by Ian Rankin
‘Never learned to fly a plane, either,’ he said to himself.
He studied the cigarette he was holding. He’d undergone a medical a few months back and received the usual warnings. His dentist, too, was always checking for the first signs of anything nasty. So far so good.
‘Every lucky streak comes to an end, John,’ his dentist had told him. ‘Trust me.’
‘Can I get an each-way bet on that?’ Rebus had replied.
He stubbed the cigarette into an ashtray and counted how many were left in the packet. Eight, meaning he’d smoked twelve so far today. That wasn’t bad, was it? Time was, he’d have finished one lot and broken open another. He wasn’t drinking as much either: couple of beers of an evening, with maybe a tot or three of whisky before bed. He had a beer open now – his first of the day. Neither Bliss nor Robison had fancied a drink after work, and he hadn’t been about to ask Cowan. Cowan tended to hang around the office late. They were housed within Police HQ on Fettes Avenue, which gave Cowan the chance to bump into senior officers, people potentially useful to him who would notice how he kept a good shine on his shoes and always addressed them properly.
‘It’s called stalking,’ Rebus had once informed him, having caught him laughing too heartily at an old joke one of the assistant chief constables had been telling in the corridor. ‘And I notice you don’t pull him up when he calls you Dan . . .’
In a way, though, Rebus felt sorry for Cowan. There were almost certainly less proficient officers around who had more successfully scaled the heights. Cowan certainly felt that, and it gnawed away at him, so that he was almost hollowed out by it. The team had suffered as a result, which was a pity. Rebus liked many aspects of the job. He felt a small tremor of anticipation whenever he undid the binding from an old case file. There might be boxes and boxes, each one ready to take him on a trip back through time. Yellowed newspapers would contain not only reports of the crime, but also general stories of national and world affairs, plus sport and advertisements. He would get Elaine Robison to guess how much a car or a house had cost in 1974, and would read out the football league tables to Peter Bliss, who had a knack for remembering the names of players and managers. But then, eventually, Rebus would be pulled back to the crime itself, to the details, interviews, evidence and family testimony: somebody thinks they got away with it . . . knows they got away with it. He hoped all these killers were out there somewhere, growing more ill at ease with each passing year as they read about advances in detection and technology. Maybe when their grandkids wanted to watch CSI or Waking the Dead, they had to leave the room and sit in the kitchen. Maybe they couldn’t bear the sight of newsprint, or weren’t able to listen in peace to the radio or TV news, for fear of hearing about the reopening of the case.
Rebus had posited the idea to Cowan: get the media to report breakthroughs on a regular basis, real or not, just to put the wind up the culprits.
‘Something might shake loose.’
But Cowan hadn’t been keen: weren’t the media in enough trouble already for fabricating stories?
‘It wouldn’t be them doing it,’ Rebus had persisted, ‘it would be us.’ But Cowan had just kept shaking his head.
The record finished and Rebus lifted the needle from the vinyl. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, far too early to be considering bed. He’d already eaten; already decided there was nothing on TV worth watching. The bottle of beer was empty. He walked over to the window and stared out at the tenement opposite. A couple of children in pyjamas were staring back at him from a first-floor flat. He waved, which sent them scampering away. Now they were circling one another in the middle of their room, bouncing on their toes, not at all sleepy, and he had been dismissed from their universe.
He knew what they’d been telling him, though – there was a whole other world out there. And that could mean only one thing.
‘Pub,’ Rebus said out loud, reaching for his phone and his keys. Switching off the record deck and amp, he noticed the pick again and decided it was coming with him too.
Part One
A man disappears down bar steps
With a piece of wounded sky . . .
1
He was the only person in the office when the phone rang. Cowan and Bliss had gone to the canteen, and Robison had a doctor’s appointment. Rebus picked up the receiver. It was the front desk.
‘Lady here wants to talk to DI Magrath.’
‘Then you’ve got the wrong office.’
‘She says different.’
