I'm seen in the business community.'
'In other words, not all publicity is good publicity?'
Hood asked.
Hutton smiled at him. 'Got it in one.'
'Before we get too cosy,' Wylie interrupted, 'can I just ask how you got your job with Mr Coghill's firm.'
'I applied, same as everyone else.'
'Really?'
Hutton frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'I was just wondering if maybe your uncle put in a word, or maybe more than a word.'
Hutton rolled his eyes. 'I wondered when this would come up. Look, my mum happens to be Bryce Callan's sister, okay? It doesn't make me a criminal.'
'Are you saying your uncle's a criminal?' Wylie asked.
Hutton looked disappointed in her. 'Don't get glib. We all know what the police think of my uncle. All the rumours and insinuations. But nothing's ever been proved, has it? Never even been to a court of law. What does that say, eh? To me, it says you're wrong. It says I've worked to get where I am. Taxes, VAT and the rest: I'm cleaner than anybody. And the idea that you can walk in here and start--'
'I think we get the picture, Mr Hutton,' Hood interrupted. 'Sorry if you thought we were suggesting anything. This is a murder inquiry, which means every angle ends up being considered, no matter how insignificant.'
Hutton stared at Hood, trying to read something into that last word.
'When did you leave Mr Coghill's firm?' Wylie asked. Hutton had to think about it. 'April, May, something like that.'
'Of '79?' Hutton nodded. 'And you joined...?'
'October, 78.'
'Just the six months then? Not very long.'
'I had a better offer.'
'And what was that, sir?' Hood asked.
'I've got nothing to hide!' Hutton spat.
'We appreciate that, sir,' Wylie said, her voice soothing.
Hutton calmed quickly. 'I went to work for my uncle.'
'For Bryce Callan?' Hutton nodded.
'Doing what?' Hood asked.
Hutton took his time finishing the bottle. 'Some land development thing of his.'
'That was your big break then?' Wylie asked.
'It's how I got started, yes. But as soon as I could, I branched off on my own.'
'Yes, sir, of course.' Hood's tone said: I've worked to get where I am; but with a helping hand the size of a football field.
As they were leaving, Wylie asked one more question. 'This must be an exciting time for you?' _
'We've got plenty of ideas.'
'Sites around Holyrood?'
'The parliament's just the beginning. Out-of-town shopping, marina developments. It's astonishing how much of Edinburgh is still under-developed. And not just Edinburgh. I've got projects in Glasgow, Aberdeen, Dundee 'And there are enough clients?' Hood asked.
Hutton laughed. 'They're queuing up, pal. All we need is less red tape.'
Wylie nodded. 'Planning permission?'
At mention of the words, Hutton made the sign of the cross with the index fingers of both hands. 'The curse of the developer.'
But he could afford a final laugh as he closed his office door on them.
'Fair warning,' Rebus said as they walked up the drive, 'the mother's a bit fragile.'
'Understood,' Siobhan Clarke replied. 'So you'll be your usual charming self?'
'It's Lorna Grieve we want to talk to,' he reminded her. Then he nodded towards the Fiat Punto parked to the right of the front door. 'That's her car.' He'd called High Manor, spoken with Hugh Cordover, listening intently for any new or accusing tone, but all Cordover had done was tell him Lorna was in Edinburgh.
'I'm still not sure this is a good idea,' Siobhan was saying.
'Look,' he said, 'I've told you--'
'John, you can't go getting involved with--'
He grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her so she was facing him. 'I'm not involved!'
'You didn't sleep with her?' Siobhan was trying to keep her voice down.
'What does it matter if I did?'
'We're working a murder case. We're about to question her.'
'I'd never have guessed.'
She stared at him. 'You're hurting my shoulder.'
He released his grip, mumbled an apology.
They rang the doorbell and waited. 'How was your weekend?' Rebus asked. She just glared at him. 'Look,' he said, 'if we go in there spitting at one another, we're not going to get very far.'
She seemed to consider this. 'Hibs won again,' she said at last. 'What did you get up to?'
'I went into the office, can't say I achieved much.'
Alicia Grieve answered the door. She looked older than when Rebus had last seen her, as if she'd lived too long already and was realising the fact. Age could dupe you like that, almost its cruellest trick. You lost a loved one, and time seemed to go into fast forward, so that you withered, sometimes even died. Rebus had seen it before: fit spouses dying in their sleep only days or weeks after burying their partner. It was as if a switch had been flicked, voluntary or involuntary, you could never tell.
'Mrs Grieve,' he said. 'Remember me? DI Rebus?'
'Yes, of course.' Her voice was reedy, parched. 'And who is this?'
'DC Clarke,' Siobhan said by way of introduction. She was smiling the smile of youth when faced with the aged: sympathetic yet not quite understanding. Rebus realised that he was closer to Alicia Grieve's age than Siobhan's. He had to push that thought away.
'Can we bury Roddy? Is that why you've come?' She didn't sound hopeful; she would accept whatever they had to tell her. That was her role now in what was left of the world.
'I'm sorry, Mrs Grieve,' Rebus said. 'Just a little longer.'
She mimicked the final phrase, and added: 'Time is elastic, don't you find?'
'We're actually here to see Mrs Cordover,' Siobhan stressed, trying to draw the woman back from wherever she was headed.
'Lorna,' Rebus added.
'Is she here?' Alicia Grieve asked.
A voice from the interior: 'Of course I'm here, Mother. We were talking not two minutes ago.'
Mrs Grieve stood aside, letting them in. Lorna Grieve stood in the doorway of one of the rooms, a cardboard box in her arms.
'Hello again,' she said to Rebus, ignoring Siobhan. 'Could we have a word, do you think?' Rebus asked. He wasn't quite looking at her. She became amused, nodded towards the room she'd just left.
'I'm trying to tidy some of this crap away.' Mrs Grieve's fingers touched the back of Rebus's hand. They were as cold as a slab. 'She wants to sell my paintings. She needs the money.'
Rebus looked to Lorna, who was shaking her head.
'I want them cleaned and reframed, that's all.'
'She'll sell them,' Mrs Grieve warned. 'I know that's what she's up to.'
'Mother, for Christ's sake. I don't need money.'
'Your husband needs it. He has debts and only the last vestige of anything resembling a career.'
'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' Lorna muttered.
