Set in Darkness (3 page)

‘Construction begins in the summer,’ Gilfillan obliged. ‘Everything should be up and running here by the autumn of 2001.’ They were coming out on to a landing. Around them stood open doorways, through which could be glimpsed the old hospital wards. Walls had been gouged at, flooring removed: checks on the fabric of the building. Rebus stared out of a window. Most of the workers looked to be packing up: dangerously dark now to be scrabbling over roofs. There was a summer house down there. It was due to be demolished, too. And a tree, drooping forlornly, surrounded by rubble. It had been planted by the Queen. No way it could be moved or felled until she’d given her permission. According to Gilfillan, permission had now been granted; the tree would go. Maybe formal gardens would be recreated down there, or maybe it would be a staff car park. Nobody knew. 2001 seemed a ways off. Until this site was ready, the parliament would sit in the Church of Scotland Assembly Hall near the top of The Mound. The committee had already been on two tours of the Assembly Hall and its immediate vicinity. Office buildings were being turned over to the parliament, so that the MSPs could have somewhere to work. Bobby Hogan had asked at one meeting why they couldn’t just wait for the Holyrood site to be ready before, in his words, ‘setting up shop’. Peter Brent, the civil servant, had stared at him aghast.

‘Because Scotland needs a parliament
now
.’

‘Funny, we’ve done without for three hundred years . . .’

Brent had been about to object, but Rebus had butted in. ‘Bobby, at least they’re not trying to rush the job.’

Hogan had smiled, knowing he was talking about the newly opened Museum of Scotland. The Queen had come
north for the official opening of the unfinished building. They’d had to hide the scaffolding and paint tins till she’d gone.

Gilfillan was standing beside a retractable ladder, pointing upwards towards a hatch in the ceiling.

‘The original roof is just up there,’ he said. Derek Linford already had both feet on the ladder’s bottom rung. ‘You don’t need to go all the way,’ Gilfillan continued as Linford climbed. ‘If I shine the torch up . . .’

But Linford had disappeared into the roof space.

‘Lock the hatch and let’s make a run for it,’ Bobby Hogan said, smiling so they’d assume he was joking.

Ellen Wylie hunched her shoulders. ‘There’s a real . . . atmosphere in here, isn’t there?’

‘My wife saw a ghost,’ Joe Dickie said. ‘Lots of people who worked here did. A woman, she was crying. Used to sit on the end of one of the beds.’

‘Maybe she was a patient who died here,’ Grant Hood offered.

Gilfillan turned towards them. ‘I’ve heard that story, too. She was the mother of one of the servants. Her son was working here the night the Act of Union was signed. Poor chap got himself murdered.’

Linford called down that he thought he could see where the steps to the tower had been, but nobody was listening.

‘Murdered?’ Ellen Wylie said.

Gilfillan nodded. His torch threw weird shadows across the walls, illuminating the slow movements of cobwebs. Linford was trying to read some graffiti on the wall.

‘There’s a year written here . . . 1870, I think.’

‘You know Queensberry was the architect of the Act of Union?’ Gilfillan was saying. He could see that he had an audience now, for the first time since the tour had begun in the brewery car park next door. ‘Back in 1707. This’, he scratched a shoe over the bare floorboards, ‘is where Great Britain was invented. And the night of the signing, one of the young servants was working in the kitchen.
The Duke of Queensberry was Secretary of State. It was his job to lead the negotiations. But he had a son, James Douglas, Earl of Drumlanrig. The story goes, James was off his head . . .’

‘What happened?’

Gilfillan looked up through the open hatch. ‘All right up there?’ he called.

‘Fine. Anyone else want to take a look?’

They ignored him. Ellen Wylie repeated her question.

‘He ran the servant through with a sword,’ Gilfillan said, ‘then roasted him in one of the kitchen fireplaces. James was sitting munching away when he was found.’

‘Dear God,’ Ellen Wylie said.

‘You believe this?’ Bobby Hogan slid his hands into his pockets.

Gilfillan shrugged. ‘It’s a matter of record.’

A blast of cold air seemed to rush at them from the roof space. Then a rubber-soled wellington appeared on the ladder, and Derek Linford began his slow, dusty descent. At the bottom, he removed the pen from between his teeth.

‘Interesting up there,’ he said. ‘You really should try it. Could be your first and last chance.’

‘Why’s that then?’ Bobby Hogan asked.

