by Ian Rankin
‘My little Monkey Man,’ she cooed. ‘In here with you. Hugh’s down in the bowels. You have to be quiet till he’s finished.’
What she meant was that Hugh Cordover was in his studio. It took up the whole lower ground floor of the house. Cordover himself sat in the production suite with an engineer. The equipment around them seemed about to swamp them. Through the thickened window, Rebus could see into the studio proper. Three young men, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The drummer was pacing behind his kit, a bottle of Jack Daniels hanging from one hand. The guitarist and bassist seemed to be concentrating on the sound from their headphones. Empty beer cans lay strewn around them, along with cigarette packets, wine bottles and guitar strings.
‘See what I mean?’ Cordover said into a microphone. The musicians nodded. He glanced towards Rebus. ‘All right, guys, the police are here to talk to me, so don’t go chopping lines in there, okay?’
Sneers, V-signs towards the window. Rock and roll, Rebus thought, had never been so dangerous.
Cordover gave the engineer some instructions, then rose stifflly from his chair. He ran a hand over his unshaven face, shaking his head slowly. Motioned for Rebus to precede him from the production suite.
‘Who are they?’ Rebus asked.
‘The next big thing,’ Cordover told him, ‘if I get my way. They’re called The Crusoes.’
‘The Robinson Crusoes?’
‘You’ve heard of them?’
‘Someone mentioned you were their manager.’
‘Manager, arranger, producer. All-round general father figure.’ Cordover pushed open a door. ‘This is the Rec Room.’
More mess on the floor. Music magazines lying on chairs. A portable TV, portable hi-fi. A pool table.
‘All mod cons,’ Cordover said, pulling open the fridge and reaching in for a soft drink. ‘Want something?’
Lorna Grieve, seated on a red sofa, closed the newspaper she’d been skimming. ‘If I’m any judge of character, my Monkey Man will be wanting something stronger than that.’ She rattled her own glass to make the point. She was dressed in a swirling green silk trousersuit. Barefoot, with a red chiffon scarf around her neck.
‘A soft drink will be fine actually,’ Rebus said, nodding when Cordover brought out two bottles of flavoured mineral water.
‘Is it okay to talk here?’ Cordover said. ‘Or would you prefer upstairs?’
‘Mind you,’ Lorna added, ‘it’s no tidier up there than down here.’
‘This is fine,’ Rebus said, settling himself on one of the chairs. Cordover hauled himself up on to the pool table, legs swinging over the side. His wife rolled her eyes, as if in wonder at his inability to use a chair.
‘Which one was Peter Grief?’ Rebus asked.
‘The bassist,’ Cordover answered.
‘He knows about his father?’
‘Of course he knows,’ Lorna Grieve snapped back.
‘They were never close,’ Cordover added.
‘The Monkey Man’, Grieve said to her husband, ‘is shocked that so soon after Roddy’s brutal murder, the pair of you can be back at work as though nothing’s happened.’
‘Yes,’ Cordover shot back. ‘So much more useful to hit the bottle.’
‘When did I ever need the excuse of a death in the family?’ She smiled at Cordover, eyes heavy-lidded. Then, turning to Rebus: ‘You’ve a lot to learn about the clan, Monkey Man.’
‘Why do you keep calling him that?’ Cordover sounding irritated.
‘It’s a Rolling Stones song,’ Rebus said. He watched Lorna Grieve toast him on this response. Smiled at her, couldn’t help himself. She was drinking brandy; even from this distance he could all but taste it.
‘I knew Stew,’ Cordover said.
‘Stew?’ Lorna narrowed her eyes.
‘Ian Stewart,’ Rebus explained. ‘The sixth Stone.’
Cordover nodded. ‘His face didn’t fit the image, so he couldn’t be in the band. Played session for them instead.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘You know he came from Fife? And Stu Sutcliffe was born in Edinburgh.’
‘And Jack Bruce was Glaswegian.’
Cordover smiled. ‘You know your stuff.’
‘I know some stuff. For example, I know that Peter’s mother is called Billie Collins. Has anyone been in touch with her?’
‘Why the hell should we care?’ Lorna said. ‘She can buy a paper, can’t she?’
‘I think Peter’s spoken with her,’ Cordover added.
