Set in Darkness (49 page)

‘What does Lorimer’s lawyer say?’

‘Not too happy. He was asking what medicines DI Linford had taken.’

‘Are you charging Lorimer?’

‘Oh, I think so. We’ll try assault to start with.’

‘Will it get far?’

Hogan blew out his cheeks. ‘Between you and me?
Probably not. Lorimer’s not denying being the man Linford followed. Problem with that is, it opens a whole other can of worms.’

‘Unauthorised surveillance?’

Hogan nodded. ‘Defence would have a field day in court. I’ll talk to the girlfriend again. Maybe there’s a grudge there . . .’

‘She won’t talk,’ Rebus said with some confidence. ‘They never do.’

Siobhan went to the hospital. Derek Linford was propped up with four pillows at his back. A plastic jug of water and tabloid newspaper for company.

‘Brought a couple of magazines,’ she said. ‘Didn’t know what you liked.’ She laid the carrier bag on the bed, found a chair near by and brought it over. ‘They said you can’t talk, but I thought I’d come anyway.’ She smiled. ‘I won’t ask how you’re feeling: no point really. I just wanted you to know, it wasn’t John’s fault. He’d never do something like that . . . or let something like that happen to someone. He’s not that subtle.’ She wasn’t looking at him. Her fingers played with the handles on the carrier bag. ‘What happened between us . . . between you and me . . . it was my fault, I see that now. I mean, mine as much as yours. It’s not going to help anyone if you . . .’ She happened to glance up, saw the fire and mistrust in his eyes.

‘If you . . .’ But the words died in her mouth. She’d rehearsed a little speech, but could see now how little difference it would make.

‘The only person you can blame is the person who did this to you.’ She glanced up again, then looked away. ‘I’m wondering if that loathing is for me or for John.’

She watched him slowly reach for his tabloid, bringing it down on to the bedcover. There was a biro attached to it. He unclipped it and drew something on the paper’s front page. She stood up to get a better look, angling her neck. It was a rough circle, as big as he could make it, and
it stood, she quickly realised, for the world, for everything, the whole damned lot.

The subject of his loathing.

‘I missed a Hibs match to come here,’ she told him. ‘That’s how important this is to me.’ He just glared. ‘Okay, bad joke,’ she said. ‘I’d have come anyway.’ But he was closing his eyes now, as if tired of listening.

She gave it a couple more minutes, then walked out. Back in her car, she remembered a call she had to make: the slip of paper with the number was in her pocket. It had only taken her twenty minutes to find it amongst the paperwork on her desk.

‘Sandra?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you might be out shopping or something. It’s Siobhan Clarke.’

‘Oh.’ Sandra Carnegie didn’t sound exactly pleased to hear her.

‘We think the man who attacked you has ended up getting himself killed.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was stabbed.’

‘Good. Give whoever did it a medal.’

‘Looks like it was his accomplice. He got a sudden attack of conscience. We caught him heading for Newcastle down the A1. He’s told us everything.’

‘Will you do him for murder?’

‘We’ll do him for everything we can.’

‘Does that mean I’ll have to testify?’

‘Maybe. But it’s great news, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, great. Thanks for letting me know.’

The phone went dead in Siobhan’s hand. She made an exasperated sound. Her one planned victory of the day snatched away.

‘Go away,’ Rebus said.

‘Thanks, I will.’ Siobhan pulled out the chair and sat
down opposite him, shrugged her arms out of her coat. She’d already bought her drink: fresh orange topped up with lemonade. They were in the back room of the Ox. The front room was busy: Saturday early evening, the football crowd. But the back room was quiet. The TV wasn’t on. A lone drinker over by the fire was reading the
Irish Times
. Rebus was drinking whisky: no empties on the table, but all that meant was he was taking his glass back for a refill each time.

‘I thought you were cutting down,’ Siobhan said. He just glared at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I forgot whisky’s the answer to the world’s problems.’

‘It’s no dafter than yogic flying.’ He raised the glass to his mouth, paused. ‘What do you want anyway?’ Tipped the glass and let the warmth trickle into his mouth.

‘I went to see Derek.’

‘How is he?’

‘Not talking.’

‘Poor bastard can’t, can he?’

‘It’s more than that.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I know. And who’s to say he’s not right?’

Her frown brought a little vertical crease to the middle of her forehead. ‘How do you mean?’

