‘Hey, you two.’ A voice of reason from the doorway. ‘We can’t hear ourselves think in there. So much for soundproofing.’ It was a drawl, easy, relaxed. Peter Grief reached into the fridge for a bottle of water. ‘Besides, it’s the rock star who should be having the tantrums, not his aunt and uncle.’
Rebus and Peter Grief sat in the control room. Everyone else was upstairs in the dining room. A baker’s van had arrived, bearing trays of sandwiches and patisserie. Rebus had a little paper plate in his hand, just the one triangle of bread on it: chicken tikka filling. Peter Grief was using a finger to remove the cream from a wedge of sponge cake. It was all he’d eaten so far. He’d asked if it was all right to have music on in the background. Music helped him to think.
‘Even when it’s a rough mix of one of my own songs.’
Which is what they were listening to. Rebus said he considered three-piece bands a rarity. Grief corrected him by mentioning Manic Street Preachers, Massive Attack, Supergrass, and half a dozen others, then added: ‘And Cream, of course.’
‘Not forgetting Jimi Hendrix.’
Grief bowed his head. ‘Noel Redding: not many bassists could keep up with James Marshall.’
Niceties dispensed with, Rebus put down his plate. ‘You know why I’m here, Peter?’
‘Hugh told me.’
‘I’m sorry about your father.’
Grief shrugged. ‘Bad career move for a politician. Now if he’d only been in my business...’ It had the sound of a rehearsed line, something to be used over and again as self-protection.
‘How old were you when your parents separated?’
‘Too young to remember.’
‘You were brought up by your mother?’
Grief nodded. ‘But they stayed close. You know, “for the sake of the child”.’
‘Something like that still hurts though, doesn’t it?’ Grief glanced up. There was a seam of anger in his voice. ‘How would you know?’
‘I left my wife. She had to bring up our daughter.’
‘And how’s your daughter doing?’ The anger quickly replaced by curiosity.
‘She’s okay.’ Rebus paused. ‘Now, that is. Back then... I’m not so sure.’
‘You are a cop, right? I mean, this isn’t some cheap trick to get me discussing my feelings with a counsellor?’
Rebus smiled. ‘If I was a counsellor, Peter, my next question would be, “Do you think you need to discuss your feelings?”’
Grief smiled, bowed his head. ‘Sometimes I wish I was like Hugh and Lorna.’
‘They don’t exactly keep things bottled up, do they?’
‘Not exactly.’ Another smile, dying slowly on his lips. Grief was tall and slender with black hair, possibly dyed, and slicked back from a semi-quiff. His face was long and angular, prominent cheekbones and dark, haunted eyes. He looked right for the part: soiled white T-shirt baggy at the sleeves. Black drainpipe denims and biker boots. Thin leather braids around both wrists and a pentangle hanging from his throat. If Rebus had been casting for bassist in a rock band, he’d have told the other applicants to head for home.
‘You know we’re trying to figure out who might have wanted to kill your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you spoke with him, did he ever...? Did you get the feeling he had enemies, anyone he was worried about?’
Grief was shaking his head. ‘He wouldn’t have told me.’
‘Who would he have told?’
‘Maybe Uncle Cammo.’ Grief paused. ‘Or Grandma.’ His fingers were busy imitating the loudspeaker bass-line. ‘I wanted you to hear this song. It’s about the last time Dad and I spoke.’
Rebus listened; the rhythm wasn’t exactly funereal.
‘We had this big falling-out. He thought I was wasting my time, blamed Uncle Hugh for stringing me along.’
Rebus couldn’t make out the words. ‘So what’s the song called?’
‘Here’s the chorus coming.’ Grief began to sing along, and now Rebus could make out the words only too well.
Hugh Cordover and Lorna Grieve walked Rebus out to his car.
‘Yes,’ Cordover said, ‘that’s probably their best song.’ He carried a cordless phone with him.
‘You know it’s about his father?’
‘I know they argued, and Peter got a song out of it.’ Cordover shrugged. ‘Does that mean it’s about his father? I think you’re being a bit too literal, Inspector.’
‘Maybe.’
Lorna Grieve was showing no ill-effects from the drink she’d consumed. She examined Rebus’s Saab as though it was a museum piece. ‘Do they still make these?’
‘The new models don’t come with gas lamps,’ Rebus told her. She smiled at him.
‘A sense of humour, how refreshing.’
‘Just one more thing...’ Rebus leaned into the car, came out with the Obscura album.
‘My God,’ Cordover said. ‘You don’t see many of these around.’
‘Wonder why,’ his wife muttered, staring at her photo on the cover.
‘I was going to ask if you’d sign it?’ Rebus said, bringing out a pen.
Cordover took the pen from him. ‘With pleasure. But hang on, do you want me or High Chord?’
Rebus smiled. ‘It’s got to be High Chord, hasn’t it?’
Cordover scrawled the name across the cover and made to hand the album back.
‘And the model...?’ Rebus asked. She looked at him and he thought she was going to refuse. But then she took the pen and added her name, studying the cover afterwards.
‘The hieroglyphs,’ Rebus asked, ‘any idea what they mean?’
Cordover laughed. ‘Not a clue. Some guy I knew, he was into that stuff.’ Rebus was noticing that some of the hieroglyphs were actually pentangles, like the pendant Peter Grief had worn.
Lorna laughed. ‘Come on, Hugh. You were into that stuff.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘He still is. Not quite Jimmy Page’s league, but it’s why we moved to Roslin, to be near the chapel. Bloody New Age mumbo-jumbo, growing a ponytail and everything.’
‘I think the Inspector has heard enough character assassination for one day,’ Cordover said, his face growing ugly. Then the phone rang, and he turned away to answer it, sounding suddenly excited. His voice took on a transatlantic twang, forgetting all about Lorna, all about Rebus. Leaving the two of them together. She folded her arms.
‘He’s pathetic, isn’t he? What do I see in him?’
‘Not for me to say.’
She studied him. ‘So was I right? Do you drink?’
‘Only socially.’
‘You mean as opposed to antisocially?’ She laughed. ‘I can be social when I want to. It’s just that I seldom want to be when Hugh’s around.’ She glanced back to where her husband was making for the house. He was talking numbers — money or record pressings, Rebus couldn’t tell.
‘So where do you drink?’ she asked.
‘A few places.’
‘Name them.’
‘The Oxford Bar. Swany’s. The Malting.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Why is it I’m seeing bare floorboards and cigarette smoke, swearing and bluster and not many women?’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘You know them then?’
‘I feel I do. Maybe we’ll bump into one another.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I feel like kissing you. That’s probably not allowed, right?’
‘Right,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Maybe I’ll do it anyway.’ Cordover had disappeared into the house. ‘Or would that be classed as assault?’