‘Where does she live?’
‘St Andrews, I think.’ Cordover looked to his wife for confirmation. ‘She teaches at a school there.’
‘Haugh Academy,’ Lorna said. ‘Is she a suspect?’
Rebus was writing in his notebook. ‘Do you want her to be?’ Asked casually, not looking up.
‘The more the merrier.’
Cordover leapt from his perch. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lorna!’
‘Oh, yes,’ his wife spat back, ‘you always did have a soft spot for her. Or should that be a hard spot?’ She looked at Rebus. ‘Hugh always excused his rutting by saying he was an artist. Only he’s never been much of a sack artist, have you, sweetie?’
‘Stories, that’s all they were.’ Cordover was pacing now.
‘Speaking of stories,’ Rebus said, ‘had you heard anything about Josephine Banks?’
Lorna Grieve chuckled, cupped her hands in mock prayer. ‘Oh yes, let it be her. That would be too perfect.’
‘Roddy was a public figure, Inspector,’ Cordover said, his eyes on his wife. ‘You get all sorts of rumours. It goes with the territory.’
‘Does it?’ Lorna said. ‘How fascinating. And tell me, what rumours have you heard about me?’
Cordover stayed silent. Rebus could tell the man had some reply formed, something wounding: none, which just proves how far you’ve fallen. Something like that. But he stayed silent.
It seemed as good a time as any to toss a grenade into the room. ‘Who’s Alasdair?’
There was silence. Lorna gulped at her drink. Cordover rested against the pool table. Rebus was content to let the silence do his work.
‘Lorna’s brother,’ Cordover said at last. ‘Not that I ever knew him.’
‘Alasdair was the best of us,’ Lorna said quietly. ‘That’s why he couldn’t bear to stay.’
‘What happened to him?’ Rebus asked.
‘He ran off into the wild blue yonder.’ She made a sweeping motion with her glass. It was all ice now, nothing left to drink.
‘When?’
‘Ancient history, Monkey Man. He’s in warm climes now, and good luck to him.’ She turned towards Rebus, pointed to his left hand. ‘No wedding ring. Would I make a good detective, do you think? And you’re a drinker, too. You’ve been eyeing up my glass.’ She pouted. ‘Or is there something else you’re interested in?’
‘Please ignore her, Inspector.’
She flung the tumbler at her husband. ‘Nobody ignores me! I’m not the has-been here.’
‘That’s right, the agencies are clamouring at your door. The phone never stops ringing.’ The tumbler had missed him; he brushed ice-water from his arm.
Lorna pushed herself off the sofa. Rebus got the idea the pair were used to arguing in public, that they considered it their inalienable right as artists.
‘Hey, you two.’ A voice of reason from the doorway. ‘We can’t hear ourselves think in there. So much for soundproofing.’ It was a drawl, easy, relaxed. Peter Grief reached into the fridge for a bottle of water. ‘Besides, it’s the rock star who should be having the tantrums, not his aunt and uncle.’
Rebus and Peter Grief sat in the control room. Everyone else was upstairs in the dining room. A baker’s van had arrived, bearing trays of sandwiches and patisserie. Rebus had a little paper plate in his hand, just the one triangle of bread on it: chicken tikka filling. Peter Grief was using a finger to remove the cream from a wedge of sponge cake. It was all he’d eaten so far. He’d asked if it was all right to
have music on in the background. Music helped him to think.
‘Even when it’s a rough mix of one of my own songs.’
Which is what they were listening to. Rebus said he considered three-piece bands a rarity. Grief corrected him by mentioning Manic Street Preachers, Massive Attack, Supergrass, and half a dozen others, then added: ‘And Cream, of course.’
‘Not forgetting Jimi Hendrix.’
Grief bowed his head. ‘Noel Redding: not many bassists could keep up with James Marshall.’
Niceties dispensed with, Rebus put down his plate. ‘You know why I’m here, Peter?’
‘Hugh told me.’
‘I’m sorry about your father.’
Grief shrugged. ‘Bad career move for a politician. Now if he’d only been in my business . . .’ It had the sound of a rehearsed line, something to be used over and again as self-protection.
‘How old were you when your parents separated?’
‘Too young to remember.’