‘I very much doubt we’ll be letting tourists in here, Bobby,’ Linford said. ‘Imagine what
that
would do for security.’

Hogan stepped forward so swiftly that Linford flinched. But all Hogan did was lift a cobweb from the young man’s shoulder.

‘Can’t have you heading back to the Big House in less than showroom condition, can we, son?’ Hogan said. Linford ignored him, probably feeling that he could well afford to ignore relics like Bobby Hogan, just as Hogan knew he had nothing to fear from Linford: he’d be heading for retirement long before the younger man gained any position of real power and prominence.

‘I can’t see it as the powerhouse of government,’ Ellen Wylie said, examining the water stains on the walls, the flaking plaster. ‘Wouldn’t they have been better off knocking it down and starting again?’

‘It’s a listed building,’ Gilfillan censured her. Wylie just shrugged. Rebus knew that nevertheless she had accomplished her objective, by deflecting attention away from Linford and Hogan. Gilfillan was off again, delving into the history of the area: the series of wells which had been found beneath the brewery; the slaughterhouse which used to stand near by. As they headed back down the stairs, Hogan held back, tapping his watch, then cupping a hand to his mouth. Rebus nodded: good idea. A drink afterwards. Jenny Ha’s was a short stroll away, or there was the Holyrood Tavern on the way back to St Leonard’s. As if mind-reading, Gilfillan began talking about the Younger’s Brewery.

‘Covered twenty-seven acres at one time, produced a quarter of all the beer in Scotland. Mind you, there’s been an abbey at Holyrood since early in the twelfth century. Chances are they weren’t just drinking well-water.’

Through a landing window, Rebus could see that outside night had fallen prematurely. Scotland in winter: it was dark when you came to work, and dark when you went home again. Well, they’d had their little outing, gleaned nothing from it, and would now be released back to their various stations until the next meeting. It felt like a penance because Rebus’s boss had planned it as such. Farmer Watson was on a committee himself: Strategies for Policing in the New Scotland. Everyone called it SPINS. Committee upon committee . . . it felt to Rebus as if they were building a paper tower, enough ‘Policy Agendas’, ‘Reports’ and ‘Occasional Papers’ to completely fill Queensberry House. And the more they talked, the more that got written, the further away from reality they seemed to move. Queensberry House was unreal to him, the idea of a parliament itself the dream of some mad god:
‘But Edinburgh is a mad god’s dream/Fitful and dark . . .’ He’d found the words at the opening to a book about the city. They were from a poem by Hugh MacDiarmid. The book itself had been part of his recent education, trying to understand this home of his.

He took off his hard hat, rubbed his fingers through his hair, wondering just how much protection the yellow plastic would give against a projectile falling several storeys. Gilfillan asked him to put the hat back on until they were back at the site office.

‘You might not get into trouble,’ the archaeologist said, ‘but I would.’

Rebus put the helmet back on, while Hogan tutted and wagged a finger. They were back at ground level, in what Rebus guessed must have been the hospital’s reception area. There wasn’t much to it. Spools of electric cable sat near the door: the offices would need rewiring. They were going to close the Holyrood/St Mary’s junction to facilitate underground cabling. Rebus, who used the route often, wasn’t looking forward to the diversions. Too often these days the city seemed nothing but roadworks.

‘Well,’ Gilfillan was saying, opening his arms, ‘that’s about it. If there are any questions, I’ll do what I can.’

Bobby Hogan coughed into the silence. Rebus saw it as a warning to Linford. When someone had come up from London to address the group on security issues in the Houses of Parliament, Linford had asked so many questions the poor sod had missed his train south. Hogan knew this because he’d been the one who’d driven the Londoner at breakneck speed back to Waverley Station, then had had to entertain him for the rest of the evening before depositing him on the overnight sleeper.

Linford consulted his notebook, six pairs of eyes drilling into him, fingers touching wristwatches.

‘Well, in that case—’ Gilfillan began.

‘Hey! Mr Gilfillan! Are you up there?’ The voice was
coming from below. Gilfillan walked over to a doorway, called down a flight of steps.

‘What is it, Marlene?’

‘Come take a look.’

Gilfillan turned to look at his reluctant group. ‘Shall we?’ He was already heading down. They couldn’t very well leave without him. It was stay here, with a bare lightbulb for company, or head down into the basement. Derek Linford led the way.

