by Ian Rankin
Cammo Grieve's laughter seemed to fill the hall. Around them, carpenters were sawing and hammering. Someone had plugged a radio in. Tinny pop tunes, a couple of the workmen whistling along. Someone hit his thumb with a hammer. His blasphemies echoed off the walls.
Cammo Grieve glanced towards Rebus. 'You don't have a very high opinion of my calling, do you, Inspector?'
'Oh, I think politicians have their uses.'
Grieve laughed again. 'Something tells me I better not ask what those uses might be.'
'You're learning. Mr Grieve.'
They walked on. Rebus, remembering snippets of information from his PPLC tours of the site, kept up a commentary for the English-based MP.
'So this will just be the debating hall?' Grieve said.
'That's right. There are six other buildings, most of them council-owned. Corporate services in one, MSPs and their staff in another. I forget the rest.'
'Committee rooms?'
Rebus nodded. 'Other side of George IV Bridge from the MSP offices. There's a tunnel connecting the two.'
'A tunnel?'
'Saves them crossing the road. We wouldn't want accidents.'
Grieve smiled. Rebus, despite himself, was warming to the man.
'There'll be a media centre, too,' Grieve suggested.
Rebus nodded. 'On the Lawnmarket.'
'Bloody media.'
'Are they still camping outside your mother's house?'
'Yes. Every time I visit, I have to field the same questions.' He looked at Rebus; all the humour had leaked from his features, leaving them pale and tired.
'Have you still no idea who killed Roddy?'
'You know what I'll say, sir.'
'Oh yes: inquiries are proceeding... all that guff.'
'It might be guff, but it's also true.'
Canmo Grieve plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his black Crombie-style coat. He looked old and somehow unfulfilled; shared something of Hugh Cordov-er's solemn disenchantment with life. As crisply dressed as he was, his skin and shoulders were slack. The mandatory white hard hat bothered him; he kept trying to make it fit properly. Rebus had the impression of an ill-fitting life.
They had climbed the stairs to the gallery. Grieve dusted off one of the benches and sat down, arranging his coat around him. Below, in the middle of the amphitheatre, two men were studying plans and pointing in different directions with their fingers.
'A portent?' Grieve asked.
The plan was spread out on a workbench, weighted each end with coffee mugs.
'What can you smell?' Rebus asked, settling himself next to the MP.
Grieve sniffed the air. 'Sawdust.'
'One man's sawdust is another's new wood. That's what I smell.'
'Where I see portents, you see a fresh start?' Grieve looked appraisingly at Rebus, who just shrugged. 'Point taken. Sometimes it's too easy to read meanings into things.' Coils of electric cable sat near them. Grieve rested his feet on one, as though on a footstool. He took off the hard hat and laid it beside him, smoothing his hair back into place.
'We can start any time you're ready,' Rebus said.
'Start what?'
'There's something you want to tell me.'
'Is there? What makes you so sure?'
'If you brought me here as a tour guide, I'll be less than chuffed.'
'Well, yes, there was something, only now I'm not so sure it's relevant.' Grieve stared up at the glass windows in the roof. 'I was getting these letters. I mean, MPs get all sorts of cranks writing to them, so I wasn't too bothered. But I did mention them to Roddy. I suppose I was warning him what he was getting into. As an MSP, he'd probably have to put up with the selfsame thing.'
'He hadn't been getting any then?'
'Well, he didn't say he had. But there was something... When I told him, I got the feeling he already knew about them.'
'What did these letters say?'
'The ones to me? Just that I'd die for being a Tory bastard. There'd be razor blades enclosed, presumably in case I ever felt suicidal.'
'Anonymous, of course?'
'Of course. Various postmarks. Whoever he is, he travels.'
'What did the police say?'
'I didn't tell them.'
'So who knows about them, apart from your brother?'
'My secretary. She opens all my mail.'
'You still have them?'
'No, they were binned the same day. Thing is, I contacted my office, and none have been received since Roddy's death.'
'Respect for the bereaved?'
Cammo Grieve looked sceptical. Td've thought the bastard would want to gloat.'