‘You were brought up by your mother?’
Grief nodded. ‘But they stayed close. You know, “for the sake of the child”.’
‘Something like that still hurts though, doesn’t it?’ Grief glanced up. There was a seam of anger in his voice. ‘How would you know?’
‘I left my wife. She had to bring up our daughter.’
‘And how’s your daughter doing?’ The anger quickly replaced by curiosity.
‘She’s okay.’ Rebus paused. ‘Now, that is. Back then . . . I’m not so sure.’
‘You are a cop, right? I mean, this isn’t some cheap trick to get me discussing my feelings with a counsellor?’
Rebus smiled. ‘If I was a counsellor, Peter, my next question would be, “Do you think you need to discuss your feelings?”’
Grief smiled, bowed his head. ‘Sometimes I wish I was like Hugh and Lorna.’
‘They don’t exactly keep things bottled up, do they?’
‘Not exactly.’ Another smile, dying slowly on his lips. Grief was tall and slender with black hair, possibly dyed, and slicked back from a semi-quiff. His face was long and angular, prominent cheekbones and dark, haunted eyes. He looked right for the part: soiled white T-shirt baggy at the sleeves. Black drainpipe denims and biker boots. Thin leather braids around both wrists and a pentangle hanging from his throat. If Rebus had been casting for bassist in a rock band, he’d have told the other applicants to head for home.
‘You know we’re trying to figure out who might have wanted to kill your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you spoke with him, did he ever . . . ? Did you get the feeling he had enemies, anyone he was worried about?’
Grief was shaking his head. ‘He wouldn’t have told me.’
‘Who would he have told?’
‘Maybe Uncle Cammo.’ Grief paused. ‘Or Grandma.’ His fingers were busy imitating the loudspeaker bass-line. ‘I wanted you to hear this song. It’s about the last time Dad and I spoke.’
Rebus listened; the rhythm wasn’t exactly funereal.
‘We had this big falling-out. He thought I was wasting my time, blamed Uncle Hugh for stringing me along.’
Rebus couldn’t make out the words. ‘So what’s the song called?’
‘Here’s the chorus coming.’ Grief began to sing along, and now Rebus could make out the words only too well.
Your heart could never conceive of beauty,
Your head could never receive the truth
And now at last I feel it’s my duty
To deliver the final reproof
Oh yes, this is the final reproof.
Hugh Cordover and Lorna Grieve walked Rebus out to his car.
‘Yes,’ Cordover said, ‘that’s probably their best song.’ He carried a cordless phone with him.
‘You know it’s about his father?’
‘I know they argued, and Peter got a song out of it.’ Cordover shrugged. ‘Does that mean it’s about his father? I think you’re being a bit too literal, Inspector.’
‘Maybe.’
Lorna Grieve was showing no ill-effects from the drink she’d consumed. She examined Rebus’s Saab as though it was a museum piece. ‘Do they still make these?’
‘The new models don’t come with gas lamps,’ Rebus told her. She smiled at him.
‘A sense of humour, how refreshing.’
‘Just one more thing . . .’ Rebus leaned into the car, came out with the Obscura album.
‘My God,’ Cordover said. ‘You don’t see many of these around.’
‘Wonder why,’ his wife muttered, staring at her photo on the cover.
‘I was going to ask if you’d sign it?’ Rebus said, bringing out a pen.
Cordover took the pen from him. ‘With pleasure. But hang on, do you want me or High Chord?’
Rebus smiled. ‘It’s got to be High Chord, hasn’t it?’
Cordover scrawled the name across the cover and made to hand the album back.
‘And the model . . . ?’ Rebus asked. She looked at him and he thought she was going to refuse. But then she took the pen and added her name, studying the cover afterwards.
‘The hieroglyphs,’ Rebus asked, ‘any idea what they mean?’
Cordover laughed. ‘Not a clue. Some guy I knew, he was into that stuff.’ Rebus was noticing that some of the hieroglyphs were actually pentangles, like the pendant Peter Grief had worn.
Lorna laughed. ‘Come on, Hugh. You were into that stuff.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘He still is. Not quite Jimmy Page’s league, but it’s why we moved to Roslin, to be near the chapel. Bloody New Age mumbo-jumbo, growing a ponytail and everything.’
