Set in Darkness

  ‘So tell me what’s on your mind,’ Big Po said.

  Rebus gave him the background. Po listened as he ate, finishing with a mopping-up operation involving the addition to the bare greasy plate of a liberal squirt of brown sauce, and two further slices of toast. Afterwards, Big Po tried sitting back, but there wasn’t really the room. He slurped at his mug of dark brown tea and tried to turn his bear growl into something mere mortals might recognise as an undertone.

  ‘Gordie’s the man to talk to about Bellman’s; used to drink there till they barred him.’

  ‘Barred from Bellman’s? What did he do, machine-gun the place or ask for a gin and tonic?’

  Big Po snorted. ‘I think he was shagging Houton’s missus.’

  ‘Houton being the owner?’

  Po nodded. ‘Big bad bastard.’ Which meant a lot, coming from him.

  ‘Is Gordie a first or last name?’

  ‘Gordie Burns, drinks in the Weir O’.’

  Meaning the Weir O’ Hermiston, on the shore road out towards Portobello. ‘How will I know him?’ Rebus asked.

  Po reached into his blue nylon windcheater, brought out a mobile phone. ‘I’ll give him a call, make sure he’s there.’

  As he did so, knowing the number by heart, Rebus stared out of the steamed-up window. At call’s end, he thanked Po and stood up.

  ‘Not finishing your coffee?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘But this is on me.’ He walked up to the counter, handed over a fiver. Three fifty for the fry-up, cheapest coronary in town. On his way back past Big Po’s table, he patted the man’s shoulder, slid a twenty into the windcheater’s breast zip-up pocket.

  ‘God bless you, young sir,’ Big Po boomed. Rebus couldn’t have sworn to it, but as he closed the door behind him he got the feeling the big man was ordering another breakfast.

  The Weir O’ was a civilised sort of pub: car park out front, and a chalkboard advertising a range of ‘home cooked fayre’. As Rebus stepped up to the bar and ordered a whisky, a drinker, two along, started finishing up. By the time Rebus’s drink arrived, the man was leaving, telling his companion that he’d be back in a wee while. Rebus took a minute or two to savour his own drink, then made for the door. The man was waiting for him around the corner, where the view was of disused warehouses and slag heaps.

  ‘Gordie?’ Rebus asked.

  The man nodded. He was tall and gangly, late thirties with a long, sad face and thinning, ill-cut hair. Rebus made to hand him a twenty. Gordie paused just long enough to let Rebus know he had some pride, then pocketed the note.

  ‘Make it quick,’ he said, eyes darting from side to side. Traffic was thundering past, lorries mostly, travelling too quickly to take note of the two men.

  Rebus kept it brief: description; pub; attack.

  ‘Sounds like Mick Lorimer,’ Gordie said, turning to walk away.

  ‘Whoah,’ Rebus said. ‘What about an address or something?’

  ‘Mick Lorimer,’ Gordie repeated, heading back into the pub.

  John Michael Lorimer: known as Mick. Previouses for assault, entering lockfast premises, housebreaking. Bobby Hogan knew him, which was why they took Lorimer to Leith cop shop, let him sweat there for a little while before starting the questioning.

  ‘We’re not going to get much out of this one,’ Hogan warned. ‘Vocabulary of about a dozen words, half of which would make your granny shriek.’

  And he’d been waiting for them, seated quietly in his two-storey house just off Easter Road. A ‘friend’ had let them in, and Lorimer had been in a chair in the living room, newspaper open on his lap. He’d said almost nothing, not even bothering to ask them why they were there, why they were asking him to go down to the station with them. Rebus had taken an address from the girlfriend. It was on the housing scheme where Linford had been attacked. Which was fair enough: even if they proved it was Lorimer Linford had been following, he now had an alibi – went to his girlfriend’s, didn’t leave the flat all night.

  Convenient and cost-effective; no way she’d suddenly change her story, not if she knew what was good for her. From her washed-out eyes and slow movements, Rebus would guess she’d had a pretty good education at the hands of Mick Lorimer.

  ‘Are we wasting our time, then?’ Rebus asked. Bobby Hogan just shrugged. He’d been on the force as long as Rebus; both men knew the score. Getting them into custody was just the opening bell of the bout, and most times the fight seemed fixed.

  ‘We’ve got the line-ups anyway,’ Hogan said, pushing open the door to the interview room.

