by Ian Rankin
‘Thanks, Mum,’ he told her.
‘Did you see it?’
He nodded. ‘No sound, though – did Page get round to mentioning the photos from the phones?’
‘Seemed to slip his mind when the mother did a runner.’ She unwrapped her own chocolate bar and bit into it.
‘Who was the guy standing behind her?’ Rebus asked.
‘Family friend.’
‘Is he the one putting up the reward?’
Clarke looked at him. ‘Okay, spit it out.’
‘I’ve not started eating it yet.’ When this failed to raise a smile, he relented. ‘His name’s Frank Hammell. Owns a couple of pubs and at least one club.’
‘You know him?’
‘I know his pubs.’
‘But not the club?’
‘It’s somewhere out in bandit country.’
‘Meaning?’
‘West Lothian.’ Rebus nodded towards the monitor. ‘Pretty touchy-feely, I thought . . .’
‘Not that sort of guy?’
‘Not unless you’re really close.’
Clarke’s chewing slowed. She thought for a moment. ‘And what does any of this add?’
‘A note of caution?’ Rebus answered eventually. ‘If he’s the mum’s “friend” and she’s upset, you can bet he’s upset too.’
‘Hence the reward?’
‘It’s not the reward we know about that worries me – it’s the one he might be putting out on the quiet.’
Clarke glanced towards Page’s door. ‘You think we should tell him?’
‘Your call, Siobhan.’ While she considered this, Rebus had another question. ‘Remind me what happened to Annette’s father?’
‘Did a runner to Australia.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Derek something . . . Derek Christie.’
‘Not McKie?’
‘That’s the mother – Gail McKie.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘And the lad at the conference . . .?’
‘Darryl.’
‘Still at school, is he?’
Clarke called across to Ronnie Ogilvie. ‘What does Darryl McKie do?’
‘I think he said he was a bar manager,’ Ogilvie replied. ‘And he calls himself Christie rather than McKie.’
Clarke looked at Rebus. ‘Eighteen is a bit young for a manager,’ she commented.
Rebus gave a twitch of his mouth. ‘Depends whose bar it is,’ he said, rising to give her back her chair.
9
‘Just like old times, eh?’ Rebus said. ‘And at last I’m seeing a bit of Scotland.’
They were in Clarke’s car, a new-smelling Audi. The trip had been Rebus’s idea – take a look at the spot where Annette McKie had last been seen; check for possible matches to the photo. They had left Edinburgh, heading north across the Forth Road Bridge into Fife, crawling through what seemed like miles of roadworks with a 40 mph limit, then skirting Kinross on the way to Perth, where they connected with the A9. It wasn’t dualled, and they seemed to have hit the mid-afternoon rush. Rebus took a CD from his pocket and swapped it for the Kate Bush album Clarke had been playing.
‘Who said you could do that?’ she complained.
Rebus shushed her and turned up the volume on track three. ‘Just listen,’ he said. Then, after a few minutes: ‘So what’s he singing about, then?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘In the chorus.’
‘Something about standing in another man’s rain.’
‘You sure?’
‘Am I hearing it wrong?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s just that I thought he was . . . Ach, never mind.’ He made to eject the CD, but she told him to leave it. She signalled and pulled out to overtake. The Audi had a bit of heft. Even so, she just made it, an oncoming vehicle flashing its lights in protest.
‘Trying to prove something?’ Rebus asked.
‘I just want us arriving in Pitlochry much the same time she did. Isn’t that the whole point?’ She turned towards him. ‘And aren’t you supposed to be looking for where that photo might’ve been taken?’
‘Nowhere around here,’ he muttered. But he began to scan the overcast countryside anyway. They passed a sign to Birnam and a Beatrix Potter exhibition. Clarke overtook another lorry, then had to brake hard when she spotted a speed camera, causing the lorry to brake too, accompanied by a blast of its horn and an angry flash of headlights. The Jackie Leven CD had ended and Rebus asked if she wanted Kate Bush back on, but she shook her head.