‘It was me told him to go chasing Hutton’s men. In effect, I was telling him to tag a murderer.’

‘But you weren’t expecting him to—’

‘How do you know? Maybe I
did
want the bugger hurt.’

‘Why?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘To teach him something.’

Siobhan wanted to ask what: humility? Or as punishment for his voyeurism? She drank her drink instead.

‘But you don’t know for sure?’ she said at last.

Rebus made to light a cigarette, then thought better of it.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said.

But he shook his head, slid the cigarette back into its
packet. ‘Too many today as it is. Besides, I’m outnumbered.’ Nodding towards the
Irish Times
. ‘Hayden there doesn’t smoke either.’

Hearing his name, the man smiled across, called out, ‘For which relief, much thanks,’ and went back to his reading.

‘So what now?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Have they suspended you yet?’

‘They have to catch me first.’ Rebus began playing with the ashtray. ‘I’ve been thinking about cannibals,’ he said. ‘Queensberry’s son.’

‘What about him?’

‘I was wondering whether there are still cannibals out there, maybe more than we think.’

‘Not literally?’

He shook his head. ‘We talk about getting a roasting, chewing someone up, eating them for breakfast. We say it’s a dog-eat-dog world, but really we’re talking about ourselves.’

‘Communion,’ Siobhan added. ‘The body of Christ.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve always wondered about that. I couldn’t do it, that wafer turning to flesh.’

‘And drinking the blood . . . that makes us vampires as well.’

Rebus’s smile broadened, but his eyes said that his thoughts were elsewhere.

‘I’ll tell you a strange coincidence,’ she said. She went on to tell him about the night at Waverley, the black Sierra and the singles club rapist.

He nodded at the story. ‘And I’ll tell you a stranger one: that Sierra’s licence number was found in Derek Linford’s notebook.’

‘How come?’

‘Because Nicholas Hughes worked for Barry Hutton’s company.’ Siobhan made to form a question, but Rebus anticipated it. ‘Looks like complete coincidence at this stage.’

Siobhan sat back and was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Know what we need?’ she said at last. ‘I mean in the Grieve case. We need corroboration, witnesses. We need someone who’ll talk to us.’

‘Better get the Ouija board out then.’

‘You still think Alasdair’s dead?’ Waited till he’d shrugged. ‘I don’t. If he was six feet under, we’d know about it.’ She broke off, watching Rebus’s face clear suddenly. ‘What did I say?’

He was looking at her. ‘We want to talk to Alasdair, right?’

‘Right,’ she agreed.

‘Then all we have to do is issue the invitation.’

She was puzzled now. ‘What sort of invitation?’

He drained his glass, got to his feet. ‘You better do the driving. Knowing my luck recently, I’d wrap us round a lamp-post.’

‘What invitation?’ she repeated, struggling to get her arms into the sleeves of her coat.

But Rebus was already on his way. As she passed the man with the newspaper, he raised his glass and wished her good luck.

His tone implied that she’d need it.

‘You know him then,’ she complained, heading for the outside world.

The funeral of Roderick David Rankeillor Grieve took place on an afternoon of steady sleet. Rebus was at the church. He stood towards the back, hymnary open but not singing. Despite the short notice, the place was packed: family members from all over Scotland, plus establishment figures – politicians, media, people from the banking world. There were representatives from the Labour hierarchy in London, playing with their cuff links and checking their silent pagers, eyes darting around for faces they ought to know.

At the church gates, members of the public had gathered, ghouls on the lookout for anyone worth an autograph. Photographers, too, with deadlines to meet, wiping beads of water from zoom lenses. Two TV crews – BBC and independent – had set up their vans. There was a protocol to be observed: invitees only in the churchyard. Police were patrolling the perimeter. With so many public figures around, security was always going to be an issue. Siobhan Clarke was out there somewhere, mingling with the public, scrutinising them without seeming to.

The service seemed long to Rebus. There wasn’t just the local minister: the dignitaries had to make their speeches, too. Protocol again. And, filling the front pews, the immediate family. Peter Grief had been asked if he’d sit with his aunts and uncles, but preferred to be with his mother, two rows back. Rebus spotted Jo Banks and Hamish Hall, five rows ahead of his own. Colin Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable, was wearing his best uniform, looking slightly piqued that there wasn’t room
for him in the row in front, where so many distinguished invitees had crammed themselves that they had to rise and sit in single, fluid movements.

