Set in Darkness (24 page)

‘How did Peter react when he heard his father was dead?’

She stopped, swung towards him. ‘What is it you’re trying to say?’

‘Funny, I’m wondering what it is you’re trying
not
to say.’

She folded her arms. ‘Well, that puts us at somewhat of an impasse, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I’m just asking if they got on, that’s all. Because Peter’s last song about his father is called “The Final Reproof”, and that doesn’t exactly conjure up harmony and good humour.’

They were at the top of the path. Ahead of them stood the rows of caravans, vacant windows awaiting warmer weather, the arrival of bottled gas and released spirits.

‘You spent your holidays here?’ Billie Collins asked, looking around. ‘Poor you.’ She was seeing uniformity and the brutal North Sea, cold facts separated from anecdote.

‘“The Final Reproof”,’ she said to herself. ‘It’s a powerful line, isn’t it?’ She looked at him. ‘I spent years trying to understand the clan, Inspector. Don’t vex yourself. Try something feasible.’

‘Such as?’

‘Conjure up the past and make it work this time.’

‘I might have a round table in my living room,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m Merlin.’

He took the coastal road south to Kirkcaldy. Stopped for lunch in Lundin Links. One of the regulars at the Oxford Bar, his father owned the Old Manor Hotel. Rebus had been promising a visit for a while. He ate East Neuk fish soup followed by the catch of the day: local fish, simply cooked, washed down with mineral water, and tried not to dwell on the past – anyone’s past. Afterwards, George gave him the tour. From the main bar, the scenery was stunning: a golf links with the sea and horizon beyond. In a sudden shaft of sunlight, Bass Rock looked like a nugget of white gold.

‘Do you play?’ George asked.

‘What?’ Rebus still gazing out of the window.

‘Golf.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Tried it when I was a kid.
Hopeless.’ He managed to turn his head away from the view. ‘How can you drink in the Ox with this as the alternative?’

‘I only drink at night, John. And after dark, you can’t see any of this.’

It was a fair point. Darkness could make you forget what was in front of your face. Darkness would swallow the caravan site, the old putting green, and St Rule’s Tower. It would swallow crimes and grieving and remorse. If you gave yourself to the darkness, you might start to make out shapes invisible to others, but without being able to define them: the movement behind a curtain, the shadows in an alleyway.

‘See how Bass Rock is shining?’ George said.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the sun reflecting off all the bird shit.’ He got up. ‘Sit there and I’ll fetch us some coffee.’

So Rebus sat by the window, the glorious winter’s day set out before him – bird shit and all – while his thoughts churned and churned in the dark. What was waiting for him in Edinburgh? Would Lorna want to see him? When George came back with the coffee, he told Rebus there was a bedroom vacant upstairs.

‘Only you look like you could use a few hours off.’

‘Christ, man, don’t tempt me,’ Rebus said. He took his coffee black.

The hospital corridors were all rubber-soled efficiency. Nurses darted in and out of doorways. Doctors consulted clipboards as they made their rounds. No beds here, just waiting rooms, examination rooms, offices. Derek Linford disliked hospitals. He’d watched his mother die in one. His father was still alive, but they didn’t talk much; the occasional phone call. The first time Derek had owned up to voting Tory, his father had disowned him. That was the kind of man he was: headstrong, full of erroneous grievances. His son had sneered at him: ‘How can you be working class? You haven’t worked in twenty years.’ It was true: disability benefit for a mining accident. A limp that would appear at convenient times, but never when he was on his way to meet old pals at the pub. And Derek’s mother, slogging her guts out in a factory until the final illness took her.

Derek Linford had succeeded not in spite of his background but because of it, each rung he climbed another jibe at his father, another way of letting his mother know he was all right. The old man – not so old really; fifty-eight – still lived in the council semi. Linford would drive past it occasionally, slowing to a crawl, not really caring if he was seen. A neighbour might wave, half-recognising the face. Would they pass the news on to his father?
I see young Derek was round the other day. He still keeps in touch then
. . . ? He wondered how his father would react: with a grunt most likely, turning back to his sports pages, his quick crossword. When Derek was a teenager, doing well in all his subjects, his father would make show of asking
him for the answers to crossword clues. He’d rack his brains, get them wrong . . . It took Derek a while to realise the old man was making them up. Seven letters, umbrella, c something p. Derek would have a go, then his father would sigh and say something like, ‘No, you looper, it’s capulet.’