'I know what you're thinking,' Rebus said. 'You're wondering if the letter writer has something against the whole family, maybe got at Roddy because he or she couldn't get at you.'
'It has to be he surely?'
'Not necessarily.' Rebus was thoughtful. 'If any more letters arrive, let me know. And hang on to them this time.'
'Understood.' He got to his feet. 'I'm off down to London again this afternoon. If you need me, you have the office number.'
'Yes, thanks.' Rebus showed no sign of moving. 'Well, goodbye then, Inspector. And good luck.'
'Goodbye, Mr Grieve. Mind how you go.' Cammo Grieve stopped for a moment, but then carried on down the stairs. Rebus sat, staring into space, letting the sounds of hammer and saw wash over him.
Back at St Leonard's, he made a couple of phone calls. As he sat at his desk with the receiver at his ear, he sorted through the various messages left for him. Linford communicated only by notes now, and the latest said he was out interviewing people who'd been walking along Holyrood Road on the night of the murder. Hi-Ho Silvers, in his dogged way, had now identified four pubs where Roddy Grieve had been drinking - all alone - on the night he was killed. Two were in the West End, one was in Lawnmarket, and the last was the Holyrood Tavern. There was now a list of Tavern regulars, and these were the men and women Linford was canvassing. Almost certainly a waste of time, but then what was Rebus doing that was so crucial, so wonderful? Following-up hunches.
"Is that Mr Grieve's secretary?' he asked into the mouthpiece. He went on to ask her about the hate mail. From her voice, he had an impression of youth - mid-twenties to early thirties. From what she said, he pictured her as faithful to her boss. But her story didn't sound rehearsed; no reason to think that it was.
Just a hunch.
Next, he spoke to Seona Grieve. He caught her on her mobile. She sounded flustered, and he said as much.
'Not much time to put a campaign together,' she said. 'And my school's not too happy about it. They thought I was taking a bit of time off for bereavement, and now I'm telling them I might not be back ever.'
'If you get elected.'
'Well, yes, there is just that one tiny hurdle.'
She'd mentioned the word bereavement, but she didn't sound recently bereaved. No time to mourn. Maybe it was a good thing, take her mind off the murder. Linford had wondered if Seona Grieve had a motive: kill her husband, step into his shoes, fast-track to parliament. Rebus couldn't see it.
But then right now he couldn't see very much.
'So if this isn't just a social call, Inspector...?'
'Sorry, yes. I was just wondering if your husband ever received any crank letters.'
There was silence for a moment. 'No, not that I'm aware of.'
'Did he tell you that his brother had been receiving them?'
'Really? No, Roddy never mentioned it. Did Cammo tell him?'
'Apparently.'
'Well, it's news to me. Don't you think I might have mentioned it to you before now?'
'You might.'
She was irritated now, sensing that something was being insinuated, but not sure what. 'If there's nothing else, Inspector...?'
'No, just you carry on, Mrs Grieve. Sorry to have bothered you.' He wasn't, of course, and didn't sound it.
She caught the hint. 'Look, I do appreciate what you're doing, all the tr
ouble you're taking.' Suddenly it was a politician's voice, high on effects and low on sincerity. "And of course you should phone me whenever there's something - anything - that you think I can help with.'
'That's very kind of you, Mrs Grieve.'
She made an effort to ignore the irony in his voice. 'Now, if you've no more questions at this point...?'
Rebus didn't say anything; just put the phone down.
In the office next door, he found Siobhan. She had her receiver tucked between chin and shoulder while she wrote something down.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I really do appreciate it. I'll see you then.' She glanced up at Rebus. 'And I'll have a colleague with me, if that's all right.' She listened. 'All right, Mr Sithing. Goodbye.'
The receiver fell from her shoulder, clattered home.
Rebus looked at the apparatus. 'That's a good trick,' he said.
'It's taken a while to perfect. Tell me it's lunchtime.'
'And I'm buying.' She got her jacket from the back of the chair and slid her arms into it. 'Sithing?' he asked. 'Later this afternoon, if that suits you.' He nodded. 'He's out at the chapel. I said we'd meet him there.'
'How much grovelling did he make you do?' She smiled, remembering how she'd practically dragged Sithing out of St Leonard's. 'Plenty,' she said. 'But I've got one hell of a carrot.'