Speech after speech, the centre aisle decked with wreaths. Roddy Grieve’s old headmaster had spoken haltingly and softly, so that each clearing of the throat from the pews drowned out half a sentence. The coffin, dark polished oak, gleaming brass handles, was resting on a trestle. The hearse had been a venerable Rolls-Royce. Limos clogged the narrow streets around the church, some of the cars sporting national flags – representatives from the various Edinburgh consulates. Out on the path, Cammo Grieve had given Rebus a half-twist of his mouth, a sombre smile of greeting. He’d done most of the organising, drawing up lists of names, liaising with officials. After the interment, there was to be a finger buffet at a hotel in the West End. Fewer invitees to this function: family and close friends. There’d be a police presence – security again – but provided by the Scottish Crime Squad.

As another hymn got under way, Rebus slipped from the back of the congregation and out into the churchyard. The burial site was eighty yards away, a family plot containing the deceased’s father and one set of grandparents. The hole had already been dug, its edges covered with lengths of green baize. There was melt water in the bottom of the grave. The mound of earth and clay sat ready to one side. Rebus smoked a cigarette, paced the area. Then when he’d finished, he didn’t know what to do with the dowp: nicked it and popped it back into the packet.

He heard the church doors opening, the organ music swelling. Walked away from the graveside and took up position at a nearby grouping of poplars. Half an hour later it was all over. Howls and handkerchiefs, black ties and lost looks. As the mourners filtered away, their emotions went with them. What was left was industry, as
the diggers got busy filling in the hole. Car doors, engines revving. The scene was cleared in minutes. The churchyard was just that again: no voices or cries, just a crow’s defiant call and the crisp working of shovels.

Rebus moved further away, towards the rear of the church building, but keeping the graveside in view. Trees and headstones camouflaging him. The headstones were worn almost smooth. He got the feeling very few these days were privileged to have their resting place here. There was a much larger purpose-built cemetery across the road. He picked out a few names – Warriston, Lockhart, Milroy – and read evidence of infant mortality. Hellish to lose a son or daughter. Now Alicia Grieve had lost two.

An hour he waited, feet growing icy as the damp penetrated his shoe soles. The sleet wasn’t letting up, the sky a hard grey shell, muffling the life beneath. He didn’t smoke; smoke might draw attention. Even kept his breathing slow and regular, each exhalation a billowing indication of life. Just a man coming to terms with mortality, graveyard memories of past family, past friends. Rebus had ghosts in his life: they came hesitantly these days, not sure how welcome they’d be. Came to him as he sat in darkness, incidental music playing. Came to him on the long nights when he had no company, a gathering of souls and gestures, movement without voice. Roddy Grieve might join them some day, but Rebus doubted it. He hadn’t known the man in life, and had little to share with his shade.

He’d spent all day Sunday in pursuit of Rab Hill. At the hotel, they admitted that Mr Hill had checked out the previous evening. A bit of pressing, and Rebus was informed that Mr Hill hadn’t been seen for a day or two beforehand. Then Mr Cafferty had explained that his friend had been called away. He’d settled the account, keeping his own room open, date of departure uncertain. Cafferty was the last person Rebus wanted to talk to about
Hill. He’d been shown the bedroom – nothing had been left behind. As staff said, Mr Hill had brought only the one canvas duffel bag with him. Nobody’d seen him leave.

Rebus’s next stop had been Hill’s parole officer. It had taken him a couple of hours to track down her home phone number, and she’d been none too pleased to have her Sunday disturbed.

‘Surely it can wait till tomorrow.’

Rebus was beginning to doubt it. Eventually she’d given him what she could. Robert Hill had attended two interviews with her. He wasn’t due to see her again until the following Thursday.

‘I think you’ll find he misses that appointment,’ Rebus told her, putting down the receiver.

He’d spent his Sunday evening parked outside the hotel; no sign of either Cafferty or Hill. Monday and Tuesday he’d been back at St Leonard’s, while his future was debated by people so far up the ladder they were little more than names to him. In the end, he was kept on the case. Linford hadn’t been able to offer any real evidence to support his claim, but Rebus got the feeling it was more to do with PR. Gill Templer, the rumour went, had argued that the last thing the force needed was more bad publicity, and pulling a well-known officer from a high-profile inquiry would have the media vultures hovering.