Free Set in Darkness by Ian Rankin Page A

inside.’
    Linford followed Rebus into the hallway. There were paintings and drawings everywhere, not just covering the wood-panelled walls, but resting against the skirting boards, too. Books were piled high on the bottom step of the stone staircase. Several pairs of dusty-looking rubber wellington boots – men’s and women’s, and all of them black – sat at the foot of an overloaded coat rack. There were walking sticks protruding from an umbrella stand, and umbrellas hooked over the banister. An open jar of honey sat on a telephone table, as did an answering machine. The machine wasn’t plugged in, and there was no sign of a phone. Cammo Grieve seemed to take in his surroundings.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘In a bit of a . . . well, you understand.’ He stroked the stray hairs back into place.
    ‘Of course, sir,’ Linford said, his voice deferential.
    ‘A bit of advice, though,’ Rebus added, waiting till he had the MP’s attention. ‘Anyone at all could turn up claiming to be police officers. Make sure you ask for ID before letting them in.’
    Cammo Grieve nodded. ‘Ah yes, the fourth estate. Bastards for the most part.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘Off the record.’
    Rebus merely nodded; it was Linford who smiled too brightly at the attempted levity.
    ‘I still can’t . . .’ Grieve’s face hardened. ‘I trust the police will be working flat-out on this case. If I so much as hear of any corners being cut . . . I know what it’s like these days, tightened budgets, all of that. Labour government, you see.’
    It was in danger of turning into a speech. Rebusinterrupted. ‘Well, standing around here isn’t exactly helping matters, sir.’
    ‘I’m not sure I like you,’ Grieve said, narrowing his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘His name’s Monkey Man,’ a voice called from a doorway. Lorna Grieve was carrying two glasses of whisky. She handed one to her brother, clinked her own against it before taking a gulp. ‘And this one’, she said, meaning Linford, ‘is the Organ Grinder.’
    ‘I’m DI Rebus,’ Rebus informed Cammo Grieve. ‘This is DI Linford.’
    Linford turned from the wall. He’d been studying one of the framed prints. It was unusual in that it was a series of handwritten lines.
    ‘A poem to our mother,’ Lorna Grieve explained. ‘From Christopher Murray Grieve. He wasn’t any relation, in case you’re wondering.’
    ‘Hugh MacDiarmid,’ Rebus said, seeing the blank look on Linford’s face. The look didn’t change.
    ‘The Monkey Man has a brain,’ Lorna cooed. Then she noticed the honey. ‘Oh, there it is. Mother thought she’d put it down somewhere.’ She turned back to Rebus. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Monkey Man.’ She was standing right in front of him. He stared at lips he had kissed as a young man, tasting printer’s ink and cheap paper in his mouth. She smelt of good whisky, a perfume he could savour. Her voice was harsh but her eyes were numb. ‘Nobody knows about that poem. He gave it to our mother. No other copy exists.’
    ‘Lorna . . .’ Cammo Grieve laid a hand against the back of his sister’s neck, but she twisted away from him. ‘It’s a sin beyond redeeming to stand here drinking while our guests go without.’ He ushered them into the morning room. It was wood-panelled like the hall, but boasted only a few small paintings hanging from a picture rail. There were two sofas and two armchairs, a TV and hi-fi. Apart from that, the room was all books, piled on the floor,squeezed into shelves, filling all the spaces between the potted plants on the window sill. With the curtains closed, the lights were on. The ceiling candelabrum could accommodate three bulbs, but only one was working. Rebus lifted a pile of birthday cards from the sofa: someone had decided the celebrations were over.
    ‘How is Mrs Grieve?’ Linford asked.
    ‘My mother’s resting,’ Cammo Grieve said.
    ‘I meant Mr Grieve’s . . . um, your brother’s . . .’
    ‘He