'Don't you get cheeky with me, my girl!' Mrs Grieve's voice was trembling. Her fingers still held Rebus's hand. They were talons; fleshless claws.
Lorna sighed. 'What do you two want anyway? I hope you're here to arrest me; anything would be better than this.'
'You can always go home!' her mother shrieked.
'And leave you here to wallow in self-pity? Oh no, Mummy dearest, we can't have that.'
'Seona looks after me.'
'Seona's too busy with her political career,' Lorna spat. 'She doesn't need you now. She's found a more useful cause.'
'You're a monster.'
'Which must make you Dr Frankenstein, I presume?'
'Vile body.'
'Yes, on you go. You'll be telling us you knew him next.' She turned to Rebus and Siobhan. 'Evelyn Waugh,' she explained. 'Vile Bodies.'
'Putrid. You threw yourself at every man you ever met.'
'I still do,' Lorna snarled. She didn't so much as glance at Rebus. 'While you only ever threw yourself at Father, because you knew he'd be useful to you. And once your reputation was established, that was, in a phrase, the end of the affair.'
'How dare you.' Cold rage, the rage of a much younger woman.
Siobhan was touching Rebus's sleeve, edging back towards the door. Lorna saw what she was doing. 'Oh look, we're frightening off the filth! Isn't that precious, Mother? Did you realise we possessed such power?' She started to laugh. A few moments later, Alicia Grieve joined her.
Rebus's thought: it's a fucking mad house. Then he realised that this was normal behaviour for mother and daughter: fighting and spitting the prelude to catharsis. They'd been in the public's eye so long, they'd become actors in their own melodrama; played out their quarrels as though each one had measure and meaning.
Scenes from family life.
Bloody hell.
Lorna was wiping an imaginary tear from her eye, still cradling the paintings. 'I'll put these back,' she said.
'No,' said her mother, 'leave them in the hall with the others.' She pointed to where a dozen or so framed paintings sat against the wall. 'You're right, we'll have them looked at: cleaned up, maybe a few new frames.'
'We should get an insurance quote while we're at it.' Her mother was about to interrupt, so Lorna went on quickly. 'That's not so I can sell them. But if they were stolen...'
Alicia seemed about to argue, but sucked in a deep breath and just nodded. The paintings were laid with the others. Lorna stood up again, brushing her hands free of dust.
'Must be forty years since you painted some of these.'
'You're probably right. Maybe even longer.' Alicia nodded. 'But they'll survive long after I'm gone. It's just that they won't mean the same.'
'How's that?' Siobhan felt compelled to ask.
Alicia looked at her. 'They mean things to me which they never can to anyone else.'
'That's why they're here,' Lorna explained, 'rather than on some collector's walls.'
Alicia Grieve nodded. 'Meaning is precious. The personal is all we have; without it, we're animals, pure and simple.' She suddenly perked up, her hand dropping from Rebus's. 'Tea,' she barked, clapping her hands together. 'We must all have some tea.'
Rebus was wondering if there was any chance of a tot of whisky on the side.
They sat in the sitting room, making small talk while Lorna coped in the kitchen. She brought in a tray, started pouring.
'I'm bound to have forgotten something,' she said. 'Tea's not my strong point.' She looked at Rebus as she spoke, but he was focused on the fireplace. 'Something stronger, Inspector? I seem to remember you enjoy a malt.'
'No, I'm fine, thank you,' he felt compelled to say.
'Sugar,' Lorna said, studying the tray. 'Told you.' She made for the door, but Rebus and Siobhan announced that neither of them took it, so she returned to her seat. There were crumbly digestives on a plate. They turned down the offer, but Alicia took one, dunking it into her tea, where it broke into pieces. They ignored her as she fished the morsels out, popping them into her mouth.
'So,' Lorna said at last, 'what brings you to Happy Acres?'
'It might be something or nothing,' Rebus said. 'DC Clarke has been investigating the suicide of a homeless person. It looks like he was very interested in your family.'
'Oh?'
'And the fact of his suicide, so soon after the murder...'
Lorna sat forward in her chair. She was looking at Siobhan. 'This wouldn't be the millionaire tramp by any chance?'
Siobhan nodded. 'Though he wasn't quite a millionaire.'
Lorna turned to her mother. 'You remember me telling you?'
Her mother nodded, but appeared not to have been listening. Lorna turned back to Siobhan. 'But what's it got to do with us?'
'Maybe nothing,' Siobhan conceded. 'The deceased was calling himself Chris Mackie. Does that name mean anything?'
Lorna thought hard, then shook her head. 'We have some photos,' Siobhan said, handing then over. She glanced at Rebus.
Lorna studied the photos. 'Grim-looking creature, isn't he?'
Siobhan was still looking at Rebus, willing him to ask the question.
'Mrs Cordover,' he said, 'there's no easy way to ask this.'
She looked at him. 'Ask what?'
Rebus took a deep breath. 'He's a lot older... been living rough.' He dived in. 'It couldn't be Alasdair. could it?'
'Alasdair?' Lorna took another look at the top photo. 'What the hell are you talking about?' She looked towards her mother, who seemed to have turned whiter than ever. 'Alasdair's got fair hair, nothing like this.' Alicia's hand was reaching out, but Lorna passed the photos back to Siobhan. 'What are you trying to do? This man's nothing like Alasdair, nothing like him at all.'
'People can change in twenty years,' Rebus said quietly.
'People can change overnight,' she retorted coldly, 'but that's not my brother. What made you think it was?' Rebus shrugged. 'A hunch.'
'I'll show you Alasdair,' Alicia Grieve said, rising to her feet. She put her cup down on the table. 'Come with me, and I'll show you him.'
They followed her into the kitchen. The glass-fronted china cabinet was full, and piles of clean crockery covered the worktops, awaiting space that would never be there. The sink was full of dirty dishes. An ironing board was piled with clothes. A radio was playing softly: some classical station.
'Bruckner,' Alicia said, unlocking the back door. 'They always seem to be playing Bruckner.'
'Her studio,' Lorna explained as they followed Alicia into the garden. It was overgrown now, untended, but the notion of the garden it had once been was still there. A free-standing swing, its pipework corroded. A stone urn, waiting to be put upright on its plinth. The leaves on the lawn had turned to mulch, making progress difficult. And at the far end of the garden, a stone outhouse. 'The servants' quarters?' Rebus guessed. 'I suppose so,' Lorna said. 'It was our secret place when we were kids. Then Mother turned it into a studio, and we were locked out.' She was watching her mother lead the way, the old woman's back stooped. 'Time was, Father and she painted in the same room - his studio's in the attic' She pointed back to two skylights in the roof. 'Then Mother decided she needed her own space, her own light. She was locking him out of her life, too.' She looked at
