'Well, they have to, or else it looks like they're snubbing him. But you don't understand, that list is weighted against whichever party gets most first-past-the-post seats.'
'I think you've lost me.'
'Even if Archie was top of the list, he probably wouldn't get in.'
Linford mulled that over; decided he still didn't get it. 'You're being very magnanimous,' he said instead.
'Am I?' She smiled at him. 'You don't understand politics. If I'm graceful in defeat, that counts for me next time. You have to learn to lose.' She shrugged again. Padded shoulders, giving some bulk to her thin frame. 'Anyway, shouldn't we be talking about Roddy Grieve?'
Linford smiled. 'You're not a suspect, Ms Mollison.'
'That's good to hear.'
'Not unless Mrs Grieve meets with some accident.'
Mollison laughed, a sudden trill which had the other drinkers looking at them. She clamped a hand over her mouth, took it away. 'God, I shouldn't laugh, should I? What if something did happen to her?'
'Such as?'
'I don't know... Say she gets hit by a car.'
'Then I'll want to talk to you again.' He opened his notebook, reached for his pen. It was a Mont Blanc; she'd commented on it earlier, looking impressed. 'Maybe I should take down your number,' he said with a smile.
The final candidate on the shortlist, Sara Bone, was a social worker in south Edinburgh. He caught up with her at a daycare centre for the elderly. They sat in the conservatory, surrounded by potted plants wilting from neglect. Linford said as much.
'Quite the opposite,' she informed him. 'They're suffering from over-attention. Everybody thinks they need a drop of water. Too much is as bad as not enough.'
She was a small woman - a shade over five feet - with a mother's face framed by a youthful haircut, short and feathered.
'Horrible,' was what she said when he asked her about Roddy Grieve's death. 'The world just seems to get worse and worse.'
'Could an MSP do anything to help?'
'I'd hope so,' she said.
'But now you're not going to get the chance?'
'Much to the relief of my clients.' She nodded towards the building's interior. 'They were all saying how much they would miss me.'
'It's nice to be wanted,' Linford said, feeling that he was wasting his time with this woman...
He called Rebus. The two met at Cramond. The normally leafy suburb had a grey, pinched look to it: winter wasn't welcome here. They stood on the pavement by Linford's BMW. Rebus, having listened to Linford's report, was thoughtful.
'How about you?' Linford asked. 'How was St Andrews?'
'Fine. I took a walk down by the seashore.'
'And?'
'And what?'
'And did you talk to Billie Collins?'
'That's why I was there.'
'And?'
'And she shed about as much light as an asbestos candle.'
Linford stared at him. 'You wouldn't tell me anyway, would you? She could confess, and I'd be the last to know.'
'It's how I work.'
'Keeping things to yourself?' Linford's voice was rising.
'You're awfully tense, Derek. Not been getting any lately?'
Linford's face flushed. 'Sod you.'
'Come on, you can do better than that.'
'I don't need to. You're not worth it.'
'Now that's a comeback.'
Rebus lit a cigarette, smoked in the uncompanionable silence. He could still see St Andrews as it had been to him nearly half a century before. He knew it represented something extraordinary, but couldn't have said what. The words didn't quite exist. It was as though loss and permanence had mingled and become some new entity. the one tasting of the other.
'Should we talk to her?'
Rebus sighed, sucked again on the cigarette. The smoke was blowing back into Linford's face. The wind, Rebus thought, is on my side. 'I suppose so,' he said at last. 'Now we're here.'
'It's good to hear such enthusiasm. I'm sure our respective bosses would be thrilled.'
'Oh, I've always cared what the brass think.' He looked at Linford. 'You don't get it, do you? I'm the best thing that could have happened to you.' Linford hooted. 'Think about it,' Rebus went on. 'Case solved, you take the credit. Case unsolved, you lay the blame on me. Either way, your boss and mine will go for it. You're their blue- eyed boy.' He flicked the cigarette on to the road. 'Every time I refuse to share information with you, you should make a note. Gives you ammo for later. Every time I piss you off or head off on my own tangent, same thing.'
'Why are you telling me this? Does pariah status give you some kind of thrill?'
'I'm not the pariah here, son. Think about it.' Rebus unbuttoned his jacket, affected a Wild West drawl. 'Now let's go visit the widow lady.'
Left Linford lurching in his wake.
The door was opened by Hamish Hall, Roddy Grieve's press officer.
'Oh, hello again,' he said, ushering them inside. It was a neat semi-detached, brick-built and of 1930s vintage. Lots of doors seemed to lead off the entrance hall. Hamish squeezed past them and they followed, through the dining room and into a recent addition, a conservatory, much smarter, Linford noted, than the one out at the daycare centre. An electric fan-heater was humming briskly in one corner. Cane furniture, including a glass-topped table, and seated at the table Seona Grieve and Jo Banks, a mound of paperwork before them. The few pot plants looked expertly tended.
'Oh, hello,' Seona Grieve said.
'Coffee?' Hamish asked. Both detectives nodded, and he headed into the kitchen.
'Sit down if you can find a space,' Seona Grieve said. Jo Banks got up and scooped newspapers and folders from a couple of the chairs. Rebus picked up one folder, examined it: In Prospect - A Briefing Pack on the Scottish Parliament for Prospective Candidates. Notes had been scribbled in most of the margins; Roddy Grieve's writing, most probably.
'And to what do we owe this pleasure?' Seona Grieve asked.
'Just a few follow-up questions,' Linford told her, easing his notebook out of his pocket.
'We heard you were stepping into your husband's shoes,' Rebus added.
'My feet are much smaller than Roddy 's,' the widow said.
'Maybe so,' Rebus went on, 'but we've not got a motive yet for his death. DI Linford here thinks maybe you've just supplied us with one.'
Linford looked ready to remonstrate, but Jo Banks beat him to it. 'You think Seona would kill Roddy, just to become an MSP? That's ludicrous!'
'Is it?' Rebus scratched his nose. 'I don't know, I tend to agree with DI Linford. It is a motive. Had you thought of running before?'
Seona Grieve straightened her back. 'You mean before Roddy was killed?'
'Yes.'
She thought about it, then nodded. 'I suppose I had, yes.'
'What stopped you?'
'I'm not sure.'