They came out into a narrow hallway, rooms off to both sides, and other rooms seeming to lead from those. Rebus thought he caught a glimpse of an electrical generator somewhere in the gloom. Voices up ahead and the shadowplay of torches. They walked out of the hallway and into a room lit by a single arc lamp. It was pointing towards a long wall, the bottom half of which had been lined with wooden tongue-and-groove painted the selfsame institutional cream as the plaster walls. Floorboards had been ripped up so that for the most part they were walking on the exposed joists, beneath which sat bare earth. The whole room smelt of damp and mould. Gilfillan and the other archaeologist, the one he’d called Marlene, were crouched in front of this wall, examining the stonework beneath the wood panelling. Two long curves of hewn stone, forming what seemed to Rebus like railway arches in miniature. Gilfillan turned round, looking excited for the first time that day.

‘Fireplaces,’ he said. ‘Two of them. This must have been the kitchen.’ He stood up, taking a couple of paces back. ‘The floor level’s been raised at some point. We’re only seeing the top half of them.’ He half-turned towards the group, reluctant to take his eyes off the discovery. ‘Wonder which one the servant was roasted in . . .’

One of the fireplaces was open, the other closed off by a couple of sections of brown corroding metal.

‘What an extraordinary find,’ Gilfillan said, beaming at his young co-worker. She grinned back at him. It was nice
to see people so happy in their work. Digging up the past, uncovering secrets . . . it struck Rebus that they weren’t so unlike detectives.

‘Any chance of rustling us up a meal then?’ Bobby Hogan said, producing a snort of laughter from Ellen Wylie. But Gilfillan wasn’t paying any heed. He was standing by the closed fireplace, prying with his fingertips at the space between stonework and metal. The sheet came away easily, Marlene helping him to lift it off and place it carefully on the floor.

‘Wonder when they blocked it off?’ Grant Hood asked.

Hogan tapped the metal sheet. ‘Doesn’t look exactly prehistoric.’ Gilfillan and Marlene had lifted away the second sheet. Now everyone was staring at the revealed fireplace. Gilfillan thrust his torch towards it, though the arc lamp gave light enough.

There could be no mistaking the desiccated corpse for anything other than what it was.

Siobhan Clarke tugged at the hem of her black dress. Two men, patrolling the perimeter of the dance floor, stopped to watch. She tried them with a glare, but they’d returned to some conversation they were having, half-cupping their free hands to their mouths in an attempt to be heard. Then nods, sips from their pint glasses, and they were moving away, eyes on the other booths. Clarke turned to her companion, who shook her head, indicating that she hadn’t known the men. Their booth was a large semicircle, fourteen of them squeezed in around the table. Eight women, six men. Some of the men wore suits, others wore denim jackets but dress shirts. ‘No denims. No trainers’ was what it said on the sign outside, but the dress code wasn’t exactly being enforced. There were too many people in the club. Clarke wondered if it constituted a fire hazard. She turned to her companion.

‘Is it always this busy?’

Sandra Carnegie shrugged. ‘Seems about normal,’ she yelled. She was seated right next to Clarke, but even so was almost rendered unintelligible by the pounding music. Not for the first time, Clarke wondered how you were supposed to meet anyone in a place like this. The men at the table would make eye contact, nod towards the dance floor. If the woman agreed, everyone would have to move so the couple could get out. Then when they danced they seemed to move in their own worlds, barely making eye contact with their partner. It was much the same when a stranger approached the group: eye contact; dance floor nod; then the ritual of the dance
itself. Sometimes women danced with other women, shoulders drooped, eyes scanning the other faces. Sometimes a man could be seen dancing alone. Clarke had pointed out faces to Sandra Carnegie, who’d always studied them closely before shaking her head.

It was Singles Night at the Marina Club. Good name for a nightclub sited just the two and a half miles from the coastline. Not that ‘Singles Night’ meant much. In theory it meant that the music might hark back to the 1980s or ’70s, catering for a slightly more mature clientele than some of the other clubs. For Clarke the word singles meant people in their thirties, some of them divorced. But there were lads in tonight who’d probably had to finish their homework before coming out.

Or was she just getting old?

It was her first time at a singles night. She’d tried rehearsing chat lines. If any sleazeball asked her how she liked her eggs in the morning, she was ready to tell him ‘Unfertilised’, but she’d no idea what she’d say if anyone asked what she did.