‘Where the hell are they all going?’ Rebus was peering at the traffic ahead of them. ‘Not exactly tourist season.’
‘Not exactly,’ she agreed. Then, too casually: ‘How’s Cafferty, by the way?’
Rebus stared at her. ‘What makes you think I’d know?’
She seemed to take a moment deciding how to answer. ‘I was talking to someone from the Complaints . . .’
The Complaints: meaning Internal Affairs. ‘Fox?’ Rebus guessed. ‘I see him sliming his way around HQ.’
‘The word is out, John – you and Cafferty, your little drinking sessions.’
Rebus digested this. ‘Is Fox coming after me? You don’t want to hang around with those scumbags, Siobhan. Might be contagious.’
‘They’re not scumbags, as you well know. And to answer your question: you’re not a serving officer, meaning at the moment I doubt Fox could touch you even if he wanted to.’ She paused, keeping her eyes firmly on the road ahead. ‘On the other hand, you go back a long way with Cafferty.’
‘So?’
‘So, is there anything for the Complaints to find if they do come looking?’
‘You know how I feel about Cafferty,’ Rebus stated coldly.
‘Doesn’t mean favours haven’t been swapped somewhere down the line.’
Rebus drank from a plastic bottle of water, bought when they’d stopped for petrol at Kinross.
‘Fox wants you to grass me up, is that it?’
‘He was just asking if I saw much of you these days.’
‘And then he happens to drop Cafferty’s name into the mix?’ Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘So what did you tell him?’
‘He was right, though, wasn’t he – about you seeing Cafferty?’
‘The guy thinks he owes me for what I did at the hospital.’
‘You’re on free drinks for life?’
‘I pay my way.’
She overtook a Tesco delivery van. There were three articulated lorries at the very front of the queue, slowing inexorably as the road hit an incline. A sign they’d just passed suggested that sluggish vehicles should pull over to allow overtaking, but that wasn’t happening.
‘There’s some dual carriageway coming up,’ Clarke said.
‘We’re almost at Pitlochry anyway,’ Rebus countered. Then, lowering his voice a little, ‘And thanks for the warning.’
She nodded, staring straight ahead, hands tensed against the steering wheel. ‘Just make sure there’s no ammo Fox can use, eh?’
‘From the look of him, I’d say he’s got a history of firing blanks. Any chance of another cigarette break?’
‘You said it yourself: we’re nearly there.’
‘Aye, but they don’t let you smoke in petrol stations.’ Which was why he’d headed for the car park at Kinross, while Clarke filled the fuel tank and bought drinks at the shop.
‘Five more minutes,’ she told him. ‘Just five more minutes . . .’
Ten minutes later – not that Rebus was counting – they turned off the A9 and took the slip road into Pitlochry, passing the petrol station where Annette McKie’s bus had stopped to drop her off. Clarke drove through the town. There was just the one main street, with signs leading off to the Festival Theatre, the hydroelectric dam, and Edradour and Bell’s distilleries.
‘I went to the dam once when I was a kid,’ Clarke commented. ‘Supposedly to see the salmon leap.’
‘No salmon?’ Rebus guessed.
‘
No salmon.’
‘On the other hand, you have to love a town with two distilleries . . .’
It took only a couple of minutes for them to reach the far end of Pitlochry. She did a three-point turn and headed back the way they’d come. There was a small police station on the main road, but not continuously manned. For protocol’s sake, Clarke had phoned Tayside’s Divisional HQ in Perth before setting out, alerting a local inspector to their trip. She had stressed that a welcoming party would not be necessary.
‘It’s really just a recce.’
