The New Ian Rankin Novel

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I appreciate you doing this,’ Rebus said. ‘And thanks for taking the trouble to get in touch in the first place.’

  ‘You said on the phone I wasn’t alone?’

  Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘A few others are of the same mind as you.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what you think.’ Mellon gestured towards the Land Rover. ‘Not allergic to dogs, are you?’

  In the back of the vehicle sat a collie – Rebus guessed a sheep dog. Intelligent eyes, and not about to demean itself by looking for a pat from a stranger. The engine started with a roar and they headed up the narrow muddy road, past a sign warning them that if its lights were flashing, the snow gates ahead were closed.

  ‘How often do vehicles use this route?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘A few times a day,’ Mellon speculated. ‘Not much up here.’

  ‘It’s signposted to Aultnamain.’

  ‘Not much there either – but we’re not headed that far.’ He was turning on to a single-track road, punctuated by passing places. It was tarmacked, but with grass sprouting through cracks in the surface. Only a minute or two later, he brought them to a juddering stop and pulled on the handbrake. ‘I’d say this is it.’

  Rebus opened his door and got out. He produced a copy of the photo from his pocket. The sky was darker now, but not too dark. Mellon was pointing out the direction to him. Rebus gazed, then held up the photo, his eyes moving between the image and the real thing.

  ‘Could have been taken at any time, mind,’ Mellon cautioned.

  Rebus knew what the man meant: there was probably little in this landscape that had changed in a hundred years or more.

  ‘The thing is,’ Rebus said, ‘this time of day, she couldn’t have been much further north than Pitlochry. By the time she got here, it would have been pitch black.’

  ‘Then the photo can’t have been taken here, can it?’

  But Rebus wasn’t so sure. He got out his own phone and snapped the view. It wasn’t professional quality, but he started sending it to Clarke anyway. His phone, however, had other plans.

  ‘No signal,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘It’s usually pretty good. You just have to find the right spot.’

  ‘So even if the photo was taken here . . .’

  ‘She might have had trouble sending it.’ The farmer nodded his understanding. ‘Do you have other locations that could fit the bill?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘Any of them near where she was last seen?’

  ‘They’re not as good a match as this.’ Rebus was looking around. Some would call it a peaceful spot, others a lonely one. The wind was whistling around them. Rebus didn’t quite know what he was looking for, other than a sense of the why and the who: why here, and who had chosen it?

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything suspicious?’ he asked Mellon. ‘Any strangers stopping for longer than usual?’

  The farmer plunged his hands into the pockets of his Barbour. ‘Nothing like that. And I’ve asked around, everybody says the same.’

  ‘Tyre tracks where there shouldn’t be any?’

  The farmer shook his head.

  ‘And at the top of the road?’

  ‘Left at the junction brings you back to Alness eventually.’

  ‘And if you turn right?’

  ‘You join the road to Bonar Bridge.’

  ‘What are the chances of a stranger finding this road, Mr Mellon?’

  The man shrugged. ‘It’s on the maps. I dare say satnav has it too.’

  Rebus was taking a couple more photos, but it was getting too dark for them to be of any use. He just felt he should be doing something.

  ‘You’ve come a long way,’ the farmer said. ‘There’s tea at the house if you want it.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got a few miles ahead of me.’

  ‘And have you seen enough?’

  Rebus surveyed the horizon – as much of it as he could make out. ‘I think so.’

  ‘You reckon the poor lassie’s out here somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rebus admitted.

  Back at the Land Rover, the dog gave him what could have been taken for a sympathetic look.

  30

  For some reason – mostly because he had failed to make any other decision – he was back on the A9, but heading further north. Soon though he turned off into Dornoch, passing what he assumed must be its cathedral (though no bigger than a village kirk) and stopping in the near-deserted square. A hotel and a shop seemed to be open, but the streets were empty. He found he could get a signal, and got out of the car to walk up and down a bit while he made the call.

