'The Grieve case.'
The Farmer looked at him again. 'Is that true?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Only, from what I hear, you're involving yourself in everything but.'
'I think the cases tie up.'
With the machine on, the Farmer retreated behind his desk. He sat down and motioned for Rebus to do the same, but Rebus stayed standing.
'Progress?'
'Getting there, sir.'
'And DI Linford?'
'He's working his own leads.'
'But the two of you are in contact?'
'Absolutely, sir.'
'And Siobhan's keeping out of his way?'
'He's keeping out of hers.'
The Chief Super seemed dissatisfied. 'I'm getting no end of flak.'
'From Fettes?'
'And beyond. Someone from the Scottish Secretary's office was on to me first thing this morning, wanting results.'
'Hard to run an election campaign', Rebus guessed, 'with a murder inquiry ongoing.'
The Farmer stared at him coldly. 'Almost his exact words.' His eyes narrowed a fraction. 'So what's on your mind?'
Now Rebus sat down, leaning forward, elbows on knees. 'It's Cafferty, sir.'
'Cafferty?' Whatever he'd been expecting, Watson hadn't been expecting this. 'What about him?'
'He's out of the Bar-L and back here.'
'So I've heard.'
'I want a watch kept on him.' There was silence in the room as Rebus waited in vain for the Chief Super to comment. 'I think we need to know what he's up to.'
'You know we can't do that without good reason.'
'His rep's not enough?'
'Lawyers and the media would have a field day. Besides, you know how stretched we are.'
'We'll be more stretched once Cafferty gets started.'
'Started on what?'
'I bumped into him last night.' He saw the look on his chief's face. 'Completely by accident. Thing was, he'd been browsing the Scotsman's commercial property section.'
'So?'
'So what's he after?'
'Turning a profit, maybe.'
'That's more or less what he said.'
'Well then?'
Only it wasn't the way he'd put it: a killing to be made...
'Look,' the Farmer rubbed his temples, 'let's just get on with the work at hand. Clear up the Grieve case and I'll think about Cafferty. Deal?'
Rebus nodded distractedly. The door was still ajar. A knock came, and a uniform appeared round it. 'Visitor for DI Rebus.'
'Who is it?'
'She didn't say, sir. Just told me to tell you she'd not brought any peanuts. Said you'd understand.'
Rebus understood.
Lorna Grieve was in the waiting area. He unlocked the interview room, then remembered that Freddy Hastings' stuff was piled up in there. So he told her there was a change of plan, led her across the road to the Makings.
'You have to be drunk before you can talk to me?' she teased. She was dressed to the tens: tight red leather trousers tucked into knee-high black boots; a black silk blouse with plunging neckline, black suede jacket open over it. More than enough make-up, and her hair freshly styled. She was carrying shopping bags from a couple of boutiques.
Rebus ordered fresh orange and lemonade for himself. She seemed to think her words had forced him into it, rose to the occasion by asking for a Bloody Mary.
'Mary, Queen of Scots, isn't it?' she said. 'Head chopped off, that's the bloody part.'
'I wouldn't know.'
'Never drunk one? Perfect pick-me-up.' She waited for a joke, but he didn't offer one. Nodded when the barmaid asked if she wanted Lea and Perrin's. They sat at a table inlaid with squares. She admired the pattern.
'It's so people can play chess,' Rebus explained.
'Loathsome game. Takes for ever, and at the end it all falls apart. No sense of climax.' Another pause. Again. Rebus wasn't biting.
'Cheers,' he said.
'First one today.' She took a gulp of her drink. Rebus doubted her veracity: he considered himself something of an expert, and would say she'd had at least a couple of belts already.
'So what can I do for you?' The commerce of the everyday: people wanting things from people. Sometimes it was an exchange, sometimes not.
'I want to know what's happening.'
'Happening?'
'The murder inquiry: we're being kept in the dark.'
'I don't think that's true.'
She lit a cigarette; didn't offer him one. 'Well, is anything happening?'
'We'll let you know as soon as we can.'
She straightened her back. 'That's not good enough.'
'I'm sorry.'
She narrowed her eyes. 'No, you're not. The family should be told--'
'In point of fact, it's the widow we'd talk to first.'
'Seona? You'll have to get in the queue. She's a media darling now, you know. Papers, TV... falling over themselves for a photo of the 'brave widow', carrying on where her husband left off.' She modulated her voice, imitating Seona Grieve: ' 'It's what Roddy would have wanted.' Like hell it is.'
'How do you mean?'
'Roddy may have seemed the quiet type, but there was steel in him, too. His wife running for MSP? He wouldn't have wanted that. It turns her into the martyr rather than him. He's already being forgotten about, except when she dusts off the corpse in the great cause of publicity!'
There were only the two of them in the bar; all the same, the barmaid gave a warning look.
'Easy,' Rebus said.
Her eyes were liquid with tears. Rebus got the feeling they weren't for anyone but Lorna herself: the lost one, the forgotten one. 'I've got the right to know what's going on.' Her eyes were clearing as she looked at him. 'Special rights,' she said in a low voice.
'Look,' he said, 'what happened that night--'
'I don't want to hear it.' She shook her head, steadied herself with another gulp of Bloody Mary, reducing it to ice.
'Whatever you're going through, if I can help I will, but don't resort to blackm--'
