‘So what made you want to help Roddy Grieve, as opposed to any other candidate?’
She wore black mascara and eyeshadow. Her eyes were green. They seemed to sparkle when she moved them.
‘I liked him,’ she said, ‘and I trusted him. He still had ideals, unlike his brother, say.’
‘Cammo?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t get on?’
‘No reason why we should.’
‘What about Cammo and Roddy?’
‘Oh, they argued politics whenever they could, but that wasn’t often. They only met at family occasions, and then they had Alicia and Lorna to stop them.’
‘What about Mr Grieve’s wife?’
‘Which one?’
‘Roddy’s.’
‘Yes, but which one? He had two, you know.’
Rebus was confused momentarily.
‘First one didn’t last long,’ Josephine Banks said, crossing her legs. ‘It was a teenage thing.’
Rebus turned his pen the right way round and opened his notebook. ‘What was her name?’
‘Billie.’ She spelled it for him. ‘Her maiden name’s Collins. But maybe she’s remarried.’
‘Is she still around?’
‘Last I heard she was teaching somewhere in Fife.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘God no, she was long gone by the time I met Roddy.’ She looked at him. ‘You know there’s a son?’
None of the family had mentioned it. Rebus shook his head. Banks looked disappointed in him.
‘His name’s Peter. He uses the surname Grief. Ring any bells?’
Rebus was busy writing. ‘Should it?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s in a pop group. The Robinson Crusoes.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Some of your younger colleagues may have.’
‘Ouch.’ Rebus winced; it made her smile.
‘But Peter’s almost beyond the pale.’
‘Because of what he does?’
‘Oh no, not that. I think his grandmother’s thrilled to have a pop star in the family.’
‘What then?’
‘Well, he chooses to make his home in Glasgow.’ She paused. ‘You have spoken to the family, haven’t you?’ He nodded. ‘Only I’d have thought Hugh would have mentioned him.’
‘I haven’t actually met Mr Cordover yet. He’s the band’s producer, is he?’
‘He’s their manager. Dear me, do I have to tell you everything? Hugh’s got this thing about young bands now — Vain Shadows, Change and Decay...’ She smiled at his lack of recognition.
‘I’ll ask one of my younger colleagues,’ he said, causing her to laugh.
He went to the canteen, fetched them coffee. The burger had given him indigestion, so he stopped at his desk and downed a couple of Rennies. At one time, he could have eaten anything, any time of day. But his guts seemed to have taken early retirement. He picked up his phone and called Lorna Grieve, thinking: so far Josephine Banks hadn’t mentioned Seona Grieve. She’d managed to sidetrack him by bringing the first Mrs Grieve, Billie Collins, into play. There was no answer at the Cordover residence. He took the drinks back to the interview room. ‘There you go, Ms Banks.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked as if she hadn’t moved all the time he’d been away.
‘I keep wondering’, she said, ‘when you’ll get round to me. I mean, all this other stuff is just a roundabout way of getting there, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve lost me.’ Rebus took the notebook and pen from his pocket, laid them on the desk.
‘Roddy and me,’ she said, leaning towards him. ‘The affair we were having. Is it time to talk about that now?’
Right hand reaching for the pen, Rebus agreed that it was.
‘It’s like that in politics.’ She paused. ‘Well, any profession really. Two people working closely together.’ She sipped the coffee. ‘Politicians are nothing if not gossips. I think it’s down to a lack of self-confidence. Bad-mouthing everyone else is such a simple option.’
‘So you weren’t actually having an affair?’
She looked at him, smiled. ‘Did I give that impression?’ Bowed her head slightly in apology. ‘What I should have said was, the rumoured affair. And that’s as far as it got. You didn’t know?’
He shook his head.
‘All these interviews... I thought someone would have...’ She straightened in her chair. ‘Well, maybe I’ve misjudged them.’
‘You’re really the first person we’ve spoken to.’
‘But you’ve talked to the clan?’
‘You mean Mr Grieve’s family?’
‘Yes.’
‘They knew?’
‘Seona knew. I’m assuming she didn’t keep it to herself.’
‘Did Mr Grieve tell her?’
She smiled again. ‘Why should he? There wasn’t any truth in it. If someone here made a sly reference about you, would you report it to your wife?’
‘So how did Mrs Grieve find out?’
‘The usual way. Our old friend, Anonymous.’
‘A letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just the one?’
‘You’ll have to ask her.’ She placed her beaker on the table. ‘You’re dying for a cigarette, aren’t you?’ Rebus looked at her. She nodded towards his pen, which was raised to his mouth. ‘You keep doing that,’ she said. ‘And I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Why’s that, Ms Banks?’
‘Because I’m gasping for one myself.’
Smoking at St Leonard’s was restricted to the rear car park. Since this was off-limits to the public, he stood with Josephine Banks on the pavement out front, the pair of them shuffing their feet as they enjoyed their individual fixes.
Nearing the end of his cigarette, perhaps to defer the moment when he would have to finish it, he asked her if she’d any idea who had written the letter.
‘Not a clue.’
‘It had to be someone who knew you both.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m guessing it was someone in the local party. Or maybe a sore loser. The selection process for candidates, it was pretty rough at times.’
‘How so?’
‘Old Labour versus New. Ancient grievances given fresh momentum.’
‘Who stood against Mr Grieve?’
‘There were three others: Gwen Mollison, Archie Ure and Sara Bone.’
‘Was it a fair fight?’
A mixture of smoke and chilled breath billowed from her mouth. ‘As these things go, yes. I mean, there weren’t any dirty tricks.’
Something in her tone made him ask: ‘But?’
‘There was a certain amount of bad feeling when Roddy won the vote. Mostly from Ure. You must have seen it in the papers.’
‘Only if it reached the sports pages.’
She looked at him. ‘You are going to vote?’
He shrugged, examined what was left of his cigarette. ‘Why was Archie Ure so upset?’
‘Archie’s been in the Labour Party for donkey’s. And he believes in devolution. Back in ’79, he canvassed half of Edinburgh. Then along comes Roddy, snatches his birthright from under his nose. Tell me, did you vote in ’79?’
March 1, 1979: the failed devolution referendum. ‘I don’t remember,’ Rebus lied.
‘You didn’t, did you?’ She watched him shrug. ‘Whyever not?’
‘I wasn’t the only one.’
‘I’m just curious. It was bitter cold that day, maybe the snow put you off.’
‘Are you poking fun at me, Ms Banks?’
She flicked her cigarette stub into the road. ‘I wouldn’t dare, Inspector.’
1979.
He remembered Rhona, his wife at the time, with her roll of ‘Vote Yes’ stickers. He kept finding them on his jackets, the car windscreen, even on the flask he sometimes took with him to work. The winter had been helclass="underline" dark and freezing and with strikes breaking out all over. The Winter of Discontent, the papers called it, and he wasn’t about to disagree. His daughter Sammy was four. When he and Rhona had arguments, they kept their voices down so as not to wake her. His work was a problem: not enough hours in the day. And recently Rhona had been becoming active politically, campaigning for the SNP. For her, devolution meant a step towards independence. For Jim Callaghan and his Labour government, it meant... well, Rebus was never sure exactly. A sop to the Nationalists? Or to the nation as a whole? Would it really strengthen the Union?