No such word in the dictionary.

Derek’s mother hadn’t died in this hospital. She’d held his hand, her breathing ragged. She couldn’t speak, but her eyes told him she wasn’t sorry to go. Worn out, like some machine run to death. And like a machine she’d lacked care, lacked maintenance. The old man standing at the foot of the bed, flowers in his arms: carnations picked from a neighbour’s garden. And books he’d brought from the library, books she could no longer read.

Was it any wonder he hated hospitals? Yet in his early days on the force he’d been made to spend long hours in them, waiting for victims and aggressors to be treated, waiting to take statements from patients and staff. Blood and dressings, swollen faces, twisted limbs. He’d watched an ear being stitched, had witnessed grey-white bone protruding from a shattered leg. Crash victims; muggings; rapes.

Was it any wonder?

Finally, he found the family room. It was supposed to be a quiet space for families who were ‘awaiting news of a loved one’, as the receptionist had put it. But as he pushed open the door, he was assailed by the death rattle of vending machines, a cloud of cigarette smoke, and the glare of daytime TV. Two middle-aged women were puffing away. Their eyes fixed on him for a moment, then returned to the chat show.

‘Mrs Ure?’

The women looked up again. ‘You don’t look like a doctor.’

‘I’m not,’ he told the speaker. ‘Are you Mrs Ure?’

‘We’re both Mrs Ure. Sisters-in-law.’

‘Mrs Archie Ure?’

The other woman, who hadn’t spoken yet, stood up. ‘That’s me.’ She saw she was holding a cigarette, stubbed it out.

‘My name’s Detective Inspector Derek Linford. I’d been hoping to have a word with your husband.’

‘Get in the queue,’ the sister-in-law said.

‘I was sorry to hear . . . Is it serious?’

‘He’s had trouble with his heart before,’ Archie Ure’s wife said. ‘Never stopped him working for what he believed in.’

Linford nodded. He’d done his reading, knew all about Archie Ure. Head of the council’s planning executive, a councillor for more than two decades. He was Old Labour, popular with those who knew him, a thorn in the side of some ‘reformers’. A year or so back he’d written several bitter articles for the
Scotsman
, had got into trouble with the party as a result. Chastened, he’d applied for an MSP post, the first to do so. He probably hadn’t allowed for the possibility of an upstart like Roddy Grieve beating him for the nomination. He’d worked ceaselessly during the ’79 campaign. Twenty years later, his reward was a runner-up spot for a constituency, and the promise of a place near the top of Labour’s top-up list.

‘Are they operating?’ Linford asked.

‘Christ, listen to him,’ the sister-in-law said, glowering at him. ‘How the hell would we know if they’re operating? We’re only the family, last to be told.’ She stood up, too. Linford felt himself shrink back. Big women they were, addicted to Scotland’s pantry: cigarettes and lard. Training shoes, elasticated waistbands. Matching YSL tops, probably knock-off if not fake.

‘I just wanted to know—’

‘What did you want to know?’ This from the wife, rising to her friend’s ire. She folded her arms. ‘What d’you want Archie for?’

To ask questions . . . because he’s a possible suspect in a
murder
. No, he couldn’t tell her that. So he shook his head instead. ‘It can wait.’

‘Is it to do with Roddy Grieve?’ she asked. He couldn’t answer. ‘Bloody thought it might be.
He’s
the reason Archie’s in here. Tell that slut of a widow of his to remember that. And if my Archie . . . if he . . .’ She bowed her head, words choking. An arm went around her shoulder.

‘Come on now, Isla. It’ll be fine.’ The sister-in-law looked at Linford. ‘Got what you came for?’

He turned away, but then stopped. ‘What did she mean? About Roddy Grieve being to blame?’

‘With Grieve dead, it should have been Archie standing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Only now the widow’s put her name forward, and knowing those bastards on the selection committee, she’ll be the one. Oh aye, shafted again, Isla. As it was, so shall it be. Shafted all the way to the grave.’

‘Frankly, they’d be lunatics not to.’

