oily-looking coffee untouched in one hand.
‘Help yourself,’ Watson said.
Rebus raised the beaker he was holding. ‘Already got some, sir.’ Whenever he remembered, he tried to bring half a cup of coffee with him. There was a sign you saw above some bars – ‘Do not ask for credit as a refusal can often offend’. The beaker was Rebus’s way of not giving offence to his senior officer.
When they were all seated, the Chief Super got straight to the point.
‘
Everyone
’s interested in this case: reporters, public, government . . .’
‘In that order, sir?’ Rebus asked.
Watson ignored him. ‘. . . which means I’m going to be keeping closer tabs on you than usual.’ He turned to Linford. ‘John here can be like a bull in a china shop. I’m looking to you to be on matador duty.’
Linford smiled. ‘As long as the bull’s okay about it.’ He looked to Rebus, who stayed quiet.
‘Reporters are foaming at the mouth. The parliament, the elections . . . dry as dust. Now at last they’ve got a story.’ Watson held up thumb and forefinger. ‘Two stories actually. Couldn’t be any connection, could there?’
‘Between Grieve and the skeleton?’ Linford seemed to consider it, glanced towards Rebus who was busy checking the crease in his left trouser leg. ‘Shouldn’t think so,sir. Not unless Grieve was killed by a ghost.’
Watson wagged a finger. ‘That’s just the sort of thing the journalists are after. Joking’s fine in here, but not outside, understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Linford looked suitably abashed.
‘So what have we got?’
‘We’ve conducted preliminary interviews with the family,’ Rebus answered. ‘Further interviews to follow. Next step is to talk to the deceased’s political agent, then maybe to the local Labour Party.’
‘No known enemies?’
‘Widow didn’t seem to think so, sir,’ Linford said quickly, leaning forward in his chair. He didn’t want Rebus hogging the stage. ‘Still, there are things wives don’t always know.’
The Chief Super nodded. To Rebus, his face looked even more florid than usual. Run-up to the golden cheerio and he gets landed with this.
‘Friends? Business acquaintances?’
Linford nodded back, catching Watson’s rhythm. ‘We’ll speak to them all.’
‘Did the autopsy throw up anything?’
‘Blow to the base of the skull. It caused immediate haemorrhaging. Seems he died pretty much where he fell. Two more blows after that, producing fractures.’
‘These two blows were post-mortem?’
Linford looked to Rebus for confirmation. ‘Pathologist seems to think so,’ Rebus obliged. ‘They were to the top of the skull. Grieve was pretty tall –’
‘Six-one,’ Linford interrupted.
‘– so to render a blow like that, the attacker had to be hellish tall or standing on something.’
‘Or Grieve was already prone when the blows arrived,’ Watson said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Yes, makes sense, I suppose. How the devil did he get in there?’
‘Either he climbed the fence,’ Linford guessed, ‘or elsesomeone had keys. The gates are kept padlocked at night: too much stuff in there worth nicking.’
‘There’s a security guard,’ Rebus continued. ‘He says he was there all night, kept a regular patrol, but didn’t see anything.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think he was kipping in the office. Nice and warm in there. Radio and kettle, all mod cons. Either that or he’d bunked off home.’
‘He says he checked the summer house?’ Watson asked.
‘He says he
thinks
he did.’ Linford quoted from memory: ‘“I always shine my torch inside, just in case. No reason I wouldn’t have that night.”’
The Chief Super leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk. ‘What do you think?’ He had eyes only for Linford.
‘I think we need to concentrate on the motive, sir. Was this a chance encounter? Prospective MSP wants to take a midnight look at his future workplace, happens across
‘Help yourself,’ Watson said.
Rebus raised the beaker he was holding. ‘Already got some, sir.’ Whenever he remembered, he tried to bring half a cup of coffee with him. There was a sign you saw above some bars – ‘Do not ask for credit as a refusal can often offend’. The beaker was Rebus’s way of not giving offence to his senior officer.
When they were all seated, the Chief Super got straight to the point.
‘
Everyone
’s interested in this case: reporters, public, government . . .’
‘In that order, sir?’ Rebus asked.
Watson ignored him. ‘. . . which means I’m going to be keeping closer tabs on you than usual.’ He turned to Linford. ‘John here can be like a bull in a china shop. I’m looking to you to be on matador duty.’
Linford smiled. ‘As long as the bull’s okay about it.’ He looked to Rebus, who stayed quiet.
‘Reporters are foaming at the mouth. The parliament, the elections . . . dry as dust. Now at last they’ve got a story.’ Watson held up thumb and forefinger. ‘Two stories actually. Couldn’t be any connection, could there?’
‘Between Grieve and the skeleton?’ Linford seemed to consider it, glanced towards Rebus who was busy checking the crease in his left trouser leg. ‘Shouldn’t think so,sir. Not unless Grieve was killed by a ghost.’
Watson wagged a finger. ‘That’s just the sort of thing the journalists are after. Joking’s fine in here, but not outside, understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Linford looked suitably abashed.
‘So what have we got?’
‘We’ve conducted preliminary interviews with the family,’ Rebus answered. ‘Further interviews to follow. Next step is to talk to the deceased’s political agent, then maybe to the local Labour Party.’
‘No known enemies?’
‘Widow didn’t seem to think so, sir,’ Linford said quickly, leaning forward in his chair. He didn’t want Rebus hogging the stage. ‘Still, there are things wives don’t always know.’
The Chief Super nodded. To Rebus, his face looked even more florid than usual. Run-up to the golden cheerio and he gets landed with this.
‘Friends? Business acquaintances?’
Linford nodded back, catching Watson’s rhythm. ‘We’ll speak to them all.’
‘Did the autopsy throw up anything?’
‘Blow to the base of the skull. It caused immediate haemorrhaging. Seems he died pretty much where he fell. Two more blows after that, producing fractures.’
‘These two blows were post-mortem?’
Linford looked to Rebus for confirmation. ‘Pathologist seems to think so,’ Rebus obliged. ‘They were to the top of the skull. Grieve was pretty tall –’
‘Six-one,’ Linford interrupted.
‘– so to render a blow like that, the attacker had to be hellish tall or standing on something.’
‘Or Grieve was already prone when the blows arrived,’ Watson said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Yes, makes sense, I suppose. How the devil did he get in there?’
‘Either he climbed the fence,’ Linford guessed, ‘or elsesomeone had keys. The gates are kept padlocked at night: too much stuff in there worth nicking.’
‘There’s a security guard,’ Rebus continued. ‘He says he was there all night, kept a regular patrol, but didn’t see anything.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think he was kipping in the office. Nice and warm in there. Radio and kettle, all mod cons. Either that or he’d bunked off home.’
‘He says he checked the summer house?’ Watson asked.
‘He says he
thinks
he did.’ Linford quoted from memory: ‘“I always shine my torch inside, just in case. No reason I wouldn’t have that night.”’
The Chief Super leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk. ‘What do you think?’ He had eyes only for Linford.
‘I think we need to concentrate on the motive, sir. Was this a chance encounter? Prospective MSP wants to take a midnight look at his future workplace, happens across
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