She was signalling now to enter the petrol station’s forecourt. As soon as the car stopped, Rebus undid his seat belt and got out, making for the pavement, cigarette and lighter at the ready. He watched as Clarke went into the shop. There was a middle-aged woman behind the till, and Clarke showed her her warrant card, followed by two photos, one of Annette McKie and one a copy of the picture Annette had sent to Thomas Redfern. Directly across from the petrol station was the Bell’s distillery, and behind it the vast turrets of what Rebus guessed was a hotel. Another car had pulled into the forecourt. The man who got out looked like a salesman: white shirt, pale yellow tie. His jacket had been hanging from a hook inside the car, and he slipped back into it, warding off the cold air. He unlocked the car’s petrol cap, but then glanced towards the pavement and saw someone smoking there. Readjusting his priorities, he headed in Rebus’s direction, offering a nod of kinship before lighting up.
‘There’ll be frost tonight,’ he offered.
‘Just so long as there’s not snow,’ Rebus responded.
‘Last thing I need is them shutting the Drumochter Pass.’
‘Snow gates?’ Rebus guessed.
‘That’s the ones. Last winter was a nightmare.’
‘You going to Inverness?’
The man nodded. ‘How about you?’
‘Heading back to Edinburgh.’
‘Civilisation, eh?’
‘This seems civilised enough.’ Rebus looked in the direction of town.
‘Wouldn’t know – I only ever stop to fill up.’
‘You travel a lot?’
‘Part and parcel, isn’t it? Five, six hundred miles a week, sometimes more.’ He gestured towards his vehicle. Behind it, Rebus could see the woman at the till shaking her head in reply to another of Clarke’s questions. ‘Car’s not even two years old and it’s on its last legs,’ the salesman was saying. ‘How’s the Audi?’
‘Seems okay.’ Rebus finished his cigarette. ‘What is it you sell exactly?’
‘How long have you got?’
‘Let’s say fifteen seconds.’
‘Then I’ll give you two words: “logistics” and “solutions”.’
‘I feel duly enlightened.’ Rebus watched as Clarke made her way back to the Audi. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘No problem.’ The man took out his phone and was checking for messages as Rebus headed across the forecourt.
‘Anything?’ he asked, sliding into the passenger seat.
‘She wasn’t working that day,’ Clarke obliged. ‘The staff who were have all been questioned. One remembered Annette coming in and asking to use the loo. She bought a bottle of water and headed off again into town.’
‘Nice of the bus not to wait for her.’
‘Actually, the driver’s mortified. But he was obeying company rules.’
Rebus peered out through the windscreen in search of CCTV.
‘Cameras caught her,’ Clarke confirmed. ‘Busy on her phone.’
‘Could she have had a rendezvous?’
‘No family or friends in Pitlochry.’ Clarke thought for a moment. ‘There’s another camera on the main drag but it failed to pick her out, and none of the shopkeepers remember seeing her.’
‘So she’d maybe found a lift straight off . . .’
‘Maybe.’
‘Could she have started walking across country?’
‘She was a city girl, John. Why would she do that?’
All Rebus could offer to this was a shrug. Clarke checked her watch. ‘It’s half an hour later now than it was when she set off. She could have passed through town without anyone noticing, maybe not started thumbing till she reached the other end.’ She started the ignition and put the car into gear. As they left the forecourt, the salesman gave Rebus a wave.
‘He sells solutions,’ Rebus explained to Clarke.
‘He should be in here with us, then.’
Once they had passed through Pitlochry again, there wasn’t much to do but rejoin the A9. They had the option: south towards Perth or north towards Inverness. Clarke hesitated.
‘Let’s give it a few more miles,’ Rebus said. ‘Scenery’s changing; might get more like the photo.’
‘We’re not going as far as Aviemore, mind.’
‘My skiing days are behind me.’
‘You don’t think it would impress Nina Hazlitt?’
‘What? Me going skiing?’
‘You being able to tell her you visited Aviemore as part of your mission.’
‘Everything in its time.’
‘After twelve years, though? You seriously think there’s anything to find there?’
‘No,’ Rebus was forced to admit, turning the Kate Bush CD back on. She seemed to be singing about her love for a snowman.
