them...
Rebus and Derek Linford, the canteen at Fettes police HO, Friday morning. Rebus nodded towards familiar faces: Claverhouse and Ormiston, Scottish Crime Squad, tucking into bacon rolls. Linford glanced in their direction.
'You know them?'
'I'm not in the habit of nodding at strangers.'
Linford looked at the slice of toast cooling on his plate. 'How's Siobhan?'
'All the better for not seeing you.'
'She got my note?'
Rebus drained his cup. 'She hasn't said anything.'
'Is that a good sign?'
Rebus shrugged. 'Look, you're not suddenly going to be pals again. She could have reported you as a stalker, for Christ's sake. How would that have gone down in Room 279?' Rebus pointed upstairs with his thumb.
Linford's shoulders slumped. Rebus got up, fetched a fresh cup of coffee. 'Anyway,' he said, 'there's some news.' He went on to explain about the links between Freddy Hastings and Bryce Callan. The tension came back into Linford's shoulders. He was forgetting about Siobhan Clarke.
'So how does Roddy Grieve enter the equation?' he asked.
'That's what we don't know,' Rebus admitted. 'Revenge for the way his brother ripped off Callan?'
'And Callan waits twenty years?'
'I know, I can't see it either.'
Linford stared at him. 'But there's something, isn't there? Something you're not telling me?'
Rebus shook his head. 'But do yourself a favour: look into Barry Hutton. If it was Callan, he had to have someone here.'
'And Barry fits the bill?'
'He's his nephew.'
'Any evidence he's not just the Rotarian businessman?'
Rebus gestured towards Claverhouse and Ormiston. 'Ask Crime Squad, maybe they'll know.'
'From what little I know of Hutton, he doesn't fit the witness description of the man on Holyrood Road.'
'He has employees, doesn't he?'
'Chief Superintendent Watson's already warned that Hutton has 'friends': how do I go snooping without raising hackles?'
Rebus looked at him. 'You don't.'
'I don't go snooping?' Linford seemed confused.
Rebus shook his head. 'You don't not raise hackles. Look, Linford, we're cops. Sometimes you have to step out from behind the desk and get in people's faces.' Linford didn't look convinced. 'You think I'm setting you up for something?'
'Are you?'
'Would I admit it if I was?'
'I suppose not. I'm just wondering if this is some sort of... test.'
Rebus stood up, coffee untouched. 'You're getting a suspicious mind. That's good, goes with the territory.'
And what territory is that?'
But Rebus just winked, walked away with hands in pockets. Linford sat there, drumming his fingers on the table, then pushed his toast away and got up, too, walked over to where the two Crime Squad detectives were sitting.
'Mind if I join you?'
Claverhouse gestured to the spare chair. 'Any friend of John Rebus's '... is probably after some bloody big favour,' Ormiston said, completing his colleague's thought.
Linford sat in his BMW in the only spare bay at the front of Hutton Tower. Lunchtime: workers were streaming out of the building, returning later with sandwich bags, cans of soft drink. Some stood on the steps, smoking the cigarettes they couldn't smoke indoors. It hadn't been easy to find the place: he'd driven through a building site, the road surface not yet finished. A wooden board - car PARK FOR REGISTERED PERSONNEL ONLY. But One free Space, which he accepted gladly.
He'd got out of the BMW, checking the wheels were intact after the rutted and pitted roadway. Sprays of grey mud radiating from his wheel arches. Car wash at day's end. Back in the driving seat, watching the parade of sandwiches, baps and fresh fruit, he regretted not eating that breakfast toast. Claverhouse and Ormiston had whisked him upstairs, but their search on Hutton had drawn a blank other than some parking fines and the fact that his mother's brother was one Bryce Edwin Callan.
Rebus had said, in effect, that there was no subtle way to go about this, that he would have to announce himself and his intentions. He had no good reason to walk into the building and demand a line-up of every member of staff. Even if Hutton had nothing to hide, Linford couldn't see him agreeing. He'd want to know why, and when told would refuse the request outright and be on the phone to his lawyer, the newspapers, civil rights... And now that Linford thought about it, wasn't this looking more and more like a wild-goose chase dreamed up by Rebus - or maybe even Siobhan - to punish him? If he walked into trouble, they'd be the ones to profit from it.
All the same...
All the same, didn't he deserve it? And if he went along, might he be forgiven? Not that he was about to walk into the building, but surveillance... studying each employee as they left the building. It was worth an afternoon. And if Hutton himself should leave, he would follow, because if Grieve's murderer didn't work here, there was always the chance that he'd meet up with Hutton anyway.
A contract killing... revenge. No, he still didn't see it. Roddy Grieve hadn't been killed for anything in his personal or professional life - not that Linford could find. Admittedly, his family was barmy, but that in itself didn't constitute a motive. So why had he died? Had he been in the wrong place at the wrong time, seen something he shouldn't have? Or was it to do with the person he was about to become rather than the person he was? Someone hadn't wanted him as an MSP. The wife came to mind again; again he dismissed her. You didn't kill your spouse just so you could stand for parliament.
Linford rubbed his temples. The smokers on the steps were throwing him looks, wondering who he was. Eventually, they might tell Security, and that would be that. But now a car was approaching, stopping. Its driver sounded his horn, gesturing towards Linford. And now he was getting out, stomping towards the BMW. Linford slid his window down.
'That's my space you're in, so if you wouldn't mind...?'
Linford looked around. 'I don't see any signs.'
'This is staff parking.' A glance at a wristwatch. 'And I'm late for a meeting.', Linford looked towards where another driver was getting into his car. 'Space there for you.'
'You deaf or what?' Angry face, jaw jutting and tensed. A man looking for a fight.
Linford was just about ready. 'So you'd rather argue with me than get to your meeting?' He looked to where the other car was leaving. 'Nice spot over there.'
'That's Harley. He takes his lunch hour at the gym. I'll be in the meeting when he gets back, and that's his space. Which is why you move your junk heap,'
'This from a man who drives a Sierra Cosworth.'
'Wrong answer.' The man yanked Linford's door open.
'The assault charge is going to look bloody good on your CV.'
'You'll have fun trying to make a complaint through broken teeth.'
'And you'll be in the cells for assaulting a police officer.'
The man stopped, his jaw retreating a fraction. His Adam's apple was prominent when he swallowed. Linford took the opportunity to reach into his jacket, showing his warrant card.
'So now you know who I am,' Linford said. 'But I didn't catch your name...?'
