‘Anonymous, of course?’
‘Of course. Various postmarks. Whoever he is, he travels.’
‘What did the police say?’
‘I didn’t tell them.’
‘So who knows about them, apart from your brother?’
‘My secretary. She opens all my mail.’
‘You still have them?’
‘No, they were binned the same day. Thing is, I contacted my office, and none have been received since Roddy’s death.’
‘Respect for the bereaved?’
Cammo Grieve looked sceptical. ‘I’d’ve thought the bastard would want to gloat.’
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Rebus said. ‘You’re wondering if the letter writer has something against the whole family, maybe got at Roddy because he or she couldn’t get at you.’
‘It has to be he surely?’
‘Not necessarily.’ Rebus was thoughtful. ‘If any more letters arrive, let me know. And hang on to them this time.’
‘Understood.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m off down to London again this afternoon. If you need me, you have the office number.’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Rebus showed no sign of moving.
‘Well, goodbye then, Inspector. And good luck.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Grieve. Mind how you go.’
Cammo Grieve stopped for a moment, but then carried on down the stairs. Rebus sat, staring into space, letting the sounds of hammer and saw wash over him.
Back at St Leonard’s, he made a couple of phone calls. As he sat at his desk with the receiver at his ear, he sorted through the various messages left for him. Linford communicated only by notes now, and the latest said he was out interviewing people who’d been walking along Holyrood Road on the night of the murder. Hi-Ho Silvers, in his dogged way, had now identified four pubs where Roddy Grieve had been drinking — all alone — on the night he was killed. Two were in the West End, one was in Lawnmarket, and the last was the Holyrood Tavern. There was now a list of Tavern regulars, and these were the men and women Linford was canvassing. Almost certainly a waste of time, but then what was Rebus doing that was so crucial, so wonderful? Following-up hunches.
‘Is that Mr Grieve’s secretary?’ he asked into the mouthpiece. He went on to ask her about the hate mail. From her voice, he had an impression of youth — mid-twenties to early thirties. From what she said, he pictured her as faithful to her boss. But her story didn’t sound rehearsed; no reason to think that it was.
Just a hunch.
Next, he spoke to Seona Grieve. He caught her on her mobile. She sounded flustered, and he said as much.
‘Not much time to put a campaign together,’ she said. ‘And my school’s not too happy about it. They thought I was taking a bit of time off for bereavement, and now I’m telling them I might not be back ever.’
‘If you get elected.’
‘Well, yes, there is just that one tiny hurdle.’
She’d mentioned the word bereavement, but she didn’t sound recently bereaved. No time to mourn. Maybe it was a good thing, take her mind off the murder. Linford had wondered if Seona Grieve had a motive: kill her husband, step into his shoes, fast-track to parliament. Rebus couldn’t see it.
But then right now he couldn’t see very much.
‘So if this isn’t just a social call, Inspector...?’
‘Sorry, yes. I was just wondering if your husband ever received any crank letters.’
There was silence for a moment. ‘No, not that I’m aware of.’
‘Did he tell you that his brother had been receiving them?’
‘Really? No, Roddy never mentioned it. Did Cammo tell him?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Well, it’s news to me. Don’t you think I might have mentioned it to you before now?’
‘You might.’
She was irritated now, sensing that something was being insinuated, but not sure what. ‘If there’s nothing else, Inspector...?’
‘No, just you carry on, Mrs Grieve. Sorry to have bothered you.’ He wasn’t, of course, and didn’t sound it.
She caught the hint. ‘Look, I do appreciate what you’re doing, all the trouble you’re taking.’ Suddenly it was a politician’s voice, high on effects and low on sincerity. ‘And of course you should phone me whenever there’s something — anything — that you think I can help with.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Grieve.’
She made an effort to ignore the irony in his voice. ‘Now, if you’ve no more questions at this point...?’
Rebus didn’t say anything; just put the phone down.
In the office next door, he found Siobhan. She had her receiver tucked between chin and shoulder while she wrote something down.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I really do appreciate it. I’ll see you then.’ She glanced up at Rebus. ‘And I’ll have a colleague with me, if that’s all right.’ She listened. ‘All right, Mr Sithing. Goodbye.’
The receiver fell from her shoulder, clattered home. Rebus looked at the apparatus.
‘That’s a good trick,’ he said.
‘It’s taken a while to perfect. Tell me it’s lunchtime.’
‘And I’m buying.’ She got her jacket from the back of the chair and slid her arms into it. ‘Sithing?’ he asked.
‘Later this afternoon, if that suits you.’ He nodded. ‘He’s out at the chapel. I said we’d meet him there.’
‘How much grovelling did he make you do?’
She smiled, remembering how she’d practically dragged Sithing out of St Leonard’s. ‘Plenty,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got one hell of a carrot.’
‘The four hundred thou?’
She nodded. ‘So where are you taking me?’
‘Well, there’s this delightful little place up in Fife...’
She smiled. ‘Or the canteen does filled rolls.’
‘It’s a tough choice, but then life’s full of them.’
‘Fife’s too far a drive anyway. Maybe next time.’
‘Next time it is,’ Rebus said.
They sat at the table in Mrs Coghill’s kitchen. Starter was the flask of soup, but for the main course Mrs Coghill had prepared macaroni cheese. They’d been about to demur politely until she’d lifted it from the oven, bubbling and with a crisp golden crust of breadcrumbs.
‘Well, maybe just a smidge.’
Having served them, she left them to it, saying she’d already eaten. ‘I don’t have much of an appetite these days, but a young pair like you...’ She’d nodded towards the dish. ‘I’ll expect that to be empty next time I see it.’
Grant Hood leaned his chair back on two legs and stretched his arms. He’d managed two helpings. There was plenty still left.
Ellen Wylie lifted the serving spoon, gesturing with it towards him.
‘God, no,’ he said. ‘It’s all yours.’
‘I couldn’t,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’m not sure I can stand up, so it better be you that makes the coffee.’
‘Hint taken.’ He poured water into the kettle. Outside the window, the sky had darkened. The kitchen lights were on. Leaves and crisp packets were flying past. ‘Hellish day,’ he commented.
Wylie wasn’t listening. She’d opened the black box-file, the one she’d found just before lunch. Business transactions from 6 April 1978 to 5 April 1979. Dean Coghill’s tax year. She took out half the documents, slid them across the table. The rest she kept for herself. Hood cleared the plates into the sink, placing the casserole back in the oven. Then he sat down and, waiting for the kettle to boil, picked up the first sheet of paper.
Half an hour later, they got their break. A list of personnel signed up to work at Queensberry House. Eight names. Wylie jotted them into her notebook.
‘All we need to do now is track them down and talk to each of them.’