Set in Darkness (37 page)

‘Why didn’t you tell her before?’

‘Didn’t want to upset her. Besides, I thought I’d scared him off.’ Rebus shrugged again. ‘I’m obviously not the hard case I think I am.’

The Farmer leaned back in his chair. ‘And what does Linford say?’

‘I’m betting he’s told you it’s a pile of shite concocted by DI John Rebus. Siobhan was mistaken, I made up this story, and she swallowed it.’

‘And why would you do that?’

‘So he’d push off and let me work the case the way I want to work it.’

The Farmer looked down at the pencil he was still holding. ‘Actually, that’s not the reason he gave.’

‘What then?’

‘He says you want Siobhan for yourself.’

Rebus screwed his face into a sneer. ‘Well, that’s his fantasy, not mine.’

‘No?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘I can’t let this go, you know. Not with Carswell as witness.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What do you think I should do?’

‘If it were me, sir, pack Linford off back to Fettes where he can continue to be their desk-bound blue-eyed boy, far from the hurly-burly of actual policing.’

‘Mr Linford doesn’t want that.’

Rebus couldn’t help reacting. ‘He wants to stay here?’ The Farmer nodded. ‘Why?’

‘He says he holds no grudge. Puts it down to the “hothouse conditions” on the case.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Frankly, neither do I.’ The Farmer rose, made for his coffee machine. Pointedly, he poured just the one mug. Rebus tried not to let his relief show. ‘If I was him, I’d want to be shot of the lot of you.’ The Farmer paused, sat down again. ‘But what DI Linford wants, DI Linford gets.’

‘It’s going to be ugly.’

‘Why?’

‘Seen the CID suite lately? We’re swamped. Hard enough to keep Siobhan and him apart under normal conditions, but the cases we’re working on could be connected.’

‘So DS Clarke tells me.’

‘She said you were thinking of pulling the Supertramp inquiry.’

‘There never really was an inquiry. But I was as curious as the next man about that four hundred thou. To be honest, I didn’t give her much chance.’

‘She’s a good detective, sir.’

Watson nodded. ‘Despite the role model,’ he said.

‘Look,’ Rebus said, ‘I know the score here. You’re coasting to retirement, would rather this was someone else’s shit-pile.’

‘Rebus, don’t think you can—’

‘Linford belongs to Carswell, so you’re not about to rub his nose in it. That just leaves the rest of us.’

‘Careful what you’re saying.’

‘I’m not saying anything you don’t know yourself.’

The Farmer rose to his feet, rested his knuckles on the desk and leaned towards Rebus. ‘And what about you? Building your own private little police force – meetings in
the Oxford Bar, running around like it’s
you
that runs this station.’

‘I’m trying to solve a case.’

‘And get into Clarke’s knickers at the same time?’

Rebus jumped to his feet. Their faces were inches apart. Neither man said anything, as if the next word could prove a hair-trigger. The Farmer’s phone started ringing. He moved a hand, picked it up and held it to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he said. Rebus was so close, he could hear Gill Templer in the earpiece:

‘Press briefing, sir. You want to see my notes?’

‘Bring them in, Gill.’

Rebus pushed away from the desk. He heard the Farmer calling behind him:

‘Had we finished, Inspector?’

‘I think so, sir.’ Managed to close the door without slamming it.

And went to find Linford. Not in the office. He was told that Siobhan was in the ladies’ loo, being calmed by a WPC. Canteen? No. The front desk said he’d left the station five minutes earlier. Rebus looked at his watch: it wasn’t opening time yet. Linford’s BMW wasn’t in the car park. He stood on the pavement, took out his mobile, and called Linford’s.

‘Yes?’

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘Parked in the Engine Shed car park.’

Rebus turned and looked down St Leonard’s Lane: the Engine Shed was at the end. ‘What are you doing there?’

‘Some thinking.’

‘Don’t strain yourself.’ Rebus was walking along the lane.

‘Great. I really appreciate you calling my mobile to hurl insults at me.’

‘Always happy to oblige.’ He turned into the car park. And there was the Beamer, parked in a disabled spot
beside the front door. Rebus switched off his phone and opened the passenger door, got in.

‘What an unexpected pleasure,’ Linford said, putting his own phone away and resting his hands on the steering wheel, eyes focused on the windshield.

‘I like surprises myself,’ Rebus said. ‘Like being told by my chief super that I’m chasing DC Clarke.’

‘Well, aren’t you?’

‘You know bloody fine I’m not.’

