Set in Darkness (32 page)

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ Graham told them. ‘There’s a plan to build an even taller tower right next door.’

‘A Hutton development?’ Wylie guessed.

‘Of course,’ Graham said. He’d motioned for them to sit, having taken the chair at the top of the table. He brushed non-existent specks from one trouser leg. ‘So, if you’d care to give me the background?’

‘It’s simple enough, sir,’ Grant Hood said, pulling his chair in. ‘DS Wylie and myself are carrying out a murder inquiry.’ Graham raised an eyebrow, and pressed his
hands together. ‘As part of that inquiry, we need to talk to your boss.’

‘Would you care to elaborate?’

Wylie took over. ‘Not really, sir. You see, in a case like this, we don’t really have the time. We came here out of common courtesy. If Mr Hutton won’t see us, then we’ll just have to take him down to the station.’ She shrugged, her piece said.

Hood glanced at her, then back to Graham. ‘What DS Wylie says is correct, sir. We have the powers to question Mr Hutton whether he likes it or not.’

‘I can assure you, it’s nothing like that.’ Graham held both hands up in a pacifying gesture. ‘But he does happen to be in a meeting, and these things can take time.’

‘We did phone ahead to warn we were coming.’

‘And we do appreciate that, DS Wylie. But something came up. This is a multimillion-pound business, and the unexpected does arise from time to time. Decisions sometimes have to made immediately; millions can depend on it. You do see that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir, but as
you
can see, there’s nothing you can help us with,’ Wylie said. ‘You weren’t working for a man called Dean Coghill in 1978, were you? I’d guess that twenty years ago, you were still busy in the school playground, trying to look up girls’ skirts and comparing plook collections with your pals. So if Mr Hutton would deign to join us . . .’ She nodded towards a camera in the corner of the ceiling. ‘We’d be very grateful.’

Hood began to apologise for his partner’s behaviour. Graham’s cheeks had coloured, and he didn’t seem to have an answer. Then a voice broke in, coming from a loudspeaker somewhere.

‘Show the officers the way.’

Graham rose to his feet, avoiding their eyes. ‘If you’ll follow me,’ he said.

He took them into the corridor, pointed along it.
‘Second door on the left.’ Then he turned and walked away; his small victory over them.

‘Think this corridor’s bugged, too?’ Wylie asked in an undertone.

‘Who knows?’

‘He got a fright, didn’t he? Wasn’t expecting the one in the skirt to play tough.’ Hood watched a grin spread across her face. ‘And as for you . . .’

‘What about me?’

She looked at him. ‘Apologising on my behalf.’

‘That’s what the “good” cop does.’

They knocked at the door, then opened it unasked. An anteroom, with a secretary already rising from her desk. She opened the inner door, and they entered Barry Hutton’s office.

The man himself was standing just inside, legs slightly apart and hands behind his back.

‘I thought you were a bit rough on John.’ He shook Wylie’s hand. ‘All the same, I admire your style. If you want something, don’t let anyone stand in your way.’

It wasn’t that big an office, but the walls dripped modern art, and there was a bar in one corner, which is where Hutton was headed.

‘Can I get you something?’ He pulled a bottle of Lucozade out of the fridge. They shook their heads. He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a swallow. ‘I’m addicted,’ he said. ‘Used to be, when I was a kid you only ever got the stuff when you were ill. Do you remember that? Come on, let’s sit here.’

He led them to a cream leather sofa, and took the matching chair opposite. The portable TV in front of them was actually a monitor. It was still showing a view of the boardroom table.

‘Cute, isn’t it?’ Hutton said. He picked up a remote. ‘Look, I can move it around, zoom in on faces . . .’

‘And it has sound, too?’ Wylie guessed. ‘So you know what we want to talk to you about.’

‘Something about a murder?’ Hutton took another swig of his addiction. ‘I heard Dean Coghill was dead, but that was natural causes, wasn’t it?’

‘Queensberry House,’ Grant Hood stated.

‘Oh, right: the body behind the wall?’

‘In a room renovated by Dean Coghill’s team between 1978 and ’79.’

‘And?’

‘And that’s when the body got walled up.’

Hutton looked from one officer to the other. ‘You’re kidding?’

Wylie unfolded the list of people who’d worked in the building. ‘Recognise these names, sir?’

Hutton ended up smiling. ‘Brings back memories.’

‘None of them went missing?’

The smile vanished. ‘No.’

