Set in Darkness by Ian Rankin Page A

head at the memory.
    ‘Lorna? I’d like to meet her.’
    ‘She’s a monster.’
    ‘Good-looking monster.’ Linford shrugged, as if looks meant nothing to him. ‘If I look half as good at her age,’ Siobhan went on, ‘I’ll be doing well.’
    He busied himself with his wineglass. Maybe he thought she was fishing for a compliment. Maybe she was.
    ‘She seemed to hit it off with your bodyguard,’ he said at last.
    ‘My what?’
    ‘Rebus. The one who doesn’t want me seeing you.’
    ‘I’m sure he—’
    Linford leaned back suddenly in his chair. ‘Oh, let’s forget it. Sorry I said anything.’
    Siobhan was confused now. She didn’t know what kindof signals her dinner partner was giving off. She brushed non-existent crumbs from her red crushed-velvet dress, checked the knees of her black tights for runs that weren’t there. With her coat off, her arms and shoulders were bare. Was she making him nervous?
    ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked.
    He shook his head, eyes everywhere but on her. ‘It’s just . . . I’ve never dated anyone from work before.’
    ‘Dated?’
    ‘You know, gone out for a meal with them. I mean, I’ve been to official functions, but never . . .’ His eyes finally rested on hers. ‘Just two people, me and one other. Like this.’
    She smiled. ‘We’re having dinner, Derek, that’s all.’ She swallowed the sentence back, but too late.
Was
that all they were going to do, have dinner? Was he expecting anything more?
    But he seemed to relax a little. ‘Bloody strange house, too,’ he said, as though his mind had been on the Grieves all along. ‘Paintings and newspapers and books spread everywhere. Deceased’s mother lives alone, should probably be in a home, someone to look after her.’
    ‘She’s a painter, isn’t she?’
    ‘Was. Not sure she still is.’
    ‘Her stuff fetches a small fortune. It was in the papers.’
    ‘Bit gaga if you ask me, but then she’d just lost a son. Not really for me to say, is it?’ He looked at her to see how he was doing. Her eyes told him to go on. ‘Cammo Grieve was there, too.’
    ‘He’s supposed to be a rake.’
    Linford seemed surprised. ‘Bit fat to be a rake.’
    ‘Not a garden rake. You know, a bit of a ladies’ man, not to be trusted.’
    She was grinning, but he took her at her word. ‘Not to be trusted? Hmm.’ He went thoughtful again. ‘God knows what they were talking about.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Rebus and Lorna Grieve.’
    ‘Rock music,’ Siobhan stated, leaning back so the waitress could pour the wine.
    ‘Some of the time, yes.’ Linford studied her. ‘How did you know?’
    ‘She’s married to a record producer, and John loves all that. Immediate connection.’
    ‘I can see why you’re in CID.’
    She shrugged. ‘He’s probably the only man I know who plays Wishbone Ash on surveillance.’
    ‘Who are Wishbone Ash?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    Later, when they’d finished their starters, Siobhan asked again about Roddy Grieve. ‘I mean, we are talking suspicious death here, aren’t we?’
    ‘Autopsy’s not been done yet, but it’s a racing certainty. He didn’t kill himself and it doesn’t look like an accident.’
    ‘Killing a politician.’ Siobhan tutted.
    ‘Ah, but he wasn’t, was he? He was a financial analyst who just happened to be running for parliament.’
    ‘Making it harder to fathom why he was killed?’
    Linford nodded. ‘Could be a client with a grudge. Maybe Grieve made some bad investments.’
    ‘Then there are the people he beat to the Labour nomination.’
    ‘Agreed: plenty of infighting there.’
    ‘And there’s his family.’
    ‘A way of getting at them.’ Linford was still nodding.
    ‘Or he was just in the wrong place, et cetera.’
    ‘Goes to take a look at the parliament site, becomes victim of a mugging gone wrong.’ Linford puffed out his cheeks. ‘Lots of possible motives.’
    ‘And they all have to be looked at.’
    ‘Yes.’ Linford didn’t look too happy at