body just yet.’
She stared at him with eyes he’d stared at a thousand times in newspapers and magazines. Lorna Grieve: her modelling name. She wasn’t yet fifty, but was closing in on it fast. Rebus had first come across her towards the end of the sixties, when she’d have been in her late teens. She’d dated rock stars, was rumoured to have caused the break-up of at least one successful band. She’d been in
Melody Maker
and
NME
. Long straw-blond hair back then, and thin to the point of emaciation. She’d filled outquite a bit, and her hair was shorter, darker. But there was still something about her, even in this place, at this time.
‘We’re his bloody family,’ she snapped.
‘Please, Lorna,’ her sister-in-law cautioned.
‘Well, we are, aren’t we? Last thing we need is some jumped-up little squirt with a clipboard telling us—’
‘I think maybe you’re confusing me with the staff here,’ Rebus cut in.
She looked at him again, eyes narrowing. ‘Then just who the hell are you?’
‘He’s the policeman,’ Seona Grieve explained. ‘He’ll be the one who looks into . . .’ But she couldn’t find the words, and the sentence died softly with an exhalation.
Lorna Grieve snorted, pointed towards Derek Linford, who had seated himself next to the mother, Alicia. He was leaning towards her, his hand touching the back of hers. ‘That’, Lorna informed them, ‘is the officer who’ll be investigating Roddy’s murder.’ She squeezed Seona’s shoulder. ‘
He
’s the one we should be talking to,’ she said. Then, with a final glance towards Rebus, ‘Not his monkey.’
Rebus watched her move back towards the chairs. Beside him, the widow spoke so softly he didn’t catch it.
‘Sorry,’ she repeated.
He smiled, nodded. There were a dozen platitudes scrawled and waiting in his head. He rubbed a hand across his forehead to erase them.
‘You’ll want to ask us questions,’ she said.
‘When you’re ready.’
‘He didn’t have any enemies . . . not really.’ She seemed to be speaking to herself. ‘That’s what they always ask on TV, isn’t it?’
‘We’ll get round to it.’ He was watching Lorna Grieve, who was crouched in front of her mother. Linford was looking at her, drinking her in. The main door opened, a head appearing.
‘Somebody order a taxi?’
Rebus watched as Derek Linford escorted Alicia Grieve all the way out. It was a shrewd move: not the widow, but the matriarch. Linford knew power when he saw it.
They gave the family a few hours, then drove to Ravelston Dykes.
‘What do you reckon then?’ Linford asked. From his tone, he might have been asking what Rebus thought of the BMW.
Rebus just shrugged. Between them, they’d managed to sort out a Murder Room at St Leonard’s, it being the closest station to the
locus
. Not that it was a murder inquiry yet, but they knew it would be, just as soon as the autopsy was finished. Calls had gone out to Joe Dickie and Bobby Hogan. Rebus had also hooked up with Grant Hood and Ellen Wylie, neither of whom objected to the idea of working together on the Skelly case.
‘It’ll be a challenge,’ both had said, independently of one another. Their bosses would have the final say, but Rebus didn’t foresee problems. He’d told Hood and Wylie to get together, thrash out a plan of attack.
‘And who do we report to?’ Wylie had asked.
‘Me,’ he’d told her, making sure Linford wasn’t in earshot.
The BMW eased down into second as they approached an amber light. Had Rebus been driving, he’d have accelerated, probably just missing red. Maybe not on his own, but with a passenger – he’d have done it to impress. He’d have laid money on Linford doing it, too. The BMW stopped at the lights. Linford applied the handbrake and turned towards him.
‘Investment analyst, Labour candidate, high-profile family. What do you think?’
Rebus shrugged again. ‘I’ve seen the newspaper stories, same as you. Some people
She stared at him with eyes he’d stared at a thousand times in newspapers and magazines. Lorna Grieve: her modelling name. She wasn’t yet fifty, but was closing in on it fast. Rebus had first come across her towards the end of the sixties, when she’d have been in her late teens. She’d dated rock stars, was rumoured to have caused the break-up of at least one successful band. She’d been in
Melody Maker
and
NME
. Long straw-blond hair back then, and thin to the point of emaciation. She’d filled outquite a bit, and her hair was shorter, darker. But there was still something about her, even in this place, at this time.
‘We’re his bloody family,’ she snapped.
‘Please, Lorna,’ her sister-in-law cautioned.
‘Well, we are, aren’t we? Last thing we need is some jumped-up little squirt with a clipboard telling us—’
‘I think maybe you’re confusing me with the staff here,’ Rebus cut in.
She looked at him again, eyes narrowing. ‘Then just who the hell are you?’
‘He’s the policeman,’ Seona Grieve explained. ‘He’ll be the one who looks into . . .’ But she couldn’t find the words, and the sentence died softly with an exhalation.
Lorna Grieve snorted, pointed towards Derek Linford, who had seated himself next to the mother, Alicia. He was leaning towards her, his hand touching the back of hers. ‘That’, Lorna informed them, ‘is the officer who’ll be investigating Roddy’s murder.’ She squeezed Seona’s shoulder. ‘
He
’s the one we should be talking to,’ she said. Then, with a final glance towards Rebus, ‘Not his monkey.’
Rebus watched her move back towards the chairs. Beside him, the widow spoke so softly he didn’t catch it.
‘Sorry,’ she repeated.
He smiled, nodded. There were a dozen platitudes scrawled and waiting in his head. He rubbed a hand across his forehead to erase them.
‘You’ll want to ask us questions,’ she said.
‘When you’re ready.’
‘He didn’t have any enemies . . . not really.’ She seemed to be speaking to herself. ‘That’s what they always ask on TV, isn’t it?’
‘We’ll get round to it.’ He was watching Lorna Grieve, who was crouched in front of her mother. Linford was looking at her, drinking her in. The main door opened, a head appearing.
‘Somebody order a taxi?’
Rebus watched as Derek Linford escorted Alicia Grieve all the way out. It was a shrewd move: not the widow, but the matriarch. Linford knew power when he saw it.
They gave the family a few hours, then drove to Ravelston Dykes.
‘What do you reckon then?’ Linford asked. From his tone, he might have been asking what Rebus thought of the BMW.
Rebus just shrugged. Between them, they’d managed to sort out a Murder Room at St Leonard’s, it being the closest station to the
locus
. Not that it was a murder inquiry yet, but they knew it would be, just as soon as the autopsy was finished. Calls had gone out to Joe Dickie and Bobby Hogan. Rebus had also hooked up with Grant Hood and Ellen Wylie, neither of whom objected to the idea of working together on the Skelly case.
‘It’ll be a challenge,’ both had said, independently of one another. Their bosses would have the final say, but Rebus didn’t foresee problems. He’d told Hood and Wylie to get together, thrash out a plan of attack.
‘And who do we report to?’ Wylie had asked.
‘Me,’ he’d told her, making sure Linford wasn’t in earshot.
The BMW eased down into second as they approached an amber light. Had Rebus been driving, he’d have accelerated, probably just missing red. Maybe not on his own, but with a passenger – he’d have done it to impress. He’d have laid money on Linford doing it, too. The BMW stopped at the lights. Linford applied the handbrake and turned towards him.
‘Investment analyst, Labour candidate, high-profile family. What do you think?’
Rebus shrugged again. ‘I’ve seen the newspaper stories, same as you. Some people
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