‘Are they operating?’ Linford asked.
‘Christ, listen to him,’ the sister-in-law said, glowering at him. ‘How the hell would we know if they’re operating? We’re only the family, last to be told.’ She stood up, too. Linford felt himself shrink back. Big women they were, addicted to Scotland’s pantry: cigarettes and lard. Training shoes, elasticated waistbands. Matching YSL tops, probably knock-off if not fake.
‘I just wanted to know—’
‘What did you want to know?’ This from the wife, rising to her friend’s ire. She folded her arms. ‘What d’you want Archie for?’
To ask questions... because he’s a possible suspect in a murder. No, he couldn’t tell her that. So he shook his head instead. ‘It can wait.’
‘Is it to do with Roddy Grieve?’ she asked. He couldn’t answer. ‘Bloody thought it might be. He’s the reason Archie’s in here. Tell that slut of a widow of his to remember that. And if my Archie... if he...’ She bowed her head, words choking. An arm went around her shoulder.
‘Come on now, Isla. It’ll be fine.’ The sister-in-law looked at Linford. ‘Got what you came for?’
He turned away, but then stopped. ‘What did she mean? About Roddy Grieve being to blame?’
‘With Grieve dead, it should have been Archie standing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Only now the widow’s put her name forward, and knowing those bastards on the selection committee, she’ll be the one. Oh aye, shafted again, Isla. As it was, so shall it be. Shafted all the way to the grave.’
‘Frankly, they’d be lunatics not to.’
After the hospital, the wine bar on the High Street came as some relief. Linford sipped his chilled Chardonnay and asked Gwen Mollison why that should be. Mollison was tall with long fair hair, probably mid-thirties. She wore steel-rimmed glasses which magnified her long-lashed eyes, and toyed with her mobile phone as it sat on the table between them, just next to a bulging Filofax. She kept looking around, as though expecting to be able to greet a friend or acquaintance. Here, Linford had done his reading, too. Mollison was number three in the council’s housing department. She didn’t quite have Roddy Grieve’s pedigree, or Archie Ure’s longevity, which was why she’d lost to them, but great things were expected of her. Good working-class roots; New Labour to her core. She spoke well in public, presented well. Today she was wearing a cream linen trouser suit, maybe Armani. Linford recognised a kindred spirit and had laid his own mobile a foot and a half from hers.
‘It’s a PR coup,’ Mollison explained. She had a glass of Zinfandel in front of her, but had asked for mineral water as an accompaniment, and had concentrated on that so far. Linford appreciated the tactic: you were a drinker, not an abstainer, but somehow you contrived to drink only water.
‘I mean,’ Mollison went on, ‘the sympathy vote’s out there. And Seona has friends in the party: she’s been every bit as active as Roddy ever was.’
‘Do you know her?’
Mollison shook her head — not in answer to the question but to dismiss it as irrelevant. ‘I don’t think the party would have gone to her; might’ve looked like bad taste. But when she phoned them, they weren’t slow to see the possibilities.’ She angled her phone, testing the signal strength. There was jazz music in the background. Only half a dozen other people in the place: mid-afternoon hiatus. Linford had skipped lunch. He’d finished one bowl of rice crackers; they weren’t about to bring another.
‘Are you disappointed?’ he asked.
Mollison shrugged. ‘There’ll be other chances.’ So confident; so controlled. No telling where she’d be in a few years. Linford had already handed over one of his business cards, the good ones, embossed. He’d added his home phone number on the back, smiled at her: ‘Just in case.’ A little later, she’d caught him stifling a yawn, had asked if she was boring him.
‘Just a late night,’ he’d explained.
‘It’s Archie I feel sorry for,’ she went on now. ‘This might’ve been his last chance.’
‘But he’s going on the regional list, isn’t he?’
‘Well, they have to, or else it looks like they’re snubbing him. But you don’t understand, that list is weighted against whichever party gets most first-past-the-post seats.’
‘I think you’ve lost me.’
‘Even if Archie was top of the list, he probably wouldn’t get in.’
Linford mulled that over; decided he still didn’t get it. ‘You’re being very magnanimous,’ he said instead.
‘Am I?’ She smiled at him. ‘You don’t understand politics. If I’m graceful in defeat, that counts for me next time. You have to learn to lose.’ She shrugged again. Padded shoulders, giving some bulk to her thin frame. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t we be talking about Roddy Grieve?’
Linford smiled. ‘You’re not a suspect, Ms Mollison.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘Not unless Mrs Grieve meets with some accident.’
Mollison laughed, a sudden trill which had the other drinkers looking at them. She clamped a hand over her mouth, took it away. ‘God, I shouldn’t laugh, should I? What if something did happen to her?’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know... Say she gets hit by a car.’
‘Then I’ll want to talk to you again.’ He opened his notebook, reached for his pen. It was a Mont Blanc; she’d commented on it earlier, looking impressed. ‘Maybe I should take down your number,’ he said with a smile.
The final candidate on the shortlist, Sara Bone, was a social worker in south Edinburgh. He caught up with her at a daycare centre for the elderly. They sat in the conservatory, surrounded by potted plants wilting from neglect. Linford said as much.
‘Quite the opposite,’ she informed him. ‘They’re suffering from over-attention. Everybody thinks they need a drop of water. Too much is as bad as not enough.’
She was a small woman — a shade over five feet — with a mother’s face framed by a youthful haircut, short and feathered.
‘Horrible,’ was what she said when he asked her about Roddy Grieve’s death. ‘The world just seems to get worse and worse.’
‘Could an MSP do anything to help?’
‘I’d hope so,’ she said.
‘But now you’re not going to get the chance?’
‘Much to the relief of my clients.’ She nodded towards the building’s interior. ‘They were all saying how much they would miss me.’
‘It’s nice to be wanted,’ Linford said, feeling that he was wasting his time with this woman...
He called Rebus. The two met at Cramond. The normally leafy suburb had a grey, pinched look to it: winter wasn’t welcome here. They stood on the pavement by Linford’s BMW. Rebus, having listened to Linford’s report, was thoughtful.
‘How about you?’ Linford asked. ‘How was St Andrews?’
‘Fine. I took a walk down by the seashore.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And did you talk to Billie Collins?’