‘I think the Inspector has heard enough character assassination for one day,’ Cordover said, his face growing ugly. Then the phone rang, and he turned away to answer it, sounding suddenly excited. His voice took on a transatlantic twang, forgetting all about Lorna, all about Rebus. Leaving the two of them together. She folded her arms.
‘He’s pathetic, isn’t he? What do I see in him?’
‘Not for me to say.’
She studied him. ‘So was I right? Do you drink?’
‘Only socially.’
‘You mean as opposed to antisocially?’ She laughed. ‘I can be social when I want to. It’s just that I seldom want to be when Hugh’s around.’ She glanced back to where her husband was making for the house. He was talking numbers – money or record pressings, Rebus couldn’t tell.
‘So where do you drink?’ she asked.
‘A few places.’
‘Name them.’
‘The Oxford Bar. Swany’s. The Malting.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Why is it I’m seeing bare floorboards and cigarette smoke, swearing and bluster and not many women?’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘You know them then?’
‘I feel I do. Maybe we’ll bump into one another.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I feel like kissing you. That’s probably not allowed, right?’
‘Right,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Maybe I’ll do it anyway.’ Cordover had disappeared into the house. ‘Or would that be classed as assault?’
‘Not if no charges were brought.’
She leaned forward, pecked him on the cheek. When she stepped back, Rebus saw a face at a window. Not Cordover: Peter Grief.
‘Peter’s song,’ Rebus said. ‘The one about his father. I didn’t catch the title.’
‘“The Final Reproof”,’ Lorna Grieve told him. ‘As in condemning.’
In his car, Rebus got on his mobile and asked Derek Linford how things had gone at The Exchange.
‘Roddy Grieve was whiter than white,’ Linford said. ‘No bad deals, no cock-ups, no unhappy punters. Also, none of his colleagues were out drinking with him on Sunday night.’
‘Which tells us what exactly?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘A dead end then?’
‘Not quite: I did get a hot tip for an investment. How about y
ou?’
Rebus glanced at the album on the passenger seat. ‘I’m not sure what I got, Derek. Talk to you later.’ He made another call, this time to a vinyl dealer in the city.
‘Paul? It’s John Rebus. Obscura’s Continuous Repercussions, signed by High Chord and Lorna Grieve.’ He listened for a moment. ‘It’s not mint, but it’s not bad.’ Listened again. ‘Get back to me if you can go any higher, eh? Cheers.’
He slowed the car so he could search in the glove compartment, found a Hendrix tape and slotted it home. ‘Love or Confusion’. Sometimes, you couldn’t be sure what the difference was.
Howdenhall was home to the city’s forensic science lab. Rebus wasn’t sure why Grant Hood and Ellen Wylie wanted to meet him there. Their message had been vague, hinting at some surprise. Rebus hated surprises. That kiss from Lorna Grieve . . . it hadn’t been a surprise exactly, but all the same. And if he hadn’t angled his head at the last moment, bottling out of some mouth-to-mouth . . . Jesus, and with Peter Grief watching from the window. Grief: Rebus had meant to ask about the name change. Grieve to Grief; verb to noun. But then he’d been brought up by his mother, so maybe his surname had been Collins. In which case, the change of name was still resonant, the young man laying claim to the missing half of his identity, his missed past.
Howdenhall: full of brainboxes, some of them looking barely out of their teens. People who knew about DNA and computer data. These days at St Leonard’s, you didn’t roll ink over a suspect’s fingers, you merely placed their palm to a computer pad. The prints flashed up on the screen, and Criminal Records came back to you immediately if there was a match. The process still amazed him, even after all these months.
Hood and Wylie were waiting for him in one of the meeting rooms. Howdenhall was still fairly new, and had a clean no-nonsense smell and feel to it. The large oval desk, made up of three movable sections, hadn’t had time to get scuffed or scored. The chairs were still comfortably padded. The two junior officers made to get up, but he waved them back down and seated himself across the table from them.
‘No ashtray,’ he remarked.
‘There’s no smoking, sir,’ Wylie explained.
‘I know that well enough. I just keep thinking I’ll wake up and it’ll all have been a bad dream.’ He looked around. ‘No coffee or tea either, eh?’