Rebus watched as Bliss came into the room, carrying a soft drink in one hand, a sandwich in the other, and with the edge of a crisp packet clamped between his teeth. ‘Hang on,’ he said into the receiver. Then, to Bliss: ‘Any ideas about a DI called Magrath?’
Bliss placed the sandwich on his desk and removed the bag from his mouth. ‘He started this place,’ he told Rebus.
‘How do you mean?’
‘First boss of SCRU – we’re all his babies, in a manner of speaking.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Fifteen years maybe.’
‘Someone downstairs is looking for him.’
‘Good luck to them.’ Bliss saw Rebus’s look. ‘He’s not dead or anything. Took up his pension six years back. Bought a place up north on the coast.’
‘DI Magrath hasn’t worked here for six years,’ Rebus explained into the mouthpiece.
‘Can somebody else have a word, then?’ he was asked.
‘We’re a bit busy up here – what’s it about?’
‘A missing person.’
‘Not really our department.’
‘She met with DI Magrath apparently. He gave her his card.’
‘Has she got a name?’ Rebus asked.
‘Nina Hazlitt.’
‘Nina Hazlitt?’ Rebus repeated, for Peter Bliss’s benefit. Bliss thought for a moment, then shook his head.
‘What is it she thinks we can do for her?’ Rebus asked the front desk.
‘Wouldn’t it be a lot easier for you to ask her that yourself?’
Rebus considered for a moment. Bliss was seated behind his desk, breaking open the prawn Marie Rose sandwich – same thing he always brought back from the canteen. Cowan would soon appear, his fingers scented by bacon-flavour crisps. Maybe a trip downstairs wasn’t such a bad idea.
‘Five minutes,’ he said into the receiver, ending the call. Then he asked Bliss if the office had ever dealt with missing persons.
‘You don’t think we’ve got enough on our plates?’ Bliss poked a toe against one of half a dozen musty-smelling storage boxes piled next to him.
‘Maybe Magrath worked MisPers before he came here.’
‘Regular CID as far as I recall.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Still do. He calls me at home now and again to check SCRU’s still here. He was the one who signed me up – almost the last thing he did before taking the gold watch. After him came Eddie Tranter, and then it was Cowan’s turn.’
‘Are my ears burning?’ Cowan walked through the doorway. He was stirring a cappuccino with a white plastic spoon. Rebus knew he would proceed to lick that spoon until not a trace of foam was left on it, before depositing it in the bin. Then he would slurp the coffee while checking his computer for e-mails. And the room would fill with the aromas of smoky bacon and vinegary prawn.
‘Cigarette break,’ Rebus said, shrugging his arms into his jacket.
‘Mind you don’t take too long,’ Cowan cautioned.
‘Missing me already?’ Rebus asked, blowing a kiss and making for the door.
The main reception area wasn’t huge, and she was easy to spot, being the only person seated on the single row of chairs. She sprang to her feet as Rebus approached. The bag on her lap fell to the floor, and she crouched down, scrabbling for its contents. Scraps of paper, several pens, lighter, sunglasses and a mobile phone. Rebus decided to let her do it unaided, then get back to her feet, rearrange her clothes and hair, and compose
herself.
‘My name’s Nina Hazlitt,’ she told him, shooting out a hand for him to shake.
‘John Rebus,’ he replied. Her grip was firm, several gold bangles dancing on her wrist. Her reddish-blonde hair was cut in what Rebus would have called a bob. Late forties at a guess, with laughter lines either side of her pale blue eyes.
‘DI Magrath’s retired?’ Rebus nodded by way of answer, and she handed him the business card. It was smudged from age, its edges curled. ‘I did try phoning . . .’
‘Long time since those numbers were active. What brings you here, Ms Hazlitt?’ He returned the card and slid his hands into his pockets.
‘I spoke with DI Magrath in 2004. He was very generous with his time.’ The words were tumbling out of her. ‘He wasn’t able to help in the end, but he did what he could. Not everyone was like that – and it’s no different now. So I thought maybe I’d come to him.’ She paused. ‘He’s really retired?’
