Set in Darkness

  ‘And thereafter, when you met . . . ?’

  ‘He would ask how Hugh and Lorna were.’

  ‘Did he ask about anyone else?’

  ‘They’re never out of the news, are they? I told him what stories I had.’

  ‘Ever wonder why he was so interested in the Grieves, Mr Sithing?’

  ‘Please, call me Gerald. Did you know, there’s an aura around you, Inspector? I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Probably just my aftershave.’ Siobhan snorted, but he ignored her. ‘Didn’t it seem to you that he was more interested in Hugh Cordover and his family than he was in the Knights of Rosslyn?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure that wasn’t the case.’

  Rebus leaned forward. ‘Look into your heart, Gerald,’ he intoned.

  Sithing did so, swallowed noisily. ‘Maybe you’re right. Yes, maybe you are. But tell me, why was he so interested in the Grieves?’

  Rebus stood up, leaned down over Sithing. ‘Now how the hell would I know that?’ he said.

  Back in the car, Siobhan smiled as she mimicked him. ‘“Look into your heart, Gerald.”’

  ‘Rum old bugger, wasn’t he?’ Rebus had the window down, so Siobhan would let him smoke.

  ‘So what have we got?’

  ‘We’ve got Supertramp feigning an interest in the Knights of Rosslyn while pumping information about the clan. We’ve got him interested in Hugh Cordover, but unwilling to come down to the chapel. Why? Because he didn’t want to meet Cordover.’

  ‘Because Cordover knew him?’ Siobhan guessed.

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘So are we any nearer finding out who he was?’

  ‘Maybe. Supertramp’s interested in the Grieves and in Skelly. Roddy Grieve dies in the grounds of Queensberry House, shortly after Skelly’s been uncovered. Around the same time, Supertramp takes the high dive.’

  ‘You want to roll three cases into one?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘We don’t have enough; the Farmer would never go for it. He’d certainly never let me run it the way it needs to be run.’

  ‘Speaking of which . . .’ Siobhan changed up through the gears as she left the village behind. ‘Where’s your sidekick?’

  ‘You mean Linford?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Doing interviews.’

  Siobhan looked sceptical. ‘Leaving you to your own devices?’

  ‘Derek Linford knows what’s good for him,’ Rebus said, flicking his cigarette out across the blood-bruised sky.

  They had a war meeting: Rebus and Siobhan, Wylie and Hood. The back room at the Oxford Bar. They took the table at the far end, so there’d be no one near enough to overhear the conversation.

  ‘I’m seeing links between the three cases,’ Rebus said, having gone through his reasons. ‘Tell me now if you think I’m wrong.’

  ‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, sir,’ Wylie piped up, ‘but where’s the evidence?’

  Rebus nodded. The beer in front of him was almost untouched. In deference to the non-smokers, his cigarette packet was still in its Cellophane. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want us to ca’canny. At this stage, we need to be aware of each other. That way, when the connections come, we’ll see them straight off.’

  ‘What do I tell CI Templer?’ Siobhan asked. Gill Templer, Siobhan’s boss, the name resonant now.

  ‘You keep her up to snuff. The Chief Super, too, if it comes to that.’

  ‘He’s going to close the case on me,’ she complained.

  ‘We’ll persuade him otherwise,’ Rebus promised. ‘Now drink up, the next round’s on me.’

  While Rebus went to the bar, Siobhan stepped outside to call home and check her answering machine messages. There were two of them, both from Derek Linford, making apologies and asking to see her.

  ‘Took you long enough,’ she muttered to herself. He’d left his home phone number, but she was only half listening.

  Left alone at the table, Wylie and Hood drank in silence for a few moments. Wylie spoke first.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  Hood shook his head. ‘The DI has a rep for going out on a limb. Do we want to be out there with him?’

  ‘I don’t see it, to be honest with you. What’s our case – or Siobhan’s, come to that – got to do with this dead MSP?’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I think he might be trying to hijack our cases because his own one’s hit a wall.’

  Hood shook his head. ‘I’ve told you, he’s not like that.’

