Rebus. 'It wasn't easy, growing up a Grieve.'
He almost thought she'd said growing up aggrieved. Alicia took a key from her cardigan pocket, unlocked the door to her studio. It was just one room inside, the stone walls whitewashed and spattered with paint. Paint on the floor, too. Three easels of different sizes. Threads of cobweb hanging from the ceiling. And against one wall, a series of portraits, head and neck only, the canvasses of varying size. The same man, caught at different stages of his life.
'Good God,' Lorna gasped, 'it's Alasdair.' She started sorting through the portraits; there were over a dozen.
'I imagine him growing, ageing,' Alicia said quietly. 'I see him in my mind and then I paint him.'
Fair-haired, sad-eyed. A troubled man, despite the smiles the artist had given him. And nothing at all like Chris Mackie.
'You never said anything.' Lorna had picked up one of the paintings to study it more closely. Her finger brushed the shadowing of cheekbones.
'You'd have been jealous,' her mother said. 'No good denying it.' She turned to Rebus. 'Alasdair was my favourite, you see. And when he ran away...' She looked at her own work. 'Maybe this was my way of explaining it.' When she turned back, she saw that Siobhan was still holding the photographs. 'May I?' She took them, held them up to her face.
Recognition lit up her eyes. 'Where is he?'
'You know him?' Siobhan asked.
T need to know where he is.'
Lorna had put down the portrait. 'He killed himself, Mother. The tramp who left all the money.'
'Who is he, Mrs Grieve?' Rebus asked.
Alicia's hands were shaking as she went through the photos again. 'I've been so wanting to talk to him.' There were tears in her eyes. She wiped them with her wrist. Rebus had taken a step forward.
'Who is it, Alicia? Who's the man in the photographs?'
She looked at him. 'His name's Frederick Hastings.'
'Freddy?' Lorna came over to look. She pried the police photo from her mother's fingers.
'Well?' Rebus asked.
'I suppose it could be. It's twenty years since I last laid eyes on him.'
'But who was he?' Siobhan asked.
Suddenly Rebus remembered. 'Alasdair's business partner?'
Lorna was nodding.
Rebus turned to Siobhan. She looked puzzled.
'You say he's dead?' Alicia asked. Rebus nodded. 'He'd have known where Alasdair is. Those two were inseparable. Maybe there's an address amongst his belongings.'
Lorna was looking at the other photos, the ones of 'Chris Mackie' at the hostel. 'Freddy Hastings a tramp.' Her laughter was a sudden explosion in the room.
'I don't think there was any address,' Siobhan was telling Alicia Grieve. 'I've been through his effects several times.'
'Maybe we'd best go back to the house,' Rebus announced. Suddenly, he had a lot more questions to ask.
Lorna made another pot of tea, but this time fixed herself a drink, half-and-half whisky and spring water. She'd made the offer, but Rebus had turned it down. Her eyes were on him as she took the first sip.
Siobhan had her notebook out, pen ready.
Lorna exhaled; the fumes wafted all the way to where Rebus was sitting. 'We thought they'd gone off together,' she began.
'Utter nonsense,' her mother interrupted.
'Okay, you didn't think they were gay.'
'They disappeared at the same time?' Siobhan asked.
'Looked like. After Alasdair had been gone a few days, we tried contacting Freddy. No sign of him.'
'Was he reported as a missing person?'
Lorna shrugged. 'Not by me.'
'Family?'
'I don't think he had any.' She looked to her mother for confirmation.
'He was an only child,' Alicia said. 'Parents died within a year of one another.'
'Left him some money, most of which I thought he'd lost.'
'They both lost money,' Alicia added. 'That's why Alasdair ran off, Inspector. Bad debts. He was too proud to ask for help.'
'But not too proud to clear off,' Lorna couldn't help saying. Her mother fixed her with a glare.
'When was this?' Rebus asked.
'Some time in '79.' Lorna looked to her mother for confirmation.
'Halfway through March,' the old woman said.
Rebus and Siobhan locked eyes. March '79: Skelly.
'What sort of business did they have?' Siobhan asked, keeping her voice under control.
'Their last foray was into property.' Lorna shrugged again. 'I don't know much more than that. Probably bought places they couldn't sell on.'
'Land development?' Rebus guessed. 'Would that be it?'
'I don't know.'
Rebus turned to Alicia, who shook her head. 'Alasdair was very private in some ways. He wanted us to think he was so capable... so self-sufficient.'
Lorna got up to refill her glass. 'My mother's way of saying he was hopeless at most things.'
'Unlike you, I suppose,' Alicia snapped.
'If they ran off because they were in debt,' Siobhan said, 'how come Mr Hastings had nearly half a million pounds in a briefcase a year or so on?'
'You're the detectives, you tell us.' Lorna sat down again.
Rebus was thoughtful. 'All this stuff about the two men's business failings, is there anything to back it up, or is it another clan myth?'
'What are you suggesting?'
'It's just that we could do with a few solid facts in this case.
'What case?' The alcohol was kicking in; Lorna's voice had turned combative, her cheeks tinged with red. 'You're supposed to be investigating Roddy's murder, not Freddy's suicide.'
'The Inspector thinks they may be linked,' Alicia said, nodding at her own deduction.
'What makes you say that, Mrs Grieve?' Rebus asked.
'Freddy was interested in us, you say. Do you think he could have killed Roddy?'
'Why would he do that?'
'I don't know. Something to do with the money, perhaps.'
'Did Roddy and Freddy know one another?'
'They met a few times, when Alasdair brought Freddy to the house. Maybe other times, too.'
'So if Roddy met Freddy again after twenty years, you think he'd have recognised him?'
'Probably.'
'I didn't,' Lorna said, 'when you showed me the photos.'
Rebus looked at her. 'No, you didn't.' He was thinking: or did you? Why had she handed the photos back to Siobhan rather than passing them to her mother?
'Did Mr Hastings have an office?'
Alicia nodded. 'In Canongate, not far from Alasdair's flat.'
'Can you remember the address?'
She recited it, seeming pleased that she still had the ability.
'And his home?' Siobhan was writing in her notebook.