Rebus nodded again. ‘Six years back.’
‘Six years . . .’ She was staring past him, eyes unfocused, as if wondering where the time had gone.
‘I was told you’re here concerning a missing person,’ he prompted her.
She blinked her way back into the here and now. ‘My daughter Sally.’
‘When did she disappear?’
‘New Year’s Eve 1999,’ Hazlitt recited.
‘No sign of her since?’
The woman lowered her head and gave it a shake.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Rebus told her.
‘I’ve not given up, though.’ Hazlitt took a deep breath and met his gaze. ‘That’s something I can’t do till I know the truth.’
‘I can appreciate that.’
Her eyes softened a little. ‘I’ve been told the exact same thing so many times . . .’
‘I’m sure you have.’ He turned his head towards the window. ‘Look, I was just headed outside for a cigarette – maybe you could do with one too?’
‘How do you know I smoke?’
‘I’ve seen what you keep in your handbag, Ms Hazlitt,’ he said, ushering her towards the door.
They wandered along the driveway towards the main road. She had turned down his offer of a Silk Cut, preferring her own menthols. When his cheap lighter refused to work, she’d fished in the bag for her Zippo.
‘Don’t see many women with these,’ he’d commented.
‘It was my husband’s.’
‘Was?’
‘He only lasted a year after Sally vanished. Doctors decided it was an embolism. They don’t like putting “broken heart” on death certificates.’
‘Sally’s your only child?’
Hazlitt nodded. ‘She’d just turned eighteen. Six more months and she’d have finished school. University was next: she was going to study English. Tom was an English teacher . . .’
‘Tom being your husband?’
She nodded. ‘House full of books; hardly surprising she caught the bug. When she was little, Tom used to read her a bedtime story. I walked in on them one night, expecting it to be a picture book of some kind, but it was Great Expectations.’ The memory caused her to smile, creasing her face. Although more than half her cigarette remained, she flicked it on to the roadway. ‘Sally and a bunch of her friends had rented some sort of chalet not far from Aviemore. Our Christmas present had been her share of the outlay.’
‘The Millennium,’ Rebus commented. ‘I don’t suppose it was cheap.’
‘It wasn’t. But it was supposed to be for four people and six of them squeezed in. That helped a bit.’
‘Was she a skier?’
Hazlitt shook her head. ‘I know that’s what the town’s famous for, and at least two of the girls could ski, but Sally just wanted to hang out. They’d been in to Aviemore itself – got invites to a couple of parties. They all thought she must be at the other one. There hadn’t been a row or anything.’
‘She’d been drinking?’
‘I would assume so.’ Hazlitt buttoned her thin jacket against the chill. ‘I’d expected a phone call at midnight, even though I knew the reception on her phone wasn’t great at the best of times. Next morning her friends guessed she’d hooked up with someone and was sleeping it off elsewhere.’ She stopped abruptly and met his eyes. ‘Not that she was like that.’
‘Did she have a boyfriend?’
‘They’d split up that autumn. He was questioned at the time.’
Rebus didn’t remember the case at all, but then Aviemore was a long way north of Edinburgh.
‘Tom and I had to travel up to Scotland—’
‘Where from?’ Rebus interrupted her. He’d taken it for granted that though her accent was English, she lived in the city.
‘London,’ she informed him. ‘Crouch End – do you know it?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘We were lucky – Tom’s parents helped us buy the place when we were first married. They’d come into some money.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, I know none of that’s relevant.’
‘You’ve been told as much?’ he guessed.
‘By very many police officers,’ she admitted with another rueful smile.
‘So how did you end up talking to DI Magrath?’ Rebus asked, genuinely curious.
‘I talked to everyone – everyone who had time for me. DI Magrath had been mentioned in a newspaper. He specialised in unsolved crimes. And after the second one . . .’ She saw that she had his attention and took a deep breath, as if preparing for a recitation. ‘May 2002, A834 near Strathpeffer. Her name was Brigid Young. She was thirty-four and worked as a chartered accountant. Her car was parked by the road. It had a flat tyre. She was never seen again. So many people go missing every year . . .’
