'Not much time to put a campaign together,' she said. 'And my school's not too happy about it. They thought I was taking a bit of time off for bereavement, and now I'm telling them I might not be back ever.'
'If you get elected.'
'Well, yes, there is just that one tiny hurdle.'
She'd mentioned the word bereavement, but she didn't sound recently bereaved. No time to mourn. Maybe it was a good thing, take her mind off the murder. Linford had wondered if Seona Grieve had a motive: kill her husband, step into his shoes, fast-track to parliament. Rebus couldn't see it.
But then right now he couldn't see very much.
'So if this isn't just a social call, Inspector...?'
'Sorry, yes. I was just wondering if your husband ever received any crank letters.'
There was silence for a moment. 'No, not that I'm aware of.'
'Did he tell you that his brother had been receiving them?'
'Really? No, Roddy never mentioned it. Did Cammo tell him?'
'Apparently.'
'Well, it's news to me. Don't you think I might have mentioned it to you before now?'
'You might.'
She was irritated now, sensing that something was being insinuated, but not sure what. 'If there's nothing else, Inspector...?'
'No, just you carry on, Mrs Grieve. Sorry to have bothered you.' He wasn't, of course, and didn't sound it.
She caught the hint. 'Look, I do appreciate what you're doing, all the trouble you're taking.' Suddenly it was a politician's voice, high on effects and low on sincerity. 'And of course you should phone me whenever there's something - anything - that you think I can help with.'
'That's very kind of you, Mrs Grieve.'
She made an effort to ignore the irony in his voice. 'Now, if you've no more questions at this point...?'
Rebus didn't say anything; just put the phone down.
In the office next door, he found Siobhan. She had her receiver tucked between chin and shoulder while she wrote something down.
'Thank you,' she said. 'I really do appreciate it. I'll see you then.' She glanced up at Rebus. 'And I'll have a colleague with me, if that's all right.' She listened. 'All right, Mr Sithing. Goodbye.'
The receiver fell from her shoulder, clattered home.
Rebus looked at the apparatus. 'That's a good trick,' he said.
'It's taken a while to perfect. Tell me it's lunchtime.'
'And I'm buying.' She got her jacket from the back of the chair and slid her arms into it. 'Sithing?' he asked. 'Later this afternoon, if that suits you.' He nodded. 'He's out at the chapel. I said we'd meet him there.'
'How much grovelling did he make you do?' She smiled, remembering how she'd practically dragged Sithing out of St Leonard's. 'Plenty,' she said. 'But I've got one hell of a carrot.'
'The four hundred thou?' She nodded. 'So where are you taking me?'
'Well, there's this delightful little place up in Fife She smiled. 'Or the canteen does filled rolls.'
'It's a tough choice, but then life's full of them.'
'Fife's too far a drive anyway. Maybe next time.'
'Next time it is,' Rebus said.
They sat at the table in Mrs Coghill's kitchen. Starter was the flask of soup, but for the main course Mrs Coghill had prepared macaroni cheese. They'd been about to demur politely until she'd lifted it from the oven, bubbling and with a crisp golden crust of breadcrumbs.
'Well, maybe just a smidge.'
Having served them, she left them to it, saying she'd already eaten. 'I don't have much of an appetite these days, but a young pair like you...' She'd nodded towards the dish. 'I'll expect that to be empty next time I see it.'
Grant Hood leaned his chair back on two legs and stretched his arms. He'd managed two helpings. There was plenty still left.
Ellen Wylie lifted the serving spoon, gesturing with it towards him.
'God, no,' he said. 'It's all yours.'
'I couldn't,' she said. 'In fact, I'm not sure I can stand up, so it better be you that makes the coffee.'
'Hint taken.' He poured water into the kettle. Outside the window, the sky had darkened. The kitchen lights were on. Leaves and crisp packets were flying past. 'Hellish day,' he commented.
Wylie wasn't listening. She'd opened the black box-file, the one she'd found just before lunch. Business transactions from 6 April 1978 to 5 April 1979. Dean Coghill's tax year. She took out half the documents, slid them across the table. The rest she kept for herself. Hood cleared the plates into the sink, placing the casserole back in the oven. Then he sat down and, waiting for the kettle to boil, picked up the first sheet of paper.
Half an hour later, they got their break. A list of personnel signed up to work at Queensberry House. Eight names. Wylie jotted them into her notebook.
'All we need to do now is track them down and talk to each of them.'
'You make it sound so easy.'
Wylie slid the list towards him. 'Some of them are bound to be still in the building trade.'
Hood read the names. The first seven were typed, the eighth added in pencil. 'Does that say Hutton?' he asked.
'The last one?' Wylie checked her notebook. 'Hutton or Hatton, first name's either Benny or Barry.'
'So we talk to every building firm in Edinburgh? Try out these names on them?'
'It's either that or the phone book.'
The kettle clicked off. Hood went to see if Mrs Coghill wanted a cup. He came back with a copy of Yellow Pages, opened it at the section headed 'Builders'.
'Read the names off to me,' he said. 'We might strike lucky.'
The third name they tried, Hood said, 'Bingo,' his linger stabbing at a display ad. The name on the sheet was John Hicks, and he'd just found J. Hicks. ' 'Extensions, Renovations, Conversions',' he recited. 'Got to be worth a call.'
So Wylie got on her mobile, and they celebrated with coffee.
John Hicks' business premises were in Bruntsfield, and the man himself was working on a job in Glengyle Terrace, just off The Links. It was a garden flat, and he was busy converting the large back bedroom into two smaller units.
'Ups the rental income,' he explained. 'Some people don't seem to mind living in a rabbit hutch.'
'Or haven't got the money for anything else.'
'True enough, love.' Hicks was in his late fifties, small and wiry with a tanned dome of a head and thick black eyebrows. His eyes twinkled with humour. 'Way things are in Edinburgh,' he said, 'there won't be a decent building left that hasn't been subdivided.'
'Good for business,' Hood said.
'Oh, I'm not complaining.' He winked at them. 'You said on the phone it was to do with Dean Coghill?'
Somewhere in the flat, a door banged.
'Students,' Hicks explained. 'It pisses them off I'm here at eight, and hammering till four or five.' He picked up his hammer and thumped it a couple of times against a length of two-by-four. Wylie held out the list towards him. He peered at it, took it from her and whistled.
'Now this takes me back,' he said.
'We need to know about the others.'
He looked up. 'Why?'
'Did you read about the body found in Queensberry House?' Hicks nodded. 'It was put there late 78,