After the hospital, the wine bar on the High Street came as some relief. Linford sipped his chilled Chardonnay and asked Gwen Mollison why that should be. Mollison was tall with long fair hair, probably mid-thirties. She wore steel-rimmed glasses which magnified her long-lashed eyes, and toyed with her mobile phone as it sat on the table between them, just next to a bulging Filofax. She kept looking around, as though expecting to be able to greet a friend or acquaintance. Here, Linford had done his reading, too. Mollison was number three in the council’s housing department. She didn’t quite have Roddy Grieve’s pedigree, or Archie Ure’s longevity, which was why she’d lost to them, but great things were expected of her. Good working-class roots; New Labour to her core. She spoke well in public, presented well. Today she was wearing a
cream linen trouser suit, maybe Armani. Linford recognised a kindred spirit and had laid his own mobile a foot and a half from hers.

‘It’s a PR coup,’ Mollison explained. She had a glass of Zinfandel in front of her, but had asked for mineral water as an accompaniment, and had concentrated on that so far. Linford appreciated the tactic: you were a drinker, not an abstainer, but somehow you contrived to drink only water.

‘I mean,’ Mollison went on, ‘the sympathy vote’s out there. And Seona has friends in the party: she’s been every bit as active as Roddy ever was.’

‘Do you know her?’

Mollison shook her head – not in answer to the question but to dismiss it as irrelevant. ‘I don’t think the party would have gone to her; might’ve looked like bad taste. But when she phoned them, they weren’t slow to see the possibilities.’ She angled her phone, testing the signal strength. There was jazz music in the background. Only half a dozen other people in the place: mid-afternoon hiatus. Linford had skipped lunch. He’d finished one bowl of rice crackers; they weren’t about to bring another.

‘Are you disappointed?’ he asked.

Mollison shrugged. ‘There’ll be other chances.’ So confident; so controlled. No telling where she’d be in a few years. Linford had already handed over one of his business cards, the good ones, embossed. He’d added his home phone number on the back, smiled at her: ‘Just in case.’ A little later, she’d caught him stifling a yawn, had asked if she was boring him.

‘Just a late night,’ he’d explained.

‘It’s Archie I feel sorry for,’ she went on now. ‘This might’ve been his last chance.’

‘But he’s going on the regional list, isn’t he?’

‘Well, they have to, or else it looks like they’re snubbing him. But you don’t understand, that list is weighted
against whichever party gets most first-past-the-post seats.’

‘I think you’ve lost me.’

‘Even if Archie was top of the list, he probably wouldn’t get in.’

Linford mulled that over; decided he still didn’t get it. ‘You’re being very magnanimous,’ he said instead.

‘Am I?’ She smiled at him. ‘You don’t understand politics. If I’m graceful in defeat, that counts for me next time. You have to learn to lose.’ She shrugged again. Padded shoulders, giving some bulk to her thin frame. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t we be talking about Roddy Grieve?’

Linford smiled. ‘You’re not a suspect, Ms Mollison.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Not unless
Mrs
Grieve meets with some accident.’

Mollison laughed, a sudden trill which had the other drinkers looking at them. She clamped a hand over her mouth, took it away. ‘God, I shouldn’t laugh, should I? What if something did happen to her?’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know . . . Say she gets hit by a car.’

‘Then I’ll want to talk to you again.’ He opened his notebook, reached for his pen. It was a Mont Blanc; she’d commented on it earlier, looking impressed. ‘Maybe I should take down your number,’ he said with a smile.

The final candidate on the shortlist, Sara Bone, was a social worker in south Edinburgh. He caught up with her at a daycare centre for the elderly. They sat in the conservatory, surrounded by potted plants wilting from neglect. Linford said as much.

‘Quite the opposite,’ she informed him. ‘They’re suffering from over-attention. Everybody thinks they need a drop of water. Too much is as bad as not enough.’

She was a small woman – a shade over five feet – with a mother’s face framed by a youthful haircut, short and feathered.

‘Horrible,’ was what she said when he asked her about Roddy Grieve’s death. ‘The world just seems to get worse and worse.’

‘Could an MSP do anything to help?’

‘I’d hope so,’ she said.

‘But now you’re not going to get the chance?’

‘Much to the relief of my clients.’ She nodded towards the building’s interior. ‘They were all saying how much they would miss me.’

‘It’s nice to be wanted,’ Linford said, feeling that he was wasting his time with this woman . . .

He called Rebus. The two met at Cramond. The normally leafy suburb had a grey, pinched look to it: winter wasn’t welcome here. They stood on the pavement by Linford’s BMW. Rebus, having listened to Linford’s report, was thoughtful.