‘You seem to be round her flat often enough.’

‘Yeah, with you peeking in the windows.’

‘Look, okay, when she dumped me I got a bit . . . It doesn’t happen to me very often.’

‘Being chucked? I find that hard to believe.’

Linford gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Believe what you like.’

‘You lied to Watson.’

Linford turned to him. ‘You’d have done the same in my shoes. That was my career on the line, right there!’

‘Should have thought of that first.’

‘Easy to say now,’ Linford said quietly. He bit his bottom lip. ‘What if I apologise to Siobhan? Went off the rails a bit . . . won’t happen again . . . that sort of thing?’

‘Better put it in writing.’

‘In case I make a mess of it?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s hard to apologise when there’s one hand round your throat and another round your balls.’

‘Christ, man, I thought a blood vessel was going to burst.’

Rebus was stony faced. ‘You could always have fought back.’

‘That would have looked good, three other men in the room watching.’

Rebus studied him. ‘You’re bloody smooth, aren’t you? Every step calculated before you take it.’

‘Watching Siobhan wasn’t calculated.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it was.’ But, despite his words, Rebus wasn’t so sure.

Linford turned in his seat, reached for something in the back. Papers: the same crushed bundle he’d been holding in the CID suite.

‘Do you think we can talk shop for a minute?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I know you’ve been sidetracking me, running your own show and not letting me in. Fine, that’s your decision. But all the interviews I’ve done, there might just be a nugget . . .’ He handed the lot over to Rebus. Pages and pages of meticulous interview notes. The Holyrood Tavern, Jennie Ha’s . . . and not just pubs but flats and businesses in the vicinity of Queensberry House. Cheekily, he’d even gone asking at Holyrood Palace.

‘You’ve been busy,’ Rebus grudgingly admitted.

‘Shoe leather: it’s an old standby, but sometimes it works.’

‘So where’s the nugget? Or do I have to sift this lot and be impressed by the number of rocks and stones along the way?’

Linford smiled. ‘I saved the best for last.’

Meaning the last few pages, stapled together. Two interviews with the same man, conducted over a single day. One casual chat in the Holyrood Tavern itself, the other conducted at St Leonard’s, with Hi-Ho Silvers in tow.

The interviewee’s name was Bob Cowan and he gave his address as Royal Park Terrace. He was a university lecturer, Economic and Social History. Once a week, he met a friend for a drink at the Holyrood Tavern. The friend lived in the Grassmarket, and the Tavern made for a convenient halfway house. Cowan enjoyed his walk back through Holyrood Park, past St Margaret’s Loch with its colony of swans.

The moon was nearly full that night
– the night Roddy Grieve met his end –
and I left the Tavern about quarter
to midnight. Most nights, I never meet a soul on that walk. Precious few dwellings around there. I suppose some people would get a bit nervous. I mean, you read all sorts of stories. But I’ve never had any bother the three years I’ve been making that trip. Now, this may not be relevant. I thought about it hard for days after the murder, and I was inclined to think that it wasn’t. I saw the photos of Mr Grieve, and neither of these two men looked like him, in my opinion. Of course, I could be mistaken. And though the night was pretty bright, plenty of stars out, a good clear sky, I really only got a good view of one of the men. They were standing across the road from Queensberry House. I’d say directly opposite its gates. They looked like they were waiting for someone. That was what attracted my attention. I mean, that time of night, down there with all the roadworks and construction? A strange choice for a meeting. I remember speculating as I walked home. The usual things: maybe the third man had nipped off somewhere to pee; or it could be some sort of sexual encounter; or they could be about to break into the construction site
. . .

An interjection from Linford:

You really should have come forward with this at the time, Mr Cowan
.

Then back to Cowan’s story:

Oh, I suppose so, but you’re always worried you’ll get everyone excited about nothing. And these men, they didn’t really look suspicious. I mean, they weren’t wearing masks or carrying bags marked Swag. They were just two men who were chatting. Could have been friends who’d bumped into one another. Do you see what I mean? Both dressed quite normally, casually: denims, I think, and dark jackets, maybe training shoes. The one I got the closest look at had close-cropped hair, either dark brown or black. These big sallow eyes, like a bassethound.
Cheeks to match, and a downtrodden sort of scowl to his mouth, as if he’d just heard something that hadn’t pleased him. He was big, had to be over six feet tall. Broad shoulders. Do you think he had something to do with it? My God, maybe I was the last person to see the killer
. . .

‘What do you think?’ Linford asked.