  ‘Well?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.

  ‘I’m pretty sure.’

  ‘But not absolutely certain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘I’ve taken a few photos on my phone so you can see what I mean.’

  ‘Are you heading back?’

  ‘Not quite yet. I’ve stopped in Dornoch.’

  ‘At this rate you’ll not be home till midnight.’

  Rebus thought of the overnight bag on the Saab’s back seat. ‘Thing is, Siobhan, there’s no way she could have sent that picture on her phone. Not from Edderton, not at the time she did.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So how else could it have been sent? All I can come up with is it’s not an actual photo as such.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘A photo of a photo. Might explain why it looks slightly blurry.’

  ‘And sent why?’

  ‘To throw us off the scent. Because we’d then spend days scouring the countryside around Pitlochry looking for it, reckoning it for the crime scene.’

  Clarke was silent for a moment. ‘We could check that,’ she said. ‘Just need someone who knows about photography.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So it doesn’t really get us anywhere?’

  ‘It tells us we’re dealing with someone who puts a bit of thought in. And whoever they are, looks like they have this calling card. That’s two things we didn’t know before.’

  ‘I’d probably trade them for a name and address, though.’

  ‘You and me both.’ He had crossed the road and was standing beneath a signpost. To The Beach was one option.

  ‘Isn’t Dornoch where Madonna got married to that film director?’ Clarke was asking.

  ‘I’ll ask next time I see her. Meantime, any news your end?’

  ‘Still no sign of Thomas Robertson. But other locations for the photo are coming in.’

  ‘Any good ones?’

  ‘Nothing we haven’t heard before. Durness got another vote, though.’

  ‘Does that put it level with Edderton?’

  ‘Just tucked in behind. Oh, one other thing – you remember Alasdair Blunt?’

  ‘The charmer who reckons Zoe Beddows ruined his marriage?’

  ‘We showed him the photo from Annette’s phone.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘I’ll tell you who might have a better memory of it . . .’

  ‘His ex-wife? Her name’s Judith Inglis.’

  ‘You’re earning your sweeties today, Siobhan. What was her opinion?’

  ‘A pretty good match, she reckons. I mean, it’s far from definitive . . .’ Rebus grunted a response and she changed the subject, asking him if he’d seen any dolphins: ‘There are supposed to be some up that way.’

  ‘Bit dark now,’ he replied. ‘Have you clocked off for the day?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I seem to remember the road trip was your choice.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And you wanted to do it alone.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Just wondering if you maybe had another navigator in mind.’

  ‘Nina Hazlitt, you mean?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Nic
e to be held in such low esteem.’

  ‘You really are on your own there?’

  Rebus looked up and down the empty street. ‘I really am,’ he said.

  ‘She mentioned you by name in one of the interviews she gave. Surprised your ears weren’t burning.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Apparently you’re one of the very few “persons in authority” to take her seriously.’

  ‘I’m a person in authority?’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you hear. Besides, it’ll probably count against you with James.’

  ‘Because he’s not the one getting the plaudits?’

  ‘We’re all working hard, John. Nobody likes it when one figure gets picked out.’

  ‘Understood.’ He ended the call with a promise to send her his photos from Edderton. He did so while he still had a signal, noting that his phone’s battery was getting low. Back at the car he started the ignition and headed down a narrow lane, which widened as it passed a caravan site and a coastguard station. The wind off the firth buffeted the Saab, the track ahead covered in a shifting, swirling layer of sand. He found himself in an empty car park, a steep grassy slope behind him. There were steps down to the beach, and the moon revealed the tide line. From what little he could see, the beach stretched for hundreds of yards. Rocky outcrops jutted from the sand. The waves had that insistent pulse to them, never quite the same twice. He felt utterly alone in the world. No traffic sounds; no other humans; nothing but clouds visible in the sky overhead. Only his car to remind him what century this was – that and his phone, which rang obligingly. It was Nina Hazlitt.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, answering.