'The four hundred thou?' She nodded. 'So where are you taking me?'
'Well, there's this delightful little place up in Fife She smiled. 'Or the canteen does filled rolls.'
'It's a tough choice, but then life's full of them.'
'Fife's too far a drive anyway. Maybe next time.'
'Next time it is,' Rebus said.
They sat at the table in Mrs Coghill's kitchen. Starter was the flask of soup, but for the main course Mrs Coghill had prepared macaroni cheese. They'd been about to demur politely until she'd lifted it from the oven, bubbling and with a crisp golden crust of breadcrumbs.
'Well, maybe just a smidge.'
Having served them, she left them to it, saying she'd already eaten. 'I don't have much of an appetite these days, but a young pair like you...' She'd nodded towards the dish. 'I'll expect that to be empty next time I see it.'
Grant Hood leaned his chair back on two legs and stretched his arms. He'd managed two helpings. There was plenty still left.
Ellen Wylie lifted the serving spoon, gesturing with it towards him.
'God, no,' he said. 'It's all yours.'
'I couldn't,' she said. 'In fact, I'm not sure I can stand up, so it better be you that makes the coffee.'
'Hint taken.' He poured water into the kettle. Outside the window, the sky had darkened. The kitchen lights were on. Leaves and crisp packets were flying past. 'Hellish day," he commented.
Wylie wasn't listening. She'd opened the black box-file, the one she'd found just before lunch. Business transactions from 6 April 1978 to 5 April 1979. Dean Coghill's tax year. She took out half the documents, slid them across the table. The rest she kept for herself. Hood cleared the plates into the sink, placing the casserole back in the oven. Then he sat down and, waiting for the kettle to boil, picked up the first sheet of paper.
Half an hour later, they got their break. A list of personnel signed up to work at Queensberry House. Eight names. Wylie jotted them into her notebook.
'All we need to do now is track them down and talk to each of them.'
'You make it sound so easy.'
Wylie slid the list towards him. 'Some of them are bound to be still in the building trade.'
Hood read the names. The first seven were typed, the eighth added in pencil. 'Does that say Hutton?' he asked.
'The last one?' Wylie checked her notebook. 'Hutton or Hatton, first name's either Benny or Barry.'
'So we talk to every building firm in Edinburgh? Try out these names on them?'
'It's either that or the phone book.'
The kettle clicked off. Hood went to see if Mrs Coghill wanted a cup. He came back with a copy of Yellow Pages, opened it at the section headed 'Builders'.
'Read the names off to me,' he said. 'We might strike lucky.'
The third name they tried, Hood said, 'Bingo,' his linger stabbing at a display ad. The name on the sheet was John Hicks, and he'd just found J. Hicks. ' "Extensions, Renovations, Conversions",' he recited. 'Got to be worth a call.'
So Wylie got on her mobile, and they celebrated with coffee.
John Hicks' business premises were in Bruntsfield, and the man himself was working on a job in Glengyle Terrace, just off The Links. It was a garden flat, and he was busy converting the large back bedroom into two smaller units.
'Ups the rental income,' he explained. 'Some people don't seem to mind living in a rabbit hutch.'
'Or haven't got the money for anything else.'
'True enough, love.' Hicks was in his late fifties, small and wiry with a tanned dome of a head and thick black eyebrows. His eyes twinkled with humour. 'Way things are in Edinburgh,' he said, 'there won't be a decent building left that hasn't been subdivided.'
'Good for business,' Hood said.
'Oh, I'm not complaining.' He winked at them. 'You said on the phone it was to do with Dean Coghill?'
Somewhere in the flat, a door banged.
'Students,' Hicks explained. 'It pisses them off I'm here at eight, and hammering till four or five.' He picked up his hammer and thumped it a couple of times against a length of two-by-four. Wylie held out the list towards him. He peered at it, took it from her and whistled.
'Now this takes me back,' he said.
'We need to know about the others.'
He looked up. 'Why?'
'Did you read about the body found in Queensberry House?' Hicks nodded. 'It was put there late 78, early 79.'
Hicks nodded again. 'While we were working there. You think one of us...?'