‘But something made this one stand out?’
‘Well, it’s the same road, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘Strathpeffer is just off the A9 – look at a map if you don’t believe me.’
‘Right,’ Rebus said.
She gave him a hard stare. ‘I recognise that tone. It means you’re beginning to wonder about me.’
‘Is that a fact?’
She ignored him and ploughed on. ‘The third was in 2008 on the A9 itself – a garden centre between Stirling and Auch . . .’ She frowned. ‘The place with Gleneagles Hotel.’
‘Auchterarder?’
She nodded. ‘A twenty-two-year-old called Zoe Beddows. Her car was in the car park all the next day and the day after. That’s when suspicions were raised.’
Rebus had smoked his cigarette down to its filter. ‘Ms Hazlitt . . .’ he began. She held her hand up to stop him.
‘I’ve heard it too many times not to know what you’re about to say. There’s no evidence, no bodies have ever turned up, so as far as you lot are concerned, there’s no crime. I’m just a mother whose reasoning has disappeared along with her only child. Does that cover it, Inspector?’
‘I’m not an inspector,’ he replied quietly. ‘I used to be, but these days I’m retired. I work for the police in a civilian capacity. Outside of Cold Cases, I have no authority, which means I’m not much use to you.’
‘But what are these if they’re not cold cases?’ Her voice had risen and taken on a slight tremor.
‘It’s possible I can think of someone else for you to talk to.’
‘You mean CID?’ She waited for him to nod. Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned away from him. ‘I’ve just come from there. The inspector hardly gave me the time of day.’
‘Maybe if I speak to him first . . .’ Rebus reached into his jacket for his phone.
‘Not a him, a her. Clarke, she said her name was.’ She turned her face back towards him. ‘It’s happened again, you see. And it’s going to keep happening.’ She paused and screwed her eyes shut. A single tear began to trace its way down her left cheek. ‘Sally was only the first . . .’
2
‘Hey, you,’ Rebus said, stepping out of his car.
‘What’s wrong?’ Detective Inspect
or Siobhan Clarke turned her head slightly to peer at the building from which she’d just emerged. ‘Bad memories stopping you coming in?’
Rebus took a moment to study the dreary two-storey façade of Gayfield Square police station. ‘Just got here,’ he explained, though in fact he’d been sitting in the Saab for a good four or five minutes, hands playing with the steering wheel. ‘Looks like you’re off out . . .’
‘Well deduced.’ She gave a smile and took a couple of steps forward, pecking him on the cheek. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Still seem to have that old lust for life.’
‘Meaning booze and nicotine?’
Rebus gave a shrug, returning her smile but keeping quiet.
‘To answer your question,’ she said, ‘I’m taking a late lunch. There’s a café I usually go to on Leith Walk.’
‘If you’re asking me to join you, there are certain preconditions.’
‘And what might those be?’
‘No smoky bacon crisps or prawns.’
She seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘Could be a deal-breaker.’ She gestured towards his Saab. ‘It’ll get a ticket if you leave it there. There’s pay-parking across the street.’
‘At one eighty an hour? I’m on a pension, remember.’
‘Want to see if there’s space in the car park?’
‘I prefer the whiff of danger.’
‘That bay’s for patrol cars – I’ve seen civilians get towed.’ She turned and started back up the steps, telling him to give her a minute. He realised his heart was beating a little faster than usual, and placed a hand over it. She’d been right about his reluctance to enter his old station – it was where he’d worked with her, right up until retirement. Half a lifetime as a cop, and suddenly the force apparently had no need of him. He thought of the cemetery again, and Jimmy Wallace’s grave, and gave a small, involuntary shudder. The door in front of him was swinging open, Clarke waving something in his direction. It was a rectangular sign with the words POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS printed on it.