  ‘Reception’s terrible.’

  ‘It’s the wind, I think. I’m heading back to the car.’

  ‘Are you on top of a mountain or something?’

  ‘At the coast, actually.’ He climbed the steps, opened the driver’s-side door and got in. ‘Is that better?’ he asked.

  ‘Weather sounds foul up there.’

  ‘We’re used to it. What can I do for you, Nina?’

  ‘Nothing, really. I just wanted a chat.’

  ‘I’ll warn you – I’ve not much battery left.’

  She paused, as if seeking the right gambit. ‘How are you getting on with the book?’ she offered.

  ‘Really interesting.’

  ‘You’re just saying that . . .’

  ‘The Burry Man versus the Green Man, selkies versus mermaids . . . I remember the selkie in that film Local Hero.’

  ‘Wasn’t she a mermaid?’

  ‘Maybe she was.’

  ‘Sounds like you are reading it, though.’

  ‘Told you.’ He peered out towards the swell of the sea. Dolphins? Not tonight. And selkies, shape-changers? Not in a million years.

  ‘Is there any . . . progress?’

  ‘A bit,’ he conceded.

  ‘Do you have to keep it secret from me?’

  ‘It’s more to do with Annette McKie.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Did you get a chance to ask Sally’s friends?’

  ‘None of them remembers anyone out of the ordinary visiting the Friends Reunited page.’

  ‘It was always a long shot.’

  ‘Long shots seem to be my speciality.’

  ‘Mine, too. I’m a long way from giving up on this.’

  ‘I hope that’s true, John.’

  ‘But it might help if you didn’t mention my name to the media.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Doesn’t go down well with the other troops.’

  ‘I didn’t realise.’ She paused again. ‘I seem to keep letting you down, don’t I?’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  The call lasted a few more minutes. It seemed to him that despite the presence of her brother in her life, the woman was lonely. Friends had probably fallen away as her range of interests had narrowed. He was relieved when his phone beeped, telling him the battery was about to give out.

  ‘Any second now, my phone’s going to die,’ he explained to her.

  ‘In other words, you’re fobbing me off.’ Her tone had stiffened.

  ‘Nothing like that, Nina.’ But she’d already hung up on him. He exhaled noisily and began to reverse out of his parking spot, but then stopped again and reached for the road map. Durness was on the A838, which ran along Scotland’s jagged northern coastline. To get there, all he had to do was follow the A836, the same road that ran through Edderton. How long that journey might take was another matter. His phone summoned up just enough life for an incoming text from Siobhan Clarke: Dear David Bailey, hard to tell – looks promising though x

  He headed back into the centre of Dornoch and saw that the hotel opposite the cathedral was brightly lit and inviting. There would be beer there, and a good range of malt whiskies. Hot food, too, if he was lucky. He had filled his wallet before setting out, knowing a night away was probable, so he parked the Saab directly outside the hotel’s front door and got his bag from the back seat.

  31

  He was awake early and first into the breakfast room. A fry-up, two glasses of orange juice and a couple of cups of coffee dealt with a head thickened by one whisky too many. There had been a slight frost overnight, and a milky sun was doing its best to penetrate thin layers of cloud. The citizens of Dornoch were readying for the day’s business or returning home with their newspapers of choice. Rebus dumped his overnight bag in the Saab, scraped the frost from the windscreen with his credit card and started the engine.

  The A836 started off as a two-lane road, busy with local traffic but few tourists. Heavily laden logging lorries squeezed past Rebus’s car as they headed south. He refilled the fuel tank at the first petrol station he saw, unsure when there might be another. The attendant didn’t seem to know either.

  ‘Depends which roads you’re taking.’