'We're just following a line of inquiry, sir. Do you remember the fireplace being open?'
'Oh, yes. We were supposed to be putting in a damp-proof course. Pulled the wall open and there it was.'
'When was it closed up again?'
Hicks shrugged. 'I don't remember. Before we finished the job, but I don't actually recall it happening.'
'Who closed it up?'
'No idea.'
'Can you tell us anything about the other men on this list?'
He looked at it again. 'Well, Bert and Terry, the three of us worked together on a lot of jobs. Eddie and Tam were part-timers, cash in hand. Let's see... Harry Connors, he was a bit older, worked with Dean for donkey's. Died a couple of years later. Dod McCarthy moved to Australia.'
'Nobody walked off the job?' Wylie asked.
He shook his head. 'No, we were all present and accounted for at job's end, if that's what you're getting at.' Wylie and Hood shared a look: another theory blown out the water.
Hicks was still studying the list.
'There's one name you haven't mentioned yet,' Hood reminded him.
'Benny Hatton,' Wylie added.
'Barry Hutton,' Hicks corrected her. 'Well, Barry was just with us for a couple of jobs. Bit of a favour to his uncle, or something.'
'But there's something about him?'
'No, not really. It's just, you know...'
'What, sir?'
'Well, Barry's made it big, hasn't he? Out of all of us, he's the one who's got to the top.'
Wylie and Hood looked blank.
'You don't know him?' Hicks seemed surprised. 'Hutton Developments.'
Wylie's eyes widened. 'That's this Barry Hutton?' She looked to Hood. 'He's a land developer,' she explained.
'One of the biggest,' Hicks added. 'You can never tell with people, eh? When I knew Barry, well, he was nothing really.'
'Mr Hicks,' Hood said, 'you were saying something about his uncle?'
'Well, Barry didn't have much experience in the building game. Seemed to me his uncle must have put a word in with Dean, give the boy a bit of a start.'
'His uncle being...
?'
Hicks looked at them again; he couldn't believe they didn't know this either.
'Bryce Callan,' he explained, whacking his hammer against the two-by-four again. 'Barry belongs to Bryce's sister. Friends in high places, eh? No wonder the kid's got where he has.'
Rebus took the call on his mobile as Siobhan drove them out to Roslin. When he'd finished, he half-turned in his seat.
'That was Grant Hood. The body in the fireplace; one of the labourers working there at the time was Bryce Callan's nephew. His name's--'
'Barry Hutton,' she interrupted. 'You've heard of him?'
'He's in his thirties, single and a millionaire; of course I've heard of him. I was out with a singles group one night.' She glanced at him. 'Working, I might add. But a couple of the women were talking about eligible bachelors. There was some magazine piece on him. Good-looking, by all accounts.' She looked at Rebus again. 'But he's legit, isn't he? I mean, he runs his own business, nothing to do with his uncle.'
"No.' But Rebus was thoughtful all the same. What was it Cafferty had said about Bryce Callan? Let his family look after him, something like that.
As they drove into Roslin and approached Rosslyn Chapel, Siobhan asked why they had different spellings.
'Just another of the chapel's unfathomable mysteries.' Rebus told her. 'Probably with some conspiracy at the bottom of it all.'
'I wanted you to see it,' Gerald Sithing said as he met them in the car park. He was wearing a knee-length blue plastic mac over a tweed jacket and baggy brown cords. The mac made swishing sounds as he moved. He shook Rebus's hand, but kept his distance from Siobhan.
The chapel's exterior didn't look promising, covered as it was by a corrugated structure.
'That's only until the walls dry out,' Sithing explained. 'Then the repairs can be done.'
He led them inside. Prepared as she was, Siobhan Clarke still gave an audible gasp. The interior was as ornate as any cathedral's, its scale serving to heighten the effect of the stonework. The vaulted ceiling boasted carvings of different kinds of flowers. There were intricate pillars and stained-glass windows. The place was chilled, its doors standing open. Green discoloration on the ceiling showed there was a problem with damp.
Rebus stood in the centre aisle and tapped his foot on the stone floor. 'This is where the spaceship is, eh? Under here.'
