by Ian Rankin
‘What do you think?’ Clarke was asking.
‘What does he say about Annette McKie?’
‘Denies seeing her. Says they were working flat out that afternoon. He doubts he’d have noticed a supermodel strolling past.’
Rebus was looking at Robertson’s mug shot: short black hair, plenty of stubble, and a scowl. Dark-brown eyes, chiselled features.
‘I think we need to talk to him again, a bit more formally,’ Clarke was saying. ‘And maybe have a team search the area around the roadworks. It’s a mix of woodland and fields, plus a stretch of river.’
‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff,’ Rebus commented. He realised Christine Esson was standing just behind him, holding out some sheets of paper. He took them from her.
‘Two essays,’ she explained. ‘Both looking at where killers choose to leave their victims. Bit of light reading for you.’
‘Any chance of you giving me the gist?’
‘I’ve not looked at them, just printed them off. Plenty more like them out there if you’re interested.’
Rebus was about to tell her that he really wasn’t, but he noticed the look Clarke was giving him.
‘Very helpful,’ he said instead.
‘Thanks, Christine,’ Clarke added, as Esson returned to her desk. Then, to Rebus: ‘She’s like that.’
‘There’s about thirty pages here, half of it equations.’
Clarke took the two documents from him. ‘I know one of the authors – by reputation, I mean. I wonder if James has considered bringing in a profiler . . .’
‘And maybe a ouija board at the same time.’
‘Times have changed, John.’
‘For the better, I’m sure.’
She made to hand the essays back to him, and he wrinkled his nose.
‘You take first look,’ he said. ‘You know how much I value your opinion.’
‘Christine gave them to you.’
Rebus looked over to Esson’s desk. She was watching. He managed a smile and a nod as he placed the printouts on top of one of the storage boxes.
‘Want to come with me while I tell James the news?’ Clarke asked.
‘Not really.’
‘I suppose I should have asked you what you’ve been up to.’
‘Me? Not much.’ Rebus paused. ‘Apart from dropping you in it with the Complaints. So I should probably say sorry for that . . .’
Clarke stared at him. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
15
That evening, Rebus barely had time to open the day’s post and stick an album on the deck before his phone rang. He checked the number: not recognised.
‘Hello?’ he said. He was in the kitchen, staring at the meagre contents of the fridge.
‘Rebus?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Frank Hammell.’
‘Darryl gave you my number?’
‘Get your arse down to the Gimlet. Let’s do some talking.’
‘Before I can agree to that, I’ve got a question.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Does the Gimlet do food this time of night?’
Takeaway pizza was the answer. It was waiting in a box for him, still warm, at a corner table. There was no one else in the place, just Donny on the door. No TV or sound system, no one serving behind the bar.
‘Right little Mary Celeste,’ Rebus commented, lifting a slice of pizza from the box and heading towards the bar. Hammell stood behind it, arms stretched along the polished surface. He was around five ten, with a look that mixed entrepreneur with scrapper. He wore a dark blue shirt, open at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was well groomed. Close up, Rebus could make out scarring leading from his top lip to his nose. One eyebrow had a permanent nick in it. Here was a man who tended not to back down when things got heated.
‘I’ll have a malt, if you’re asking.’
Hammell turned and reached for a bottle of Glenlivet, the stopper squeaking as it was removed. He didn’t bother measuring, just poured freely. ‘I’m guessing no water,’ he said, placing the drink in front of Rebus. Then, palm extended: ‘That’ll be five on the nose.’
Rebus stared at him, then smiled and handed over the money. Hammell didn’t ring it up; just stuffed it into his pocket. There had been no sign of surveillance outside, and Rebus had to wonder what it would do to Malcolm Fox’s head if he ever learned of this meeting.
‘So you’re John Rebus,’ Hammell said. His voice was a deep gargle; sounded as if his throat needed clearing. Rebus had known a con once who’d sounded like that because someone had tried to strangle him with a towel in his cell.
‘I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘Just like you’re Frank Hammell.’
‘I used to hear about you. You know I worked with Cafferty?’
‘Way he tells it, you worked for him rather than with him.’
