He parked his Saab beside a Fiat Punto and a Land-Rover. A couple of other cars stood off to one side: a beaten-up old Merc and an open-topped American classic. He left the album in the car and made for the front door. Lorna Grieve herself opened it. Ice rattled in the glass she was holding.
‘My little Monkey Man,’ she cooed. ‘In here with you. Hugh’s down in the bowels. You have to be quiet till he’s finished.’
What she meant was that Hugh Cordover was in his studio. It took up the whole lower ground floor of the house. Cordover himself sat in the production suite with an engineer. The equipment around them seemed about to swamp them. Through the thickened window, Rebus could see into the studio proper. Three young men, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The drummer was pacing behind his kit, a bottle of Jack Daniels hanging from one hand. The guitarist and bassist seemed to be concentrating on the sound from their headphones. Empty beer cans lay strewn around them, along with cigarette packets, wine bottles and guitar strings.
‘See what I mean?’ Cordover said into a microphone. The musicians nodded. He glanced towards Rebus. ‘All right, guys, the police are here to talk to me, so don’t go chopping lines in there, okay?’
Sneers, V-signs towards the window. Rock and roll, Rebus thought, had never been so dangerous.
Cordover gave the engineer some instructions, then rose stifflly from his chair. He ran a hand over his unshaven face, shaking his head slowly. Motioned for Rebus to precede him from the production suite.
‘Who are they?’ Rebus asked.
‘The next big thing,’ Cordover told him, ‘if I get my way. They’re called The Crusoes.’
‘The Robinson Crusoes?’
‘You’ve heard of them?’
‘Someone mentioned you were their manager.’
‘Manager, arranger, producer. All-round general father figure.’ Cordover pushed open a door. ‘This is the Rec Room.’
More mess on the floor. Music magazines lying on chairs. A portable TV, portable hi-fi. A pool table.
‘All mod cons,’ Cordover said, pulling open the fridge and reaching in for a soft drink. ‘Want something?’
Lorna Grieve, seated on a red sofa, closed the newspaper she’d been skimming. ‘If I’m any judge of character, my Monkey Man will be wanting something stronger than that.’ She rattled her own glass to make the point. She was dressed in a swirling green silk trousersuit. Barefoot, with a red chiffon scarf around her neck.
‘A soft drink will be fine actually,’ Rebus said, nodding when Cordover brought out two bottles of flavoured mineral water.
‘Is it okay to talk here?’ Cordover said. ‘Or would you prefer upstairs?’
‘Mind you,’ Lorna added, ‘it’s no tidier up there than down here.’
‘This is fine,’ Rebus said, settling himself on one of the chairs. Cordover hauled himself up on to the pool table, legs swinging over the side. His wife rolled her eyes, as if in wonder at his inability to use a chair.
‘Which one was Peter Grief?’ Rebus asked.
‘The bassist,’ Cordover answered.
‘He knows about his father?’
‘Of course he knows,’ Lorna Grieve snapped back.
‘They were never close,’ Cordover added.
‘The Monkey Man’, Grieve said to her husband, ‘is shocked that so soon after Roddy’s brutal murder, the pair of you can be back at work as though nothing’s happened.’
‘Yes,’ Cordover shot back. ‘So much more useful to hit the bottle.’
‘When did I ever need the excuse of a death in the family?’ She smiled at Cordover, eyes heavy-lidded. Then, turning to Rebus: ‘You’ve a lot to learn about the clan, Monkey Man.’
‘Why do you keep calling him that?’ Cordover sounding irritated.
‘It’s a Rolling Stones song,’ Rebus said. He watched Lorna Grieve toast him on this response. Smiled at her, couldn’t help himself. She was drinking brandy; even from this distance he could all but taste it.
‘I knew Stew,’ Cordover said.
‘Stew?’ Lorna narrowed her eyes.
‘Ian Stewart,’ Rebus explained. ‘The sixth Stone.’
Cordover nodded. ‘His face didn’t fit the image, so he couldn’t be in the band. Played session for them instead.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘You know he came from Fife? And Stu Sutcliffe was born in Edinburgh.’
‘And Jack Bruce was Glaswegian.’
Cordover smiled. ‘You know your stuff.’
‘I know some stuff. For example, I know that Peter’s mother is called Billie Collins. Has anyone been in touch with her?’
‘Why the hell should we care?’ Lorna said. ‘She can buy a paper, can’t she?’
‘I think Peter’s spoken with her,’ Cordover added.
‘Where does she live?’
‘St Andrews, I think.’ Cordover looked to his wife for confirmation. ‘She teaches at a school there.’
‘Haugh Academy,’ Lorna said. ‘Is she a suspect?’
Rebus was writing in his notebook. ‘Do you want her to be?’ Asked casually, not looking up.
‘The more the merrier.’
Cordover leapt from his perch. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lorna!’
‘Oh, yes,’ his wife spat back, ‘you always did have a soft spot for her. Or should that be a hard spot?’ She looked at Rebus. ‘Hugh always excused his rutting by saying he was an artist. Only he’s never been much of a sack artist, have you, sweetie?’
‘Stories, that’s all they were.’ Cordover was pacing now.
‘Speaking of stories,’ Rebus said, ‘had you heard anything about Josephine Banks?’
Lorna Grieve chuckled, cupped her hands in mock prayer. ‘Oh yes, let it be her. That would be too perfect.’
‘Roddy was a public figure, Inspector,’ Cordover said, his eyes on his wife. ‘You get all sorts of rumours. It goes with the territory.’
‘Does it?’ Lorna said. ‘How fascinating. And tell me, what rumours have you heard about me?’
Cordover stayed silent. Rebus could tell the man had some reply formed, something wounding: none, which just proves how far you’ve fallen. Something like that. But he stayed silent.
It seemed as good a time as any to toss a grenade into the room. ‘Who’s Alasdair?’
There was silence. Lorna gulped at her drink. Cordover rested against the pool table. Rebus was content to let the silence do his work.
‘Lorna’s brother,’ Cordover said at last. ‘Not that I ever knew him.’
‘Alasdair was the best of us,’ Lorna said quietly. ‘That’s why he couldn’t bear to stay.’
‘What happened to him?’ Rebus asked.
‘He ran off into the wild blue yonder.’ She made a sweeping motion with her glass. It was all ice now, nothing left to drink.
‘When?’
‘Ancient history, Monkey Man. He’s in warm climes now, and good luck to him.’ She turned towards Rebus, pointed to his left hand. ‘No wedding ring. Would I make a good detective, do you think? And you’re a drinker, too. You’ve been eyeing up my glass.’ She pouted. ‘Or is there something else you’re interested in?’
‘Please ignore her, Inspector.’
She flung the tumbler at her husband. ‘Nobody ignores me! I’m not the has-been here.’
‘That’s right, the agencies are clamouring at your door. The phone never stops ringing.’ The tumbler had missed him; he brushed ice-water from his arm.
Lorna pushed herself off the sofa. Rebus got the idea the pair were used to arguing in public, that they considered it their inalienable right as artists.