‘Was anyone else working there, casual labour maybe?’

‘Not that I remember. Not unless you’re counting me.’

‘We did notice your name was a late addition.’

Hutton nodded. He was short, maybe five-eight, skinny but with a developing paunch and jowls. His black suit was shiny new, and all three buttons were done up. His black brogues gleamed, the leather not yet broken in. He had small, dark, deep-set eyes, his brown hair cut above the ears but with prominent sideburns. Wylie knew she wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd as being especially rich or influential.

‘Work experience. I fancied the building trade. Looks like I made the right decision.’ His smile invited them to join in his good fortune. Neither detective did so.

‘Do you ever have any dealings with Peter Kirkwall?’ Wylie asked.

‘He’s a builder, I’m a developer. Different game.’

‘That doesn’t quite answer the question.’

Hutton smiled again. ‘I’m wondering why you asked it.’

‘Just that we talked to him, too. His office was full of plans, photos of his projects . . .’

‘And mine isn’t? Maybe Peter’s got an ego, and I haven’t.’

‘You do know him then?’

Hutton acknowledged as much with a shrug. ‘I’ve used his firm occasionally. What’s that got to do with your body?’

‘Nothing,’ Wylie conceded. ‘Just curious.’ All the same, she sensed she’d touched a nerve.

‘So,’ Grant Hood said, ‘getting back to Queensberry House . . .’

‘What can I tell you? I was eighteen, nineteen. They had me mixing concrete, all the unskilled jobs. It’s called learning from the floor up.’

‘You remember that room, though? The fireplaces?’

Hutton nodded. ‘Putting in a DPC, yes. I was there when we opened the wall.’

‘Was anyone told about the fireplaces?’

‘To be honest, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, Dean had the feeling they’d want to send in the historians, which would knock our schedule on the head. Something about not getting paid till the work was complete. If we were hanging around waiting for them to do their stuff, it’d be time lost.’

‘So you just covered it up again?’

‘Must’ve done. I came to work one morning, and the wall was back up.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘Dean himself maybe, or Harry Connors. Harry was pretty close to Dean, like a right-hand man.’ He nodded. ‘I see what you’re getting at, though: whoever covered that fireplace over had to know there was a body inside.’

‘Any theories?’ Wylie asked. Hutton shook his head. ‘You must have read about the case in the papers, Mr Hutton. Any reason you didn’t come forward?’

‘I didn’t know the body dated from back then. That
fireplace could have been opened and closed again a dozen times since we worked there.’

‘Any other reason?’

Hutton looked at her. ‘I’m a businessman. Any stories about me get into the press, it can affect how I’m seen in the business community.’

‘In other words, not all publicity is good publicity?’ Hood asked.

Hutton smiled at him. ‘Got it in one.’

‘Before we get too cosy,’ Wylie interrupted, ‘can I just ask how you got your job with Mr Coghill’s firm.’

‘I applied, same as everyone else.’

‘Really?’

Hutton frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I was just wondering if maybe your uncle put in a word, or maybe more than a word.’

Hutton rolled his eyes. ‘I wondered when this would come up. Look, my mum happens to be Bryce Callan’s sister, okay? It doesn’t make me a criminal.’

‘Are you saying your uncle’s a criminal?’ Wylie asked.

Hutton looked disappointed in her. ‘Don’t get glib. We all know what the police think of my uncle. All the rumours and insinuations. But nothing’s ever been proved, has it? Never even been to a court of law. What does that say, eh? To me, it says you’re wrong. It says I’ve worked to get where I am. Taxes, VAT and the rest: I’m cleaner than anybody. And the idea that you can walk in here and start—’

‘I think we get the picture, Mr Hutton,’ Hood interrupted. ‘Sorry if you thought we were suggesting anything. This is a murder inquiry, which means every angle ends up being considered, no matter how insignificant.’

Hutton stared at Hood, trying to read something into that last word.

‘When did you leave Mr Coghill’s firm?’ Wylie asked.

Hutton had to think about it. ‘April, May, something like that.’

‘Of ’79?’ Hutton nodded. ‘And you joined . . . ?’

‘October, ’78.’

‘Just the six months then? Not very long.’

‘I had a better offer.’

‘And what was that, sir?’ Hood asked.

‘I’ve got nothing to hide!’ Hutton spat.

‘We appreciate that, sir,’ Wylie said, her voice soothing.

