'I'd have preferred Leith myself,' Rebus said.
Grieve looked interested. 'Why's that then?'
'Traffic's bad enough in the city as it is. Besides,' Rebus went on, 'it would have saved the working girls having to tramp all the way to Holyrood to ply their trade.'
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.
