Free Set in Darkness by Ian Rankin Page B

means Seona,’ Lorna said, dropping on to one of the sofas.
    ‘Resting also,’ Cammo Grieve explained. He walked over to the marble fireplace, gestured towards the grate, which had become a repository for whisky bottles. ‘No longer a working fire,’ he said, ‘but it can still—’
    ‘Put fire in our bellies,’ his sister groaned, rolling her eyes. ‘Christ, Cammo, that one wore out long ago.’
    Red had risen again in her brother’s cheeks – anger this time. Maybe he’d been angry when he’d answered the door, too. Lorna Grieve could have that effect on a man, no doubt about it.
    ‘I’ll have a Macallan,’ Rebus said.
    ‘A man with sharp eyes,’ Cammo Grieve said, making it sound like praise. ‘And yourself, DI Linford?’
    Linford surprised Rebus, asked for a Springbank. Grieve produced tumblers from a small cupboard and poured a couple of decent measures.
    ‘I won’t insult you by offering to dilute them.’ He handed the drinks over. ‘Sit down, why don’t you?’
    Rebus took one armchair, Linford the other. Cammo Grieve sat on the sofa beside his sister, who squirmed at the intrusion. They drank their drinks and were silent for a moment. Then there was a trilling sound from Cammo’s coat pocket. He lifted out a mobile phone and got to his feet, making for the door.
    ‘Hello, yes, sorry about that, but I’m sure you understand . . .’ He closed the door after him.
    ‘Well,’ Lorna Grieve said, ‘what have I done to deserve this?’
    ‘Deserve what, Mrs Cordover?’ Linford asked.
    She snorted.
    ‘I think, DI Linford,’ Rebus said slowly, ‘she means what has she done to deserve being left alone here with two complete duds like us. Would that be accurate, Mrs Cordover?’
    ‘It’s Grieve, Lorna Grieve.’ There was some venom in her eyes, but not enough to kill her prey, merely stun it. But at least she was focused again – focused on Rebus. ‘Do we know one another?’ she asked.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ he admitted.
    ‘It’s just the way you keep staring at me.’
    ‘And how’s that?’
    ‘Like a lot of photographers I’ve met along the way. Sleazeballs with no film in the camera.’
    Rebus hid his smile behind the whisky glass. ‘I used to be a big fan of Obscura.’
    Her eyes widened a little, and her voice softened. ‘Hugh’s band?’
    Rebus was nodding. ‘You were on one of their album sleeves.’
    ‘God, so I was. It seems like a lifetime ago. What was it called . . . ?’
    ‘
Continuous Repercussions
.’
    ‘My God, I think you’re right. It was their last record, wasn’t it? I never really liked their stuff, you know.’
    ‘Really?’
    They were talking now, having a conversation. Linford was on the periphery of Rebus’s vision, and if Rebus concentrated on Lorna Grieve, the younger man faded away until he could have been a trick of the light.
    ‘Obscura,’ Lorna reminisced. ‘That name was Hugh’s idea.’
    ‘It’s up near the Castle, isn’t it, the Camera Obscura?’
    ‘Yes, but I’m not sure Hugh ever went there. He chosethe name for another reason. You know Donald Cammell?’
    Rebus was stumped.
    ‘He was a film director. He made
Performance
.’
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    ‘He was born there.’
    ‘In the Camera Obscura?’
    Lorna nodded, smiled across the room at him with something approaching warmth.
    Linford cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been to the Camera Obscura,’ he said. ‘It’s quite amazing, the view.’
    There was silence for a moment. Then Lorna Grieve smiled again at Rebus. ‘He doesn’t have a clue, does he, Monkey Man? Not the slightest clue what we’ve been talking about.’
    Rebus was shaking his head in agreement as Cammo walked back into the room. He’d removed his coat, but not the jacket. Now that Rebus thought of it, the house was none too warm. These big old places, you put in central heating but not double glazing. High ceilings and draughts. Maybe it was time to turn the makeshift drinks cabinet back to its