  Wylie was thoughtful. ‘Mind you, if he’s right then we’ve got a bigger case than we thought.’ Her mouth twisted into a smile. ‘And if he’s wrong, it’s not us who’ll get carpeted, is it?’

  Rebus was coming back with the drinks. Gin, lime and soda for Wylie, half of lager for Hood. He went back to the bar and returned with a whisky for himself, Coke for Siobhan.

  ‘Slainte,’ he said, as Siobhan settled next to him on the narrow banquette.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Wylie asked.

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you,’ Rebus said. ‘You follow procedure.’

  ‘Talk to Barry Hutton?’ Hood guessed.

  Rebus nodded. ‘You might want to do a little digging, too, just in case there’s something about him we should know.’

  ‘And Supertramp?’ Siobhan asked.

  Rebus turned to her. ‘Well, as it happens, I’ve an idea . . .’

  Someone put their head round the corner, as if checking who was in the bar. Rebus recognised the face: Gordon, one of the regulars. He was still in his work suit; probably been out with the office. He saw Rebus, seemed about to retreat but then decided on another course of action. Approached the table, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Rebus could tell immediately that he’d been celebrating.

  ‘You jammy bastard,’ Gordon said. ‘You got off with Lorna that night, didn’t you?’ He was getting ready to make a joke of it: something to embarrass Rebus in front of his friends. ‘Sixties supermodel, and you’re the best she can do.’ He shook his head, missing the look on Rebus’s face.

  ‘Thanks, Gordon,’ Rebus said. The tone alerted the younger man, who looked at his fellow drinker and slapped his hand to his mouth.

  ‘Sorry I spoke,’ he mumbled, heading back towards the bar. Rebus looked at the faces around the table. They all suddenly seemed very interested in their drinks.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse Gordon,’ he told them. ‘Sometimes he gets the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘I take it he meant Lorna Grieve?’ Siobhan said. ‘Does she drink in here often?’

  Rebus gave her a look; refused to answer.

  ‘She’s the sister of the murder victim,’ Siobhan went on, her voice low.

  ‘She came in here one night, that’s all.’ But Rebus knew he was fidgeting too much. He glanced towards Wylie and Hood, remembered that they’d seen her in the Ox that night. He picked up his whisky, found he’d already finished it. ‘Gordon doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ he muttered. Even to his ears, it sounded limp.

  23

  There were those who said that Edinburgh was an invisible city, hiding its true feelings and intentions, its citizens outwardly respectable, its streets appearing frozen in time. You could visit the place and come away with little sense of having understood what drove it. This was the city of Deacon Brodie, where bridled passions were given free play only at night. The city of John Knox, his rectitude stern and indomitable. You might need half a million pounds to buy one of the better houses, yet outward show was frowned upon; a city of Saabs and Volvos rather than Bentleys and Ferraris. Glaswegians – who considered themselves more passionate, more Celtic – thought Edinburgh staid and conventional to the point of prissiness.

  Hidden city. The historical proof: when invading armies advanced, the populace made themselves scarce in the caves and tunnels below the Old Town. Their homes might be ransacked, but the soldiers would leave eventually – it was hard to enjoy victory without the evidence o
f the vanquished – and the locals would come back into the light to begin the work of rebuilding.

  Out of the darkness and into the light.

  The Presbyterian ethos swept idolatry from the churches, but left them strangely empty and echoing, filling them with congregations who’d been told that from birth they were doomed. All of this filtering down through the consciousness of the years. The citizens of Edinburgh made good bankers and lawyers perhaps precisely because they held their emotions in check, and were good at keeping secrets. Slowly, the city gained a reputation as a financial centre. At one time, Charlotte Square, where many of the banking and insurance institutions had made their headquarters, was reckoned to be the richest such street in Europe. But now, with the need for purpose-built offices and car-parking facilities, the banks and insurance companies were regrouping in the area around Morrison Street and the Western Approach Road. This was Edinburgh’s new financial district, a maze of concrete and glass with the arena-like International Convention Centre at its hub.

