Set in Darkness by Ian Rankin Page A

someone who decides to bludgeon him to death?’ Linford shook his head persuasively, his eyes dodging Rebus, who was glaring, having said almost exactly the same thing to him about an hour before.
    ‘I’m not sure,’ Watson said. ‘Say someone was in there stealing tools. Grieve interrupts them, so they whack him.’
    ‘And after he’s laid out,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘they hit him twice more for luck?’
    Watson grunted, acknowledging the point. ‘And the murder weapon?’
    ‘Not recovered yet, sir,’ Linford said. ‘Lot of building sites around there, places you could conceal something. We’ve got officers out looking.’
    ‘The contractors are carrying out an inventory,’ Rebus added. ‘Just in case anything’s missing. If your theory about it being a theft is right, maybe the inventory will throw up something.’
    ‘One more thing, sir. Recent scuff marks on the shoesand traces of dirt and dust on the inside legs of Grieve’s trousers.’
    Watson smiled. ‘God bless forensics. What does it mean?’
    ‘Means he probably did climb the fence or the gate.’
    ‘All the same, rule nothing out and everything in. Talk to all the keyholders.
All
of them, understood?’
    ‘Very good, sir,’ Linford said.
    Rebus just nodded, though no one was paying attention.
    ‘And our friend Skelly?’ the Chief Super asked.
    ‘Two other members of the PPLC are on it, sir,’ Rebus said.
    Watson grunted again, then looked at Linford. ‘Something wrong with your coffee, Derek?’
    Linford’s gaze went to the surface of the drink. ‘No, sir, not at all. Just don’t like it too hot.’
    ‘And how is it now?’
    Linford put the mug to his lips, drained it in two swallows. ‘It’s very good, sir. Thank you.’
    Rebus suddenly had no doubts: Linford would go far in the force.
    When the meeting was over, Rebus told Linford he’d catch him up, and knocked again on Watson’s door.
    ‘I thought we’d finished?’ The Farmer was busy with paperwork.
    ‘I’m being sidelined,’ Rebus said, ‘and I don’t like it.’
    ‘Then do something about it.’
    ‘Such as?’
    The Farmer looked up. ‘Derek’s in charge. Accept the fact.’ He paused. ‘Either that or ask for a transfer.’
    ‘Wouldn’t want to miss your retirement do, sir.’
    The Farmer put down his pen. ‘This is probably the last case I’ll handle, and I can’t think of one with a higher profile.’
    ‘You saying you don’t trust me with it, sir?’
    ‘You always think you know better, John. That’s the problem.’
    ‘All Linford knows are his desk at Fettes and which arses to lick.’
    ‘The ACC says different.’ The Farmer sat back in his chair. ‘Bit of jealousy there, John? Younger man speeding through the ranks . . . ?’
    ‘Oh aye, I’ve always been gasping for a promotion.’ Rebus turned to leave.
    ‘Just this once, John, play for the team. It’s that or the sideline . . .’
    Rebus closed the door on his boss’s words. Linford was waiting for him at the end of the corridor, mobile pressed to his ear.
    ‘Yes, sir, we’re headed there next.’ He listened, raised a hand to let Rebus know he’d only be a minute. Rebus ignored him, stalked past and down the stairs. Linford’s voice carried down a few moments later.
    ‘I think he’ll be fine, sir, but if not . . .’
    Rebus dismissed the nightwatchman, but the man stayed in his seat, eyes shifting nervously between Rebus and Linford.
    ‘I said you can go.’
    ‘Go where?’ the watchman asked at last, voice trembling. ‘This is my office.’
    Which was true: the three men were seated in the gatehouse of the parliament site. There was a thick register lying on the table, being pored over by Linford. It listed all the visitors to the site since work had begun. Linford had his notebook out, but hadn’t jotted a single name into it.
    ‘I thought you might want to go home,’ Rebus told the watchman. ‘Shouldn’t you be asleep or something?’
    ‘Aye, sure,’ the man