'Of course,' Graham said. He'd motioned for them to sit, having taken the chair at the top of the table. He brushed non-existent specks from one trouser leg. 'So, if you'd care to give me the background?'
'It's simple enough, sir,' Grant Hood said, pulling his chair in. 'DS Wylie and myself are carrying out a murder inquiry.' Graham raised an eyebrow, and pressed his hands together. 'As part of that inquiry, we need to talk to your boss.'
'Would you care to elaborate?'
Wylie took over. 'Not really, sir. You see, in a case like this, we don't really have the time. We came here out of common courtesy. If Mr Hutton won't see us, then we'll just have to take him down to the station.' She shrugged, her piece said.
Hood glanced at her, then back to Graham. 'What DS Wylie says is correct, sir. We have the powers to question Mr Hutton whether he likes it or not.'
'I can assure you, it's nothing like that.' Graham held both hands up in a pacifying gesture. 'But he does happen to be in a meeting, and these things can take time.'
'We did phone ahead to warn we were coming.'
'And we do appreciate that, DS Wylie. But something came up. This is a multimillion-pound business, and the unexpected does arise from time to time. Decisions sometimes have to made immediately; millions can depend on it. You do see that, don't you?'
'Yes, sir, but as you can see, there's nothing you can help us with,' Wylie said. 'You weren't working for a man called Dean Coghill in 1978, were you? I'd guess that twenty years ago, you were still busy in the school playground, trying to look up girls' skirts and comparing plook collections with your pals. So if Mr Hutton would deign to join us...' She nodded towards a camera in the corner of the ceiling. 'We'd be very grateful.'
Hood began to apologise for his partner's behaviour. Graham's cheeks had coloured, and he didn't seem to have an answer. Then a voice broke in, coming from a loudspeaker somewhere. 'Show the officers the way.'
Graham rose to his feet, avoiding their eyes. 'If you'll follow me,' he said. He took them into the corridor, pointed along it.
'Second door on the left.' Then he turned and walked away; his small victory over them.
'Think this corridor's bugged, too?' Wylie asked in an undertone. 'Who knows?'
'He got a fright, didn't he? Wasn't expecting the one in the skirt to play tough.' Hood watched a grin spread across her face. 'And as for you...'
'What about me?'
She looked at him. 'Apologising on my behalf.'
'That's what the 'good' cop does.'
They knocked at the door, then opened it unasked. An anteroom, with a secretary already rising from her desk. She opened the inner door, and they entered Barry Hutton's office.
The man himself was standing just inside, legs slightly apart and hands behind his back.
'I thought you were a bit rough on John.' He shook Wylie's hand. 'All the same, I admire your style. If you want something, don't let anyone stand in your way.'
It wasn't that big an office, but the walls dripped modern art, and there was a bar in one corner, which is where Hutton was headed.
'Can I get you something?' He pulled a bottle of Lucozade out of the fridge. They shook their heads. He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a swallow. 'I'm addicted,' he said. 'Used to be, when I was a kid you only ever got the stuff when you were ill. Do you remember that? Come on, let's sit here.'
He led them to a cream leather sofa, and took the matching chair opposite. The portable TV in front of them was actually a monitor. It was still showing a view of the boardroom table.
'Cute, isn't it?' Hutton said. He picked up a remote. 'Look, I can move it around, zoom in on faces...'
'And it has sound, too?' Wylie guessed. 'So you know what we want to talk to you about.'
'Something about a murder?' Hutton took another swig of his addiction. 'I heard Dean Coghill was dead, but that was natural causes, wasn't it?'
'Queensberry House,' Grant Hood stated. 'Oh, right: the body behind the wall?'
'In a room renovated by Dean Coghill's team between 1978 and 79.'
'And?'
'And that's when the body got walled up.' Hutton looked from one officer to the other. 'You're kidding?'
Wylie unfolded the list of people who'd worked in the building. 'Recognise these names, sir?'
Hutton ended up smiling. 'Brings back memories.'
'None of them went missing?' The smile vanished. 'No.'
'Was anyone else working there, casual labour maybe?'
'Not that I remember. Not unless you're counting me.'
'We did notice your name was a late addition.'
Hutton nodded. He was short, maybe five-eight, skinny but with a developing paunch and jowls. His black suit was shiny new, and all three buttons were done up. His black brogues gleamed, the leather not yet broken in. He had small, dark, deep-set eyes, his brown hair cut above the ears but with prominent sideburns. Wylie knew she wouldn't pick him out in a crowd as being especially rich or influential.
'Work experience. I fancied the building trade. Looks like I made the right decision.' His smile invited them to join in his good fortune. Neither detective did so.
'Do you ever have any dealings with Peter Kirkwall?'
Wylie asked.
'He's a builder, I'm a developer. Different game.'
'That doesn't quite answer the question.' Hutton smiled again. I'm wondering why you asked it.' 'Just that we talked to him, too. His office was full of plans, photos of his projects...'
'And mine isn't? Maybe Peter's got an ego, and I haven't.'
'You do know him then?'
Hutton acknowledged as much with a shrug. 'I've used his firm occasionally. What's that got to do with your body?'
'Nothing,' Wylie conceded. 'Just curious.' All the same, she sensed she'd touched a nerve.
'So,' Grant Hood said, 'getting back to Queensberry House 'What can I tell you? I was eighteen, nineteen. They had me mixing concrete, all the unskilled jobs. It's called learning from the floor up.'
'You remember that room, though? The fireplaces?'
Hutton nodded. 'Putting in a DPC, yes. I was there when we opened the wall'
'Was anyone told about the fireplaces?'
'To be honest, I don't think so.'
'Why not?'
'Well, Dean had the feeling they'd want to send in the historians, which would knock our schedule on the head. Something about not getting paid till the work was complete. If we were hanging around waiting for them to do their stuff, it'd be time lost.'
'So you just covered it up again?'
'Must've done. I came to work one morning, and the wall was back up.'
'Do you know who did it?'
'Dean himself maybe, or Harry Connors. Harry was pretty close to Dean, like a right-hand man.' He nodded. 'I see what you're getting at, though: whoever covered that fireplace over had to know there was a body inside.'
'Any theories?' Wylie asked. Hutton shook his head. 'You must have read about the case in the papers, Mr Hutton. Any reason you didn't come forward?'
'I didn't know the body dated from back then. That fireplace could have been opened and closed again a dozen times since we worked there.'
'Any other reason?'
Hutton looked at her. 'I'm a businessman. Any stories about me get into the press, it can affect how
