrawal.’

‘I’d like to talk to her.’

He nodded again. ‘I presumed as much. She’s ready for you.’

Clarke looked at her pad. ‘Has his address changed at all, while he’s been a customer here?’

Robertson peered at the paperwork. ‘It would seem not,’ he said at last.

‘Didn’t it seem unusual to you, sir: that amount of money in the one account?’

‘We did write to Mr Mackie from time to time, asking if he’d like to discuss other options. Thing is, you can’t be too pushy.’

‘Or the customer might take umbrage?’

Mr Robertson nodded. ‘This is a wealthy place, you know. Mr Mackie wasn’t the only one with that kind of cash at his disposal.’

‘Thing is, sir, he didn’t dispose of it.’

‘Which brings me to another point . . .’

‘We haven’t found anything resembling a will, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘And no next of kin?’

‘Mr Robertson, I didn’t even have a first name till you gave me one.’ Clarke closed her notebook. ‘I’ll talk to Mrs Briggs now, if I may.’

Valerie Briggs was a middle-aged woman who’d recently had her hair restyled. Clarke guessed as much from the way Mrs Briggs kept touching a hand to her head, as if not quite believing the shape and texture.

‘The very first time he came in here, it was me he talked to.’ A cup of tea had been provided for Mrs Briggs. She looked at it uncertainly: tea in her boss’s office was, like her hairstyle, a new and challenging experience. ‘Said he wanted to open an account and who should he speak to. So I gave him the form and off he went. Came back with it filled in and asked if he could open the account with cash. I thought he’d made a mistake, put down too many noughts.’

‘He had the money with him?’

Mrs Briggs nodded, wide-eyed at the memory. ‘Showed me it, all in a smart-looking briefcase.’

‘A briefcase?’

‘Lovely and shiny it was.’

Siobhan scribbled a note to herself. ‘And what happened?’ she asked.

‘Well, I had to fetch the manager. I mean, that amount of cash . . .’ She shivered at the thought.

‘This was Mr Samuels?’

‘The manager, yes. Lovely man, old George.’

‘You keep in touch?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, George . . . Mr Samuels, that is, took Mr Mackie
into the office. The old office.’ She nodded at where they were sitting. ‘It used to be over by the front door. Don’t know why they moved it. And when Mr Mackie came out, that was it, we had a new customer. And every time he came in, he’d wait until I could deal with him.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Such a shame to see him go like that.’

‘Go?’

‘You know, let himself go. I mean, the day he opened the account . . . well, he wasn’t dressed to the nines but he was presentable. Suit and what have you. Hair might have needed a wash and trim . . .’ She patted her own hair again. ‘. . . but nicely spoken and everything.’

‘Then he started going downhill?’

‘Pretty much straight away. I mentioned it to Mr Samuels.’

‘What did he say?’

She smiled at the memory, recited the reply: ‘“Valerie, dear, there are probably more eccentric rich people out there than normal ones.” He had a point, I suppose. But he said something else I remember: “Money brings with it a responsibility some of us are unable to handle.”’

‘He could have a point.’

‘Maybe so, dear, but I told him I’d be willing to take my chances any time he felt like emptying the safe.’

They shared a laugh at this, before Clarke asked Mrs Briggs how she might find Mr Samuels.

‘That’s an easy one. He’s a demon for the bowls. It’s like a religion with him.’

‘In this weather?’

‘Do you give up churchgoing because it’s snowing outside?’

It was a good point, and one Clarke was willing to concede in exchange for an address.

She walked past the bowling green and pushed open the door to the social club. She hadn’t been to Blackhall before, and the maze of streets had defeated her, twice
misleading her back on to the busy Queensferry Road. This was Bungalow Land, an area of the city that seemed to have stepped straight out of the 1930s. It seemed a world away from Broughton Street. Here, you appeared to have left the city. There was precious little commerce, precious few people about. The bowling green had a careworn look, its grass a dull emulsion. The clubhouse behind it was a single-storey affair of brown wooden slats, probably thirty years old and showing its age. She stepped inside to a furnace-blast from the ceiling-mounted heater. There was a bar ahead of her, where an elderly woman was humming some show tune as she dusted the bottles of spirits.

‘Bowls?’ Clarke called.

‘Through the doors, hen.’ Nodding in the general direction without losing her beat. Clarke pushed open the double doors and was in a long narrow room. A green baize mat, twelve feet wide and about fifty long, took up most of the available space. A few plastic chairs were scattered around the periphery, but there were no spectators, just the four players, who looked towards the interruption with all the ire they could muster until, noting her sex and youth, their faces melted and backs straightened.

‘One of yours, I’ll bet,’ one man said, nudging his neighbour.

‘Away to hell.’

‘Jimmy likes them with a bit more meat on their bones,’ the third player added.

‘And a few more miles on the clock, too,’ said player four. They were laughing now, laughing with the confidence of old men, immune from penalty.

‘Wouldn’t you give your left one to be forty years younger?’ The speaker stooped to pick up one of his bowls. The jack had been dispatched to the far end of the carpet. Two bowls sat either side of it.

‘Sorry to interrupt your game,’ Clarke said, deciding
immediately on her approach. ‘I’m Detective Constable Clarke.’ She showed them her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for George Samuels.’

‘Told you they’d catch up with you, Dod.’

‘It was only a matter of time.’

‘I’m George Samuels.’ The man who stepped forward was tall and slender and wore a burgundy tie under his sleeveless V-neck jumper. His hand when she shook it had a firm grip and was warm and dry. His hair was snowy white and plentiful, like cotton wadding.

‘Mr Samuels, I’m from St Leonard’s police station. Would you mind if I had a word?’

‘I’ve been expecting you.’ His eyes were the blue of summer water. ‘It’s about Christopher Mackie, isn’t it?’ He saw the look of surprise on her face and broke into a smile, pleased that he still had some force in the world.