house, but the
locus
had to be secured. He knew the rules: barging in meant leaving traces.
‘Doctor says the back of the skull was cracked open.’ He nodded to himself, looked towards Rebus. ‘Coincidence?’
Hands in pockets, Rebus shrugged. He was sucking on only his second cigarette of the morning. He knew Linford was tasting something: he was tasting fast-track. Not content with his own momentum, he was seeing a case, a big case. He was seeing himself at its heart, with media attention, the public clamouring for a result. A result he thought
he
could deliver.
‘He was running in my constituency,’ Linford was saying. ‘I’ve got a flat in Dean Village.’
‘Very nice.’
Linford stifled an embarrassed laugh.
‘It’s okay,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Times like this, we all tend to talk crap. It fills the spaces.’
Linford nodded.
‘Tell me,’ Rebus went on, ‘just how many murders have you worked?’
‘Is this where you pull the old I’ve-seen-more-corpses-than-you’ve-had-hot-dinners routine?’
Rebus shrugged again. ‘Just interested.’
‘I wasn’t always at Fettes, you know.’ Linford shuffled his feet. ‘Christ, I wish they’d get on with it.’ The body was still
in situ
, the body of Roddy Grieve. They knew his identity because a gentle search of his pockets hadproduced a wallet. But they knew, too, because his face was recognisable, even though the light had gone from its eyes. They knew because Roddy Grieve was
somebody
, and seemed so even in death.
He was a Grieve, part of ‘the clan’, as they’d come to be called. Once, a keen interviewer had gone so far as to name them Scotland’s first family. Which was nonsense.
Everyone knew Scotland’s first family was the Broons.
‘What are you smiling at?’
‘Nothing.’ Rebus nipped his cigarette and returned it to the packet. He couldn’t know for sure whether stubbing it out would have contaminated the crime scene. But he knew the importance of Scene of Crime work. And he felt the sudden pang of desire for a drink, the drink he’d arranged with Bobby Hogan just before Friday’s discovery. A long bar-room session of reminiscence and tall tales, with no bodies buried in walls or dumped in summer houses. A drink in some parallel universe where people had stopped being cruel to each other.
And speaking of mental torture, here came Chief Superintendent Farmer Watson. He had Rebus in his sights, and his eyes had narrowed, as though taking aim.
‘Don’t blame me, sir,’ Rebus said, getting his retaliation in first.
‘Christ, John, can’t you stay out of trouble for one minute?’ It was only half a joke. Watson’s retirement was a couple of months away. He’d already warned Rebus that he wanted a quiet canter downhill. Rebus held up his hands in surrender and introduced his boss to Derek Linford.
‘Ah, Derek.’ The Chief Super held out a hand. ‘Heard of you, of course.’ The two men shook; kept shaking as they sized one another up.
‘Sir,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘DI Linford and I . . . we feel this should be our case. We’re looking at parliamentarysecurity, and this is a prospective MSP who’s been killed.’
Watson seemed to ignore him. ‘Do we know how he died?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ Linford was quick to answer. Rebus was impressed at the way he had changed. He was all fawning inferior now, eager to please the Big Chief. It was calculated, of course, but Rebus doubted Watson would notice, or even want to notice.
‘Doctor mentioned head trauma,’ Linford added. ‘Curiously, we’re getting a similar result from the body in the fireplace. Skull fracture and stab wound.’
Watson nodded slowly. ‘No stab wounds here, though.’
‘No, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘But all the same.’
Watson looked at him. ‘You think I’d let you
near
a case like this?’
Rebus shrugged.
‘I can show you the fireplace,’ Linford told Watson. Rebus wondered if he was trying to defuse the situation. Linford could
locus
had to be secured. He knew the rules: barging in meant leaving traces.
‘Doctor says the back of the skull was cracked open.’ He nodded to himself, looked towards Rebus. ‘Coincidence?’
Hands in pockets, Rebus shrugged. He was sucking on only his second cigarette of the morning. He knew Linford was tasting something: he was tasting fast-track. Not content with his own momentum, he was seeing a case, a big case. He was seeing himself at its heart, with media attention, the public clamouring for a result. A result he thought
he
could deliver.
‘He was running in my constituency,’ Linford was saying. ‘I’ve got a flat in Dean Village.’
‘Very nice.’
Linford stifled an embarrassed laugh.
‘It’s okay,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Times like this, we all tend to talk crap. It fills the spaces.’
Linford nodded.
‘Tell me,’ Rebus went on, ‘just how many murders have you worked?’
‘Is this where you pull the old I’ve-seen-more-corpses-than-you’ve-had-hot-dinners routine?’
Rebus shrugged again. ‘Just interested.’
‘I wasn’t always at Fettes, you know.’ Linford shuffled his feet. ‘Christ, I wish they’d get on with it.’ The body was still
in situ
, the body of Roddy Grieve. They knew his identity because a gentle search of his pockets hadproduced a wallet. But they knew, too, because his face was recognisable, even though the light had gone from its eyes. They knew because Roddy Grieve was
somebody
, and seemed so even in death.
He was a Grieve, part of ‘the clan’, as they’d come to be called. Once, a keen interviewer had gone so far as to name them Scotland’s first family. Which was nonsense.
Everyone knew Scotland’s first family was the Broons.
‘What are you smiling at?’
‘Nothing.’ Rebus nipped his cigarette and returned it to the packet. He couldn’t know for sure whether stubbing it out would have contaminated the crime scene. But he knew the importance of Scene of Crime work. And he felt the sudden pang of desire for a drink, the drink he’d arranged with Bobby Hogan just before Friday’s discovery. A long bar-room session of reminiscence and tall tales, with no bodies buried in walls or dumped in summer houses. A drink in some parallel universe where people had stopped being cruel to each other.
And speaking of mental torture, here came Chief Superintendent Farmer Watson. He had Rebus in his sights, and his eyes had narrowed, as though taking aim.
‘Don’t blame me, sir,’ Rebus said, getting his retaliation in first.
‘Christ, John, can’t you stay out of trouble for one minute?’ It was only half a joke. Watson’s retirement was a couple of months away. He’d already warned Rebus that he wanted a quiet canter downhill. Rebus held up his hands in surrender and introduced his boss to Derek Linford.
‘Ah, Derek.’ The Chief Super held out a hand. ‘Heard of you, of course.’ The two men shook; kept shaking as they sized one another up.
‘Sir,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘DI Linford and I . . . we feel this should be our case. We’re looking at parliamentarysecurity, and this is a prospective MSP who’s been killed.’
Watson seemed to ignore him. ‘Do we know how he died?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ Linford was quick to answer. Rebus was impressed at the way he had changed. He was all fawning inferior now, eager to please the Big Chief. It was calculated, of course, but Rebus doubted Watson would notice, or even want to notice.
‘Doctor mentioned head trauma,’ Linford added. ‘Curiously, we’re getting a similar result from the body in the fireplace. Skull fracture and stab wound.’
Watson nodded slowly. ‘No stab wounds here, though.’
‘No, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘But all the same.’
Watson looked at him. ‘You think I’d let you
near
a case like this?’
Rebus shrugged.
‘I can show you the fireplace,’ Linford told Watson. Rebus wondered if he was trying to defuse the situation. Linford could
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