  Everyone seemed to agree that until the arrival of these new buildings, the area had been a waste ground, an eyesore. But opinion was divided over just how user-unfriendly the maze now was. It was as if humans had been dropped from the planning equation, the buildings existing only to serve themselves. Nobody walked around the financial district for the pleasure of the architecture.

  Nobody walked around the financial district at all.

  Except, this Monday morning, for Ellen Wylie and Grant Hood. They’d made the mistake of parking too early, in a convenient car park on Morrison Street. Hood’s reasoning: the place had to be near by. But the anonymity of the buildings and the fact that walkways were closed due to ongoing construction work meant that they ended up lost somewhere behind the Sheraton on Lothian Road. In the end, Wylie got on her mobile and had a receptionist direct them, until they found themselves entering a twelve-storey building of grey smoked glass and pink facing-stone. The receptionist was smiling as they marched across the floor towards her.

  ‘And here you are,’ she said, putting down the phone.

  ‘And here we are,’ Wylie agreed, bristling.

  Workmen were still busy in Hutton Tower. Electricians in blue overalls fringed with tool belts; painters in white overalls spotted with greys and yellows, whistling as they rested their tins on the floor, awaiting the lift.

  ‘It’ll be fine when it’s finished,’ Hood told the receptionist.

  ‘Top floor,’ she said. ‘Mr Graham’s expecting you.’

  They shared their lift with a grey-suited executive, his arms wrestling squid-like with paperwork. He got out three floors below them, almost colliding with a sparky positioning a ladder under some ceiling cables. But when the lift doors opened on the twelfth floor, they entered a calm reception area, with an elegant woman rising from behind her desk to greet them and direct them the eight feet to where two chairs awaited in front of a polished coffee table, arranged with the morning papers.

  ‘Mr Graham will be with you in a moment. Can I get you anything: tea, coffee?’

  ‘It was actually Mr Hutton we were wanting to see,’ Wylie said. The woman just kept smiling.

  ‘Mr Graham won’t keep you,’ she said, turning back to her desk.

  ‘Oh, good,’ Hood said, lifting one of the papers. ‘My Financial Times didn’t turn up this morning.’

  Wylie looked both ways along the narrow corridor, which disappeared round corners at either end. She got the feeling the corridor made a circuit of this floor of the building, and that the floors below would be identical. There were doors either side, leading either to a window view or to interior space. The windowed offices would be coveted. Working as she presently did from a windowless box in St Leonard’s, she herself coveted anything big enough to swing a cat in, even if the cat suffered minor concussion.

  A man had rounded the far corner. He was tall, well built, young. His short black hair was professionally styled and gelled, his suit dark grey, immaculately tailored. He wore oval glasses and a gold Rolex. When he introduced himself as John Graham, and put his hand out to shake, Wylie saw a gold cuff link at the end of his pale lemon shirt. It was one of those collarless affairs that wouldn’t support a tie. She’d met men before who’d had about them the sheen of success, but for this one she almost needed Ray-Bans.

  ‘We were hoping to speak to Mr Hutton,’ Grant Hood said.

  ‘Yes, of course. But you’ll appreciate that Barry’s an incredibly busy man.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘He’s in a meeting as I speak, and we wondered if perhaps I could be of assistance. Perhaps if we go through what it is you need, I can transmit that to Barry.’

  Wylie was about to say that it sounded like a long-winded way of ‘assisting’, but Graham was already leading them down the corridor, calling back to the receptionist that his calls were to be held for the next fifteen minutes. Wylie shared a look with Hood: big of him. Hood’s mouth twitched, telling her there was nothing to be gained by riling the emissary – not just yet, at any rate.

  ‘This is the boardroom,’ Graham said, leading them into an L-shaped room at one corner of the building. A large rectangular desk filled most of the space. Water glasses, pencils and notepads were laid out, ready for the next meeting. A large marker-board stood unsullied at the head of the table. At the far end, a sofa faced a widescreen TV and video. But what impressed most was the view – east towards the castle, and north towards Princes Street and the New Town, with the Fife coastline just visible beyond.

  ‘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.’