  ‘True enough,’ Rebus responded, unable to fault the young man’s logic. Then, realising how much each litre was costing, he requested a receipt. Back in the car, he looked at the map book again. The peaks all had Gaelic names, none of which he’d heard of: Cnoc a Ghiubhais; Meall an Fhuarain; Cnoc an Daimh Mor. There was a whisky called anCnoc, so ‘Cnoc’ had to mean something. Maybe next time he would take the trouble to read the label on the bottle. After the village of Lairg, the road narrowed to a single lane with passing places and the terrain became more desolate. Cloud covered the tops of peaks whose steep slopes were dusted with snow. He passed conifer plantations and the remains of such plantations, stumps like tombstones in a vast cemetery. The sky was leaden, and weathered signs warned of lambs on the road. At Altnaharra, the hotel was open all year round. He saw that a few cars had parked up, walkers and climbers prepping for the rigours ahead. He pulled over and sat for a few minutes with his windows down, overhearing snatches of conversation and watching as they set out for the day. Some had Ordnance Survey maps strung around their necks, protected from the elements by clear plastic pouches. Their backpacks bulged with provisions and waterproofs, and most carried a long pole – and sometimes two – to help take the strain. He waited until the last one had clambered over the stile and had their back to him before he lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the crisp, unpolluted air.

  Half an hour later, he was driving into the village of Tongue, where he would join the road west along the coast to Durness. But he had one detour to make. There was a photograph in his jacket pocket. It had been sent to him a few years back, and he used it to find where he was looking for. The village itself was off to the left of the road, but Rebus headed for the causeway across the Kyle of Tongue. The bungalow was next door to a youth hostel. There were no names next to the doorbell. He pressed and waited, then pressed again. The view was breathtaking, but the house had been battered by the elements and would be again. He peered in through the living room window, then walked around to the back. No fence separated the property from the field behind it. The kitchen showed signs that someone had been home earlier: cereal pa
cket next to the table, milk waiting to be returned to the fridge. Rebus went back to the Saab and sat there wondering what to do now. He could hear seabirds and gusts of wind, but nothing else. He tore a page from his notebook and jotted a message, returning to the front door to push it through the letter box.

  He drove off again in silence, not in the mood for a CD or whatever radio reception could be mustered. Soon he was entering something calling itself ‘North-West Highland Geopark’. The landscape grew more alien, almost lunar, rocks barely covered by any form of vegetation. But now and then there would be a spectacular cove with pristine white sand and blue sea. Rebus began to wonder if he’d ever been further from a pub in his life. He checked petrol gauge and cigarette packet both. Durness was still some miles off, and he had no idea what he would find there. He skirted Loch Eriboll and headed north again. Durness wasn’t quite at the tip of Scotland – if you reckoned your vehicle up to the task, you could follow a track all the way to Cape Wrath. Rebus had a phone number for one of the locals, but no signal as yet. Durness itself, when he reached it, consisted of a few cottages and larger modern houses, plus a smattering of shops. There were even a couple of venerable petrol pumps. He stopped next to them and crossed the road to the Spar, where he asked the shopkeeper if she knew where Anthony Greenwood lived.

  ‘He went to Smoo this morning,’ she told him. ‘I’m not sure if he’s back.’

  Rebus then showed her the photo.

  ‘You’re the police?’ she surmised. ‘From Edinburgh? Anthony told us all about it. The spot you’re looking for is just by Keoldale.’

  Two minutes later, armed with a fresh pack of cigarettes, he was back in the Saab and driving a further couple of miles, following her precise – almost too precise – instructions. But as he neared the site, he knew it was wrong. Not all wrong; just wrong enough. Gusts snapped at him as he gazed down towards the Kyle of Durness, then up the slope towards the bare hillside beyond a row of embattled trees, some of which looked permanently stooped.

  ‘No,’ he said. The hillside was too steep.

  But then he’d known that all along, and even more so since Edderton. He drove slowly up and down the road, just in case he was missing something, but the shopkeeper in Durness had sent him to the right place.