bags of chips on the walk back to the caravan. Games of putting, trips to Craigtoun Park. There was a miniature train there, you sat on it and ended up in some woods with little elfin houses.
It had all seemed so easy, so innocent.
'And the drinking got worse,' she was saying, 'so I ran back here, bringing Peter with me.'
'How bad did the drinking get?'
'He did it in secret. Bottles hidden in his study.'
'Seona says he wasn't much of a drinker.'
'She would, wouldn't she?'
'Protecting his good name?'
Billie Collins sighed. 'I'm not sure I really blame Roddy. It was his family, the way they can suffocate you.' She looked at him. 'All his life, I think he dreamed of parliament. And just when it was within his reach Rebus shifted on the bench. 'I've heard he worshipped Cammo.'
'Not quite the right word, but I suppose he did want at least some of what Cammo appeared to have.'
'Meaning?'
'Cammo can be charming and ruthless. Sometimes never more ruthless than when he's being charming to your face. Roddy was attracted to that side of his brother: the ability to scheme.'
'He had more than one brother, though.'
'Oh, you mean Alasdair?'
'Did you know him?'
'I liked Alasdair, but I can't say I blame him for leaving.'
'When did he leave?'
'Late seventies. Seventy-nine, I think.'
'Do you know why he left?'
'Not really. He had a business partner, Frankie or Freddy... a name like that. Story was, they went off together.'
'Lovers?'
She shrugged. 'I didn't believe it; nor did Alicia, though I don't think she'd have been against a homosexual in the family.'
'What did Alasdair do?'
'All sorts. He owned a restaurant at one time: Mercurio's on Dundas Street. I should think it's changed names a dozen times since. He was hopeless with the staff. He dabbled in property - I think that was Frankie or Freddy's line of work also - and put money into a couple of bars. As I say, Inspector, all sorts.'
'No arts or politics then?'
She snorted. 'Lord, no. Alasdair was far too down-to-earth.' She paused. 'What has Alasdair got to do with Roddy?'
Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. 'I'm trying to get to know Roddy. Alasdair's just another piece of the puzzle.'
'Bit late to get to know him, isn't it?'
'By getting to know him, it's possible I may see who his enemies were.'
'But we don't always know who our enemies are, do we? The wolf in sheep's clothing, et cetera.'
He nodded agreement, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. But Billie Collins was getting to her feet. 'We can be at Kinkell Braes in five minutes. Might be interesting for you.'
He doubted it, but as they began to climb the steep path to the caravan site, he remembered something else from his childhood: a hole, deep and manmade, sided with concrete. It had sat to one side of the path, and he'd had to shuffle past it, fearful of falling in. Some sort of sluice? He recalled water trickling through it.
'Christ, it's still here!' He stood looking down. The hole had been fenced off from the path; didn't seem half as deep. But this was definitely the same hole. He looked to Billie Collins. 'This thing scared me half to death when I was a kid. Cliffs to one side and this on the other, I could hardly bring myself to come down this path. I had nightmares about this hole.'
'Hard to believe.' She was thoughtful. 'Or maybe not so hard.' She walked on.
He caught her up. 'How did Peter get on with his father?'
'How do fathers and sons usually get on?'
'Did they see much of one another?'
'I didn't dissuade Peter from visiting Roddy.'
'That doesn't exactly answer my question.'
'It's the only answer I can give.'
'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.'