10
The moment they rejoined the A9, they hit roadworks, traffic down to a single lane and moving at a crawl. A barrier separated their northbound lane from the ones heading south, meaning no opportunity for a U-turn.
‘We’re stuck,’ Clarke commented.
‘Major resurfacing,’ Rebus explained, reading one of the signs. ‘Expect delays for four weeks.’
‘We might still be here in four weeks.’
‘Just as well we enjoy each other’s company.’
She gave a snort at this. ‘At least they are working.’
This was true. In the lane that had been blocked off, men in yellow reflective jackets were carrying tools or operating diggers. The sky was filled with a pulsing orange glow from the warning lights atop the various vehicles. The speed limit had been reduced to thirty.
‘Thirty would be luxury,’ Clarke complained. ‘Speedo says twenty.’
‘Slow and steady wins the day,’ Rebus recited.
‘That’s always been your motto, has it?’ She managed a thin smile. Rebus was studying the workmen.
‘How about pulling over?’ he suggested.
‘What?’
‘If she hitched along here, no way they wouldn’t have noticed.’
A line of cones separated inside and outside lanes, but they were well spaced and it was easy to negotiate the Audi between two of them. Clarke pulled the handbrake on.
‘Not the worst idea I’ve ever had, then?’ Rebus pretended to guess.
As they got out of the car, a man strode towards them. Clarke had her warrant card ready. The man stiffened.
‘What’s happened?’
He was in his mid fifties, curls of grey hair escaping from the rim of his hard hat. Rebus got the feeling there were many layers of clothing beneath the high-visibility jacket and the fluorescent orange work trousers.
‘Did you hear about the girl who’s gone missing?’ Clarke asked.
The man looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again, then nodded.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Rebus added.
‘Bill Soames.’
‘You’re in charge of the crew, Mr Soames?’ Rebus looked over Soames’s shoulder towards the workmen. They had stopped what they were doing.
‘They’re probably worried you’re Revenue or Immigration,’ Soames explained.
‘And why would either of those be a problem?’ Clarke asked.
‘They wouldn’t,’ Soames stated, meeting her eyes. He half turned and gestured to the men that they should continue with their work. ‘Best if we talk in the office, though . . .’
He led them past the Audi, along a carriageway stripped of its tarmac
, chunks of which were piled up next to the verge. Temporary overhead lights, powered by diesel generators, had been switched on, adding to the noise and fumes.
‘You work nights?’ Clarke asked.
‘Twelve-hour shifts,’ Soames confirmed. ‘The night crew are in there.’ He pointed to a Portakabin they were just passing. ‘Six beds, one shower, plus a kitchen best avoided.’ There was a row of three portable toilets, then another Portakabin, its windows covered with protective grilles. Soames opened its door and ushered them inside. He switched on a light and an electric heater. ‘I could probably rustle up some tea . . .’
‘Thanks, but this shouldn’t take long.’ There were plans of the roadworks on the room’s only table. Soames rolled them up, making space.
‘Sit yourselves down,’ he said.
‘So the crew are Polish?’ Rebus asked. Soames gave a questioning look, and Rebus nodded towards the dictionary on the worktop. English–Polish/Polish–English.
‘Not all of them,’ Soames answered. ‘But some, yes. And their English sometimes falls a bit short.’
‘So what’s the Polish for tarmacadam?’
Soames smiled. ‘Stefan acts as their foreman. He’s got better English than I have.’
‘They sleep on site?’
‘Long way to travel home every day.’
‘And cook meals here? Basically live by the side of the road?’
Soames nodded. ‘That’s how it is.’
‘What about yourself, Mr Soames?’ Clarke asked.
‘I’m over near Dundee. It’s a slog but I make it home most nights.’
‘There must be a night-shift supervisor?’
Soames nodded and checked his watch. ‘He’ll be here in an hour and a half. I’d rather he didn’t catch me having a chinwag when I’m supposed to be out there.’
‘Point taken,’ Clarke said, without making it sound like an apology. ‘So you’ve heard about Annette McKie?’