‘I’ll ask one of my younger colleagues,’ he said, causing her to laugh.
He went to the canteen, fetched them coffee. The burger had given him indigestion, so he stopped at his desk and downed a couple of Rennies. At one time, he could have eaten anything, any time of day. But his guts seemed to have taken early retirement. He picked up his phone and called Lorna Grieve, thinking: so far Josephine Banks hadn’t mentioned Seona Grieve. She’d managed to sidetrack him by bringing the first Mrs Grieve, Billie Collins, into play. There was no answer at the Cordover residence. He took the drinks back to the interview room. ‘There you go, Ms Banks.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked as if she hadn’t moved all the time he’d been away.
‘I keep wondering’, she said, ‘when you’ll get round to me. I mean, all this other stuff is just a roundabout way of getting there, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve lost me.’ Rebus took the notebook and pen from his pocket, laid them on the desk.
‘Roddy and me,’ she said, leaning towards him. ‘The affair we were having. Is it time to talk about that now?’
Right hand reaching for the pen, Rebus agreed that it was.
‘It’s like that in politics.’ She paused. ‘Well, any profession really. Two people working closely together.’ She sipped the coffee. ‘Politicians are nothing if not gossips. I think it’s down to a lack of self-confidence. Bad-mouthing everyone else is such a simple option.’
‘So you weren’t actually having an affair?’
She looked at him, smiled. ‘Did I give that impression?’ Bowed her head slightly in apology. ‘What I should have said was, the rumoured affair. And that’s as far as it got. You didn’t know?’
He shook his head.
‘All these interviews . . . I thought someone would have . . .’ She straightened in her chair. ‘Well, maybe I’ve misjudged them.’
‘You’re really the first person we’ve spoken to.’
‘But you’ve talked to the clan?’
‘You mean Mr Grieve’s family?’
‘Yes.’
‘They knew?’
‘Seona knew. I’m assuming she didn’t keep it to herself.’
‘Did Mr Grieve tell her?’
She smiled again. ‘Why should he? There wasn’t any truth in it. If someone here made a sly reference about you, would you report it to your wife?’
‘So how did Mrs Grieve find out?’
‘The usual way. Our old friend, Anonymous.’
‘A letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just the one?’
‘You’ll have to ask her.’ She placed her beaker on the table. ‘You’re dying for a cigarette, aren’t you?’ Rebus looked at her. She nodded towards his pen, which was raised to his mouth. ‘You keep doing that,’ she said. ‘And I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Why’s that, Ms Banks?’
‘Because I’m gasping for one myself.’
Smoking at St Leonard’s was restricted to the rear car park. Since this was off-limits to the public, he stood with Josephine Banks on the pavement out front, the pair of them shuffing their feet as they enjoyed their individual fixes.
Nearing the end of his cigarette, perhaps to defer the moment when he would have to finish it, he asked her if she’d any idea who had written the letter.
‘Not a clue.’
‘It had to be someone who knew you both.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m guessing it was someone in the local party. Or maybe a sore loser. The selection process for candidates, it was pretty rough at times.’
‘How so?’
‘Old Labour versus New. Ancient grievances given fresh momentum.’
‘Who stood against Mr Grieve?’
‘There were three others: Gwen Mollison, Archie Ure and Sara Bone.’
‘Was it a fair fight?’
A mixture of smoke and chilled breath billowed from her mouth. ‘As these things go, yes. I mean, there weren’t any dirty tricks.’
Something in her tone made him ask: ‘But?’
‘There was a certain amount of bad feeling when Roddy won the vote. Mostly from Ure. You must have seen it in the papers.’
‘Only if it reached the sports pages.’
She looked at him. ‘You are going to vote?’
He shrugged, examined what was left of his cigarette. ‘Why was Archie Ure so upset?’
‘Archie’s been in the Labour Party for donkey’s. And he believes in devolution. Back in ’79, he canvassed half of Edinburgh. Then along comes Roddy, snatches his birthright from under his nose. Tell me, did you vote in ’79?’
March 1, 1979: the failed devolution referendum. ‘I don’t remember,’ Rebus lied.
‘You didn’t, did you?’ She watched him shrug. ‘Whyever not?’
‘I wasn’t the only one.’
‘I’m just curious. It was bitter cold that day, maybe the snow put you off.’
‘Are you poking fun at me, Ms Banks?’
She flicked her cigarette stub into the road. ‘I wouldn’t dare, Inspector.’
1979.
He remembered Rhona, his wife at the time, with her roll of ‘Vote Yes’ stickers. He kept finding them on his jackets, the car windscreen, even on the flask he sometimes took with him to work. The winter had been hell: dark and freezing and with strikes breaking out all over. The Winter of Discontent, the papers called it, and he wasn’t about to disagree. His daughter Sammy was four. When he and Rhona had arguments, they kept their voices down so as not to wake her. His work was a problem: not enough hours in the day. And recently Rhona had been becoming active politically, campaigning for the SNP. For her, devolution meant a step towards independence. For Jim Callaghan and his Labour government, it meant . . . well, Rebus was never sure exactly. A sop to the Nationalists? Or to the nation as a whole? Would it really strengthen the Union?
They argued politics at the kitchen table until Rebus became bored by it all. He would fall on to the sofa and tell Rhona he didn’t care. At first she would stand in front of him, blocking his view of the TV screen. Her arguments were cogent as well as passionate.
‘I really can’t be scunnered,’ he’d say when she finished, and she’d start hitting him with a cushion until he wrestled her down on to the carpet, the pair of them laughing.
Maybe it was because he was getting a reaction. Whatever, his intransigence grew. He wore a ‘Scotland Says NO’ badge home one night. They were at the kitchen table again, eating supper. Rhona looked tired: day job and childcare and out canvassing. She didn’t say anything about his badge, even when he unpinned it from his coat and fixed it to his shirt. She just stared at him with deadened eyes, and wouldn’t talk the rest of the evening. In bed, she turned her back on him.
‘I thought you wanted me to get more political,’ he joked. She stayed silent. ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘I’ve thought through the issues like you said, and I’ve decided to vote No.’
‘You do what you want,’ she said coldly.
‘I will then,’ he answered, his eyes on her hunched form.
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.
11
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 a
s 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.”’