Rebus was sifting through the other interviews.

‘I know,’ Linford said, ‘it doesn’t look like much.’

‘Actually, it looks pretty good.’ Linford seemed surprised by the comment. ‘Problem is, there’s not enough of it. Big guy, broad-shouldered . . . could be a hundred people who fit.’

Linford nodded; he’d thought this through. ‘But if we can get a photofit . . . Cowan says he’s willing.’

‘And then what?’

‘Pubs in the area, maybe he’s local. Plus, a description like that, wouldn’t surprise me if he was a brickie.’

‘One of the construction workers?’

Linford shrugged. ‘Once we’ve got a photofit . . .’

Rebus made to hand the sheaf of interviews back. ‘Got to be worth a go. Congratulations.’

Linford preened visibly, reminding Rebus why he’d started hating him in the first place. The mildest praise and the man forgot everything else.

‘And meantime,’ Linford said, ‘you go your own way?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And I’m kept out of the picture?’

‘Right now, Linford, that’s the best place for you, believe me.’

Linford nodded his agreement. ‘So what do I do now?’ Rebus pushed open the passenger door.

‘Stay away from St Leonard’s till you’ve got that letter written. Make sure Siobhan gets it by the end of play today – but not before this afternoon; she needs time to
cool off. Tomorrow, maybe it’ll be safe to show your face. With the stress on maybe.’

It was enough for Linford. He wanted to shake Rebus’s hand. But Rebus closed the door. No way he was shaking the bastard’s hand: he’d turned up a nugget, not transformed base metals into gold. And Rebus still didn’t trust him, got the feeling he’d turn in his grandmother for a sniff of promotion. The question was: what would he do if he thought his job was under threat?

A bleak occasion; a bleak spot.

Siobhan was there with Rebus. A woolly suit was in attendance, too: the WPC who’d been on the scene the night ‘Mackie’ had jumped, the one who’d said,
You’re one of Rebus’s, aren’t you
? A minister was present, and a couple of faces Siobhan recognised from the Grassmarket: they’d nodded a greeting towards her. She hoped they wouldn’t want cigarettes today; she’d none with her. Dezzi was there, too, sobbing into a wad of pink toilet paper. She’d found some scraps of black clothing: a gypsy-style skirt, long lace shawl torn almost to streamers. Black shoes, too, a different style on either foot.

No sign of Rachel Drew; maybe she hadn’t heard.

So you couldn’t have called the graveside busy. Crows were calling near by, threatening to drown out the minister’s few and hasty words. One of the Grassmarket pair had to keep nudging his pal, who looked like nodding off. Every time the minister said the name Freddy Hastings, Dezzi mouthed the word Chris. When it was finished, Siobhan turned on her heels and walked quickly away. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, had come only from a sense of duty, something no one would thank her for.

Back at the cars, she looked at Rebus for the first time.

‘What did the Farmer say to you?’ she asked. ‘He’s taking Linford’s word against ours, isn’t he?’ When Rebus didn’t answer, she got into her car, turned the ignition
and was gone. Standing by his own car, yet to unlock it, Rebus thought he had seen the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

The yellow JCB digger was going in, clawing rubble from the base. With the tenement’s innards showing, the whole scene had a voyeuristic quality, yet at the same time Rebus noticed that some bystanders couldn’t look. It was as if a pathologist had gone to work, exposing the body’s secrets. These had been people’s homes: doors they’d painted and repainted; wallpaper carefully chosen. Perhaps some young couple – newly-weds – had done the skirting boards, getting gloss on their overalls but not really caring. Light fittings, electrical sockets, switches . . . tumbling into a heap or hanging by threads of cable. And even more furtive elements of the structure: roof beams, plumbing, gaping wounds which had once been chimneys. A roaring fire at Christmas time . . . tree decorated in the corner.

The vultures had been at work: few of the better doors remained. Fireplaces had been removed, as had cisterns, wash-hand basins, baths. Water tanks and radiators . . . the scavengers would turn a profit from them. But what fascinated Rebus were the layers. Paint hidden by paint, wallpaper by wallpaper. A striped confection could be peeled to reveal hints of pale pink peony roses, and beneath that layer yet another, red-coated horsemen. A kitchen had been added to one flat, and the original kitchenette papered over. When the paper was ripped away, the original black and white tiles were revealed. Skips were being filled and loaded on to lorries, taking them to landfills outside the city where the jigsaw pieces would be covered over, a final layer for future archaeologists to scrape away.