Hutton calmed quickly. ‘I went to work for my uncle.’

‘For Bryce Callan?’ Hutton nodded.

‘Doing what?’ Hood asked.

Hutton took his time finishing the bottle. ‘Some land development thing of his.’

‘That was your big break then?’ Wylie asked.

‘It’s how I got started, yes. But as soon as I could, I branched off on my own.’

‘Yes, sir, of course.’ Hood’s tone said:
I’ve worked to get where I am
; but with a helping hand the size of a football field.

As they were leaving, Wylie asked one more question. ‘This must be an exciting time for you?’

‘We’ve got plenty of ideas.’

‘Sites around Holyrood?’

‘The parliament’s just the beginning. Out-of-town shopping, marina developments. It’s astonishing how much of Edinburgh is still under-developed. And not just Edinburgh. I’ve got projects in Glasgow, Aberdeen, Dundee . . .’

‘And there are enough clients?’ Hood asked.

Hutton laughed. ‘They’re queuing up, pal. All we need is less red tape.’

Wylie nodded. ‘Planning permission?’

At mention of the words, Hutton made the sign of the cross with the index fingers of both hands. ‘The curse of the developer.’

But he could afford a final laugh as he closed his office door on them.

‘Fair warning,’ Rebus said as they walked up the drive, ‘the mother’s a bit fragile.’

‘Understood,’ Siobhan Clarke replied. ‘So you’ll be your usual charming self?’

‘It’s Lorna Grieve we want to talk to,’ he reminded her. Then he nodded towards the Fiat Punto parked to the right of the front door. ‘That’s her car.’ He’d called High Manor, spoken with Hugh Cordover, listening intently for any new or accusing tone, but all Cordover had done was tell him Lorna was in Edinburgh.

‘I’m still not sure this is a good idea,’ Siobhan was saying.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve told you—’

‘John, you can’t go getting involved with—’

He grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her so she was facing him. ‘I’m not involved!’

‘You didn’t sleep with her?’ Siobhan was trying to keep her voice down.

‘What does it matter if I did?’

‘We’re working a murder case. We’re about to question her.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re hurting my shoulder.’

He released his grip, mumbled an apology.

They rang the doorbell and waited. ‘How was your weekend?’ Rebus asked. She just glared at him. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if we go in there spitting at one another, we’re not going to get very far.’

She seemed to consider this. ‘Hibs won again,’ she said at last. ‘What did you get up to?’

‘I went into the office, can’t say I achieved much.’

Alicia Grieve answered the door. She looked older than when Rebus had last seen her, as if she’d lived too long already and was realising the fact. Age could dupe you like that, almost its cruellest trick. You lost a loved one, and time seemed to go into fast forward, so that you withered, sometimes even died. Rebus had seen it before: fit spouses dying in their sleep only days or weeks after burying their partner. It was as if a switch had been flicked, voluntary or involuntary, you could never tell.

‘Mrs Grieve,’ he said. ‘Remember me? DI Rebus?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Her voice was reedy, parched. ‘And who is this?’

‘DC Clarke,’ Siobhan said by way of introduction. She was smiling the smile of youth when faced with the aged: sympathetic yet not quite understanding. Rebus realised that he was closer to Alicia Grieve’s age than Siobhan’s. He had to push that thought away.

‘Can we bury Roddy? Is that why you’ve come?’ She didn’t sound hopeful; she would accept whatever they had to tell her. That was her role now in what was left of the world.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grieve,’ Rebus said. ‘Just a little longer.’

She mimicked the final phrase, and added: ‘Time is elastic, don’t you find?’

‘We’re actually here to see Mrs Cordover,’ Siobhan stressed, trying to draw the woman back from wherever she was headed.

‘Lorna,’ Rebus added.

‘Is she here?’ Alicia Grieve asked.

A voice from the interior: ‘Of course I’m here, Mother. We were talking not two minutes ago.’

Mrs Grieve stood aside, letting them in. Lorna Grieve stood in the doorway of one of the rooms, a cardboard box in her arms.

‘Hello again,’ she said to Rebus, ignoring Siobhan.

‘Could we have a word, do you think?’ Rebus asked. He wasn’t quite looking at her. She became amused, nodded towards the room she’d just left.

‘I’m trying to tidy some of this crap away.’

Mrs Grieve’s fingers touched the back of Rebus’s hand. They were as cold as a slab. ‘She wants to sell my paintings. She needs the money.’