Set in Darkness

  ‘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 qu
estion 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.

  Rebus lit a cigarette, narrowing his eyes against gusts of powder and grit. ‘Looks like we’re a bit on the late side.’

  He was standing with Siobhan outside what had been the building containing Freddy Hastings’ office. She was calm now, seemed to have put Linford out of her mind as she watched the demolition. Hastings’ office had been on the ground floor, with flats above. There was no sign of it now. Once levelled, contractors would commence putting up a new structure, an ‘apartment complex’ only a stone’s throw from the new parliament.

  ‘Someone on the council might know,’ Siobhan offered. Rebus nodded: she meant, might know what had happened to the contents of Hastings’ office. ‘You don’t look very hopeful,’ she added.

  ‘It’s not in my nature,’ Rebus said, inhaling the smoke, and with it a mixture of plaster dust and other people’s lives.

  They drove to the City Chambers on the High Street, where an official was eventually able to provide the name of a solicitor. The solicitor was based in Stockbridge. On the way there, they stopped off at what had been Hastings’ home, but the present owners didn’t know anything about him. They’d bought from an antique dealer who, they thought, had bought from a football player. 1979 was ancient history; New Town flats could change hands every three or four years. Young professionals bought them, one eye on the investment potential. Then they had kids, and the stairs became a chore, or they bemoaned the lack of a garden. They sold up, moved on to something bigger.

  The solicitor was young, too, and knew nothing of Frederick Hastings. But he got on the phone to one of the senior partners, who was in a meeting elsewhere. A time was arranged. Rebus and Siobhan debated over whether to return to the office. She suggested a walk along the Dean Valley, but Rebus, remembering that Linford lived in Dean Village, made the excuse that his heart wasn’t up to the exertion required.

  Siobhan: ‘I suppose you want to find a pub.’

  Rebus: ‘There’s a good one actually, just at the corner of St Stephen’s Street.’

  In the end, they walked to a café on Raeburn Place. Siobhan ordered tea, Rebus decaf. A waitress apologised for the fact that they were seated in a no smoking establishment. With a sigh, Rebus put the packet away.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘life used to be so simple.’

  She nodded agreement. ‘You lived in a cave, clubbed your food to death . . .’

  ‘And little girls went to charm schools. Now, you’ve all got degrees from the University of Sarcasm.’

  ‘Three words,’ she said: ‘pot, kettle and black.’

  Their drinks came. Siobhan checked that she had no messages on her mobile.

  ‘Okay,’ Rebus said, ‘it’ll have to be me who asks it.’

  ‘Asks what?’

  ‘What are you going to do about Linford?’

  ‘Do I know anyone called that?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Rebus went back to drinking his coffee.

  Siobhan poured some tea into her cup and lifted it with both hands. ‘Did you talk to him?’ she asked. Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Thought so. You were spotted running out after him.’

  ‘He told the Farmer a lie about me.’

  ‘I know. The chief mentioned it.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘The truth,’ she said. They were silent, raising their cups and drinking, lowering them again as though synchronised. Rebus was nodding again, though he didn’t really know why. Siobhan cracked first. ‘So what did you say to Linford?’

  ‘He’s going to send you an apology.’

  ‘That’s big of him.’ She paused. ‘You think he means it?’

  ‘I think he regrets what he did.’

  ‘Only because it might have affected his glorious career.’

  ‘You could be right. All the same . . .’

  ‘You think I should let it drop?’

  ‘Not exactly. But Linford’s got his own leads to follow. With any luck, they’ll keep him out of your way.’ He looked at her. ‘I think he’s scared of you.’

  She snorted. ‘He should be.’ She lifted her cup again. ‘But fair enough, if he keeps out of my way, I’ll keep out of his.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘You think the trail’s gone cold, don’t you?’

  ‘Hastings?’ She nodded. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing what you can turn up in Edinburgh.’

  Blair Martine was waiting for them when they returned to the solicitors’ offices. He was rotund and elderly, with a chalk-stripe suit and silver watch-chain.

  ‘I always wondered’, he said, ‘whether Freddy Hastings would come back to haunt me.’ In front of him on the desk sat a ten-inch-thick bundle of manila folders and envelopes, tied together with parcel string. His fingers brushed the topmost folder, came away dusty.

  ‘How do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Well, it was never a case for you lot, but it was a mystery all the same. He just upped and left.’

  ‘Creditors at his he
els,’ Rebus added.

  Martine looked sceptical. He’d obviously lunched very well, his cheeks suffused with contentment, waistcoat straining. When he leaned back in his chair, Rebus feared the buttons would pop slapstick-style.

  ‘Freddy was not without resources,’ Martine said. ‘That’s not to say he didn’t make some bad investments; he did. But all the same . . .’ He tapped the files again. Rebus was champing at the bit to be let loose on them, but knew Martine would plead client confidentiality.

  ‘And he did leave a number of creditors,’ Martine went on. ‘But none of them so very significant. We had to arrange for his flat to be sold. It fetched a fair price, not quite what it might have done.’

  ‘Enough to see off these creditors?’ Siobhan asked.

  ‘Yes, and my firm’s own fees. Costly business, when someone disappears.’ He paused. There was a trick hiding beneath his cuff-linked sleeve. Rebus and Siobhan stayed silent; they could see he was bursting to play it. Martine leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

  ‘I did keep a little aside,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘to defray the storage costs.’

  ‘Storage?’ Siobhan echoed.

  The lawyer shrugged. ‘I did think Freddy might walk back into my life some day. I just never expected it to be posthumous.’ He sighed. ‘When is the funeral, incidentally?’

  ‘We’ve just been to it,’ Siobhan told him. She didn’t add: with half a dozen mourners. A speedy burial, no personal eulogy from the minister. It could have been called a pauper’s funeral, only Supertramp had been no pauper.

  ‘So what exactly is it that’s in storage?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Effects from his flat: everything from pens and pencils to a rather fine Persian carpet.’

  ‘Had your eye on that, did you?’

  The lawyer glared at Rebus. ‘Plus the contents of his office.’

  Rebus’s back stiffened visibly. ‘And where’, he asked, ‘might we find this storage facility?’