They argued politics at the kitchen table until Rebus became bored by it all. He would fall on to the sofa and tell Rhona he didn’t care. At first she would stand in front of him, blocking his view of the TV screen. Her arguments were cogent as well as passionate.
‘I really can’t be scunnered,’ he’d say when she finished, and she’d start hitting him with a cushion until he wrestled her down on to the carpet, the pair of them laughing.
Maybe it was because he was getting a reaction. Whatever, his intransigence grew. He wore a ‘Scotland Says NO’ badge home one night. They were at the kitchen table again, eating supper. Rhona looked tired: day job and childcare and out canvassing. She didn’t say anything about his badge, even when he unpinned it from his coat and fixed it to his shirt. She just stared at him with deadened eyes, and wouldn’t talk the rest of the evening. In bed, she turned her back on him.
‘I thought you wanted me to get more political,’ he joked. She stayed silent. ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘I’ve thought through the issues like you said, and I’ve decided to vote No.’
‘You do what you want,’ she said coldly.
‘I will then,’ he answered, his eyes on her hunched form.
But on the day, 1 March, he did something worse than voting No. He didn’t vote at all. He could blame work, the weather, any number of things. But really, it was to make Rhona suffer. He knew this as he watched the office clock, watched the hands pass the referendum’s close. With minutes left, he almost dashed for his car, but told himself it was too late. It was too late.
Felt like hell on the drive home. She wasn’t there; was off somewhere to watch ballot boxes being emptied, or with like-minded people in the back room of a pub, awaiting news of exit polls.
The babysitter left him to it. He looked in on Sammy, who was fast asleep, one arm cradling Pa Broon, her favoured teddy bear. It was late when Rhona returned. She was a little bit drunk, and so was he: four cans of Tartan Special in front of the TV. He had the picture on but the sound down, listening to the hi-fi. He was about to tell her that he’d voted No, but knew she’d see through the lie. Instead, he asked how she was feeling.
‘Numb,’ she said, standing in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter the room. ‘But then,’ she said, turning back into the hall, ‘that’s almost an improvement.’
March 1, 1979. The referendum had a clause attached, 40 per cent of the electorate had to vote Yes. The rumour was the Labour government down in London wanted obstacles put in the way of devolution. They feared that Scottish Westminster MPs would be lost, and that the Conservatives would be gifted a permanent majority in the Commons. Forty per cent had to vote Yes.
It wasn’t even close. Thirty-three said Yes, 31 No. The turnout was just under 64 per cent. The result, as one paper put it, was ‘a nation divided’. The SNP withdrew their support for the Callaghan government — he called them ‘turkeys voting for Christmas’ — an election had to be called, and the Conservatives came back into power, led by Margaret Thatcher.
‘Your SNP did that,’ Rebus told Rhona. ‘Now where’s your devolution?’
She just shrugged a response, beyond goading. They’d come a long way since the cushion fights on the floor. He turned to his work instead, immersing himself in other people’s lives, other people’s problems and miseries.
And hadn’t voted in an election since.
After Josephine Banks had gone, he returned to the Murder Room. DS ‘Hi-Ho’ Silvers was making telephone calls. So were a couple of DCs who’d been brought in from other divisions. Chief Inspector Gill Templer was having a confab with the Farmer. A WPC walked past and handed the Farmer a sheaf of telephone messages — so many they were held by a bulldog clip. The Farmer frowned at them, went on listening to Templer. The Farmer’s jacket was off and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. All around Rebus people were moving, and computer keyboards were being hammered, and ringing phones were being answered. On his desk were copies of inquiry transcripts, initial interviews with the members of the clan. Cammo Grieve had drawn the short straw, ended up under the inquisitorial gaze of Bobby Hogan and Joe Dickie.
Cammo Grieve: Any idea how long this will take?
Hogan: Sorry, sir. Don’t mean to inconvenience you.
Grieve: My brother’s been murdered, you know!
Hogan: Why else would we be talking to you, sir?
(Rebus had to smile: Bobby Hogan had a way of saying ‘sir’ that made it sound like an insult.)
Dickie: You went back down to London on the Saturday, Mr Grieve?
Grieve: First bloody chance I could.
Dickie: You don’t get on with your family?
Grieve: None of your bloody business.
Hogan: (To Dickie) Put down that Mr Grieve refused to answer.
Grieve: For Christ’s sake!
Hogan: No need to take Our Lord’s name in vain, sir.
(Rebus laughed out loud this time. Apart from the usual trinity — weddings, funerals and christenings — he doubted Bobby Hogan had ever seen the inside of a church.)
Grieve: Look, let’s just get on with it, shall we?
Dickie: Couldn’t agree more, sir.
Grieve: I was back in London Saturday night. You can check with my wife. We spent Sunday together, except when I had some constituency business to discuss with my agent. Couple of friends joined us for dinner. Monday morning, I was on my way to the House when I got the call on my mobile to say Roddy was dead.
Hogan: And how did you feel, sir...?
On it went, Cammo Grieve combative, Hogan and Dickie soaking up his hostility like a sponge, hitting back with questions and comments that illustrated their feelings towards him.
As Hogan had commented afterwards — strictly off the record — ‘Only time that shite would get a cross from me was if he had fangs.’
Lorna Grieve and her partner had, individually, faced up to the easier pairing of DI Bill Pryde and DS Roy Frazer. Neither had seen Roddy on the Sunday. Lorna had gone to visit friends in North Berwick, while Hugh Cordover had busied himself in his home-based studio, with an engineer and various band members as witnesses.
There were still no sightings of Roddy Grieve on the Sunday night, when he’d supposedly been out for a drink with friends. No friends seemed to have seen him. The implication was: Roddy had enjoyed a secret life, something apart from his marriage. And this, by its very nature, would give the investigation all sorts of problems.
Because no matter how hard you tried, some secrets were bound to stay unrevealed.
11
The building society was on George Street. When Siobhan Clarke had first arrived in Edinburgh, George Street had seemed a windy ghetto of stunning architecture and sluggish business. Half the office space seemed to be empty, with To Let notices strung like pennants from the buildings. Now the street was changing, upmarket shops being joined by a string of bars and restaurants, most of them housed in what had been banks.