  Leith police station wasn’t modern, not like St Leonard’s. It was a solid late-Victorian design, reminding Rebus of his old school. Cold stone walls covered with maybe their twentieth layer of paint, and lots of exposed pipework. The interview rooms were like prison cells, sparse and dulling the senses. Seated at the table, Lorimer looked as much at home as he had in his own living room.

  ‘Solicitor,’ he said as the two detectives entered.

  ‘Think you need one?’ Hogan asked.

  ‘Solicitor,’ Lorimer repeated.

  Hogan looked to Rebus. ‘Like a broken record, isn’t he?’

  ‘Stuck in the wrong groove.’

  Hogan turned back to Lorimer. ‘We get you for six hours to ourselves without as much as a whiff of legal advice. That’s what the law says.’ He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. All he was doing, the gesture said, was having a bit of a chat with a friend. ‘Mick here’, he told Rebus, ‘used to be one of Tommy Telford’s doormen, did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Rebus lied.

  ‘Had to make himself scarce when Tommy’s little empire blew up.’

  Rebus was nodding now. ‘Big Ger Cafferty,’ he said.

  ‘We all know Big Ger wasn’t happy about Tommy and his gang.’ A meaningful look towards Lorimer. ‘Or with anyone connected to them.’

  Rebus was standing in front of the table now. He leaned down so that his hands rested on the back of the empty chair. ‘Big Ger’s out. Did you know that, Mick?’

  Lorimer didn’t so much as blink.

  ‘Large as life and back in Edinburgh,’ Rebus went on. ‘Maybe I could put you in touch with him . . . ?’

  ‘Six hours,’ Lorimer said. ‘Nae bother.’

  Rebus glanced towards Hogan: so much for that.

  They took a break, stood outside smoking cigarettes.

  Rebus was thinking aloud. ‘Say Lorimer killed Roddy Grieve. Putting aside the question of why, we think Barry Hutton was behind it.’ Hogan was nodding. ‘Two questions really: first, was Grieve meant to die?’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past Lorimer to get a bit overzealous. He’s one of those guys, gets the red mist once he gets started.’

  ‘Second,’ Rebus went on, ‘was Grieve meant to be found? Wouldn’t they try hiding the body?’

  Hogan shrugged. ‘That’s Lorimer again; hard as nails but not half as sharp.’

  Rebus looked at him. ‘So say he cocked up: how come he’s not been punished?’

  Now Hogan smiled. ‘Punish Mick Lorimer? You’d need a big army. Either that or you’d want to lull him, get him when his guard was down.’

  Which reminded Rebus . . . He called the hotel again. There was still no sign of Rab Hill. Maybe face to face would be better. He needed Hill on his side. Hill was the proof, which was why Cafferty was keeping him close.

  If Rebus could get to Rab Hill, he could put Cafferty away again. There was almost nothing he wanted more in the world.

  ‘It’d be like Christmas,’ he said aloud. Hogan asked him to explain, but Rebus just shook his head.

  Mr Cowan, who’d given them the description of the man on Holyrood Road, took his time over the line-up, but picked out Lorimer eventually. While the prisoner went back to his cell, the others were led away to be given tea and biscuits until their second appearance. They were students mostly.

  ‘I get them from the rugby team,’ Hogan explained. ‘When I need a few br
uisers. Half of them are training to be doctors and lawyers.’

  But Rebus wasn’t listening. The two men were standing outside the station’s front door, enjoying a cigarette. And now an ambulance had drawn up, and its back doors were being opened, a ramp lowered. Derek Linford, face heavily bruised, head bandaged and with a surgical collar around his neck. He was in a wheelchair, and as the orderly pushed him closer, Rebus could see wiring around his jaw. His pupils had a drugged blankness to them, but when he spotted Rebus his vision cleared a little, his eyes narrowing. Rebus shook his head slowly, a mixture of sympathy and denial. Linford looked away, trying for a measure of dignity as his wheelchair was turned, the better to get it up the steps.

  Hogan flicked his cigarette on to the road, just in front of the ambulance. ‘You staying out of it?’ he asked. Rebus nodded.

  ‘Think I’d better, don’t you?’

  He’d smoked two more cigarettes before Hogan reappeared.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘he gave us the nod: Mick Lorimer.’

  ‘Can he talk?’

  Hogan shook his head. ‘Mouth’s full of metal. All he did was nod when I gave him the number.’

  ‘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 elsewhe
re.

  ‘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.

  37

  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.