‘Back in the day, he hated you with a vengeance. Should have heard the things he was prepared to do to you and yours . . .’ Hammell gave this time to sink in. He walked to the corner table and retrieved the pizza, placing it on the bar top and helping himself to a slice.
‘It’s not bad,’ Rebus informed him.
‘Better not be. I told them what I’d do to them if the cheese was too stringy.’ He took a bite. ‘I can’t abide stringy cheese.’
‘You should write restaurant reviews.’
There was silence for a moment as the two men ate. ‘Know what I think?’ Hammell said eventually. ‘I think they left the cheese out altogether.’
‘One solution to the problem,’ Rebus stated.
‘So you and Cafferty,’ Hammell went on, dabbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘best of pals these days, eh?’
‘News gets around.’
‘Ever wondered what his game is?’
‘All the time.’
‘Bastard says he’s retired – as if carpet bowls and a pair of slippers were ever his style.’
Rebus took out his handkerchief to deal with the grease on his fingers. One slice of the pizza was enough.
‘You don’t like it?’ Hammell asked.
‘Not as hungry as I thought.’ Rebus lifted the whisky to his lips.
‘Darryl tells me you’re working cold cases. So how come you’re suddenly interested in Annette?’
Rebus considered how to answer. ‘There may be a pattern.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Other young women have vanished down the years. Three that we know of, the first in 1999. All of them were on the A9 or near it at the time.’
‘First I’ve heard.’
‘I wanted you to know.’
Hammell stared at Rebus, narrowing his eyes a little. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re probably drawing up a list of enemies, thinking one of them might have her.’
‘What makes you think I’ve got enemies?’
‘Business you’re in, I’d say it’s an occupational hazard.’
‘You think I’ll go after your old pal Cafferty? Is that what this is about – you covering his arse?’
‘If you want Cafferty, be my guest, but I think you’d be making a mistake.’ Rebus put down the half-empty glass. ‘How’s Annette’s mum doing?’
‘How do you think? It’s ripping her to shreds. You really reckon there’s some sick bastard out there who’s done this before? How come he’s kept himself under the radar?’
‘As of now, it’s only a theory . . .’
‘But you believe it?’
‘It’s a theory,’ Rebus repeated. ‘But one you need to be aware of, if things aren’t to get ugly.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘How long has Darryl been working for you?’
‘Since before he left school.’
‘I notice he kept his dad’s surname.’
Hammell glowered at Rebus. ‘Kid can do what he likes – free country last time I looked.’
‘I assume the dad knows about Annette?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve known the family a while.’
‘What business is that of yours?’
Rebus offered a shrug and watched Hammell do some thinking.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ the man asked eventually. Rebus shook his head. ‘A bit of cash, maybe? Case of hooch?’
Rebus pretended to consider this. ‘Maybe just don’t charge me for the pizza.’
‘What makes you think I paid for it in the first place?’ Frank Hammell answered with a snort.
16
Siobhan Clarke lived in a high-ceilinged first-floor flat that was part of a Georgian terrace just off Broughton Street. A five-minute walk took her to work each morning, and she liked the area’s mix of bars and restaurants. There was a cinema complex at the top of the hill, a concert venue nearby, and every kind of shop you could ever wish for on Leith Walk. The flat shared a drying green at the back of the building and she’d got to meet most of her neighbours down the years. Edinburgh had a reputation for being cold and distant, but she’d never found that. Some residents were shy or quiet, just wanting to get on with their lives without fuss or incident. Her neighbours knew her as a police officer, but had yet to ask for help or a favour. When one of the ground-floor flats had been broken into, everyone had gone out of their way to let Clarke know they didn’t blame her for the eventual lack of a result.
She had been thinking about an evening visit to her gym, and had even changed in readiness before slumping on the sofa and checking the TV schedules instead. When her phone let her know she had a message, she decided to ignore it. Then her door buzzer sounded. She went into the hall and pushed the button next to the intercom.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘DI Clarke? It’s Malcolm Fox.’
Clarke sucked air in between her teeth. ‘How do you know where I live, or is that a stupid question?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘I’m expecting someone.’
‘DCI Page, perhaps?’
Christ, the Complaints really did know everything . . .
‘Something to hide, DI Clarke?’ Fox was asking.
‘I just like my privacy.’
‘Yes, me too. And that time we happened to bump into one another – I was trusting that you’d have understood our little chat was meant to be kept private.’
‘Then you should have said.’
‘Still, I can appreciate that John Rebus is an old and dear friend. You probably feel no qualms about sharing information with him.’ Though two doors, seventeen stone steps and a passageway separated them, it felt as if his mouth was only an inch or so from her face. She could hear each of his individual breaths.
‘John Rebus is proving invaluable to the McKie inquiry,’ she stated.
‘You mean he’s not gone out on one of his famous limbs yet – not as far as you’re aware.’
‘Why can’t you just leave him alone?’
‘Why can’t you see that he’s the same liability he’s always been? Don’t tell me life wasn’t simpler before he managed to inveigle his way on to the McKie case . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why do you think he’s there? What titbits might he be passing back to his good friend Cafferty? Working cold cases is one thing, but now he has access to an entire floor of CID offices in Gayfield Square.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I know a cop gone bad when I see one. Rebus has spent so many years crossing the line, he’s managed to rub it out altogether. As far as he’s concerned, his way’s the right way, no matter how wrong the rest of us might know it to be.’
‘You don’t know him,’ Clarke persisted.
‘Then help me get to know him – talk me through some of the cases the pair of you worked.’
‘So you can twist it all around? I’m not that stupid.’
‘I know you’re not – far from it – and this is your chance to prove it to the people at the top, the people I talk to each and every day.’
‘I grass up my friend and you put in a word come promotion time?’
‘John Rebus should be extinct, Clarke. Somehow the Ice Age came and went and left him still swimming around while the rest of us evolved.’
‘I’d rather bludgeon Darwin with a claw hammer than evolve into you.’
She heard him give a sigh. ‘We’re not so different,’ he said quietly, sounding weary. ‘We’re both conscientious and hard-working. I can even see you joining the Complaints – maybe not this year or next, but sometime.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘My instinct’s usually right.’
‘And yet you couldn’t be more wrong about John Rebus.’
‘That remains to be seen. Meantime, take care around him – I mean that. And feel free to call me any time you think he’s floundering – floundering or diving to the bottom . . .’
She released the intercom button and walked back into her living room, crossing to the window and peering down on to the street, craning her neck left and right.
‘Where the hell did he go?’ she said to herself, failing to see Malcolm Fox anywhere. Then she looked at the message on her phone: I’m 5 minutes away and hope we can discuss your friend some more – Fox.
They had her home address and her mobile number.
And they knew about Page.
She sat back down in front of the TV, but her head was swimming.
‘Gym,’ she said, rising again and looking around for her holdall.
17
Rebus was most of the way home when he got a text message. It was from Nina Hazlitt:
Missoni Hotel. Too late for a drink?
He stayed on Melville Drive and took a left at the junction with Buccleuch Street. Then he thought of something and pulled over. Checked his phone again and opened the list of recent callers, adding Hammell’s mobile to his contacts page. Five minutes later he was parking on George IV Bridge. A member of the hotel staff asked him if he was checking in. The man was young and toned and wearing a kilt with a zigzag pattern. Rebus shook his head.
‘Just visiting,’ he said.
There was a bar off the main reception. Rebus couldn’t see Nina Hazlitt, so he texted to let her know he had arrived. The people in the bar seemed to have a thirst for cocktails. Rebus decided one more whisky wouldn’t do any harm, except to his chances of passing a breathalyser test. Two minutes later, Hazlitt joined him, pecking him on the cheek as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asked. ‘The restaurant’s supposed to be good – or there’s a fish place next door.’
‘I’m fine,’ Rebus assured her. ‘How about you?’
‘I ate on the train.’
One of the bar staff asked her what she was drinking. She studied Rebus. ‘Not really your kind of place?’ she guessed.
‘Not really,’ he agreed.
‘Maybe we should go somewhere else.’
‘There’s the Bow Bar, right around the corner.’
She waited for him to finish the whisky, and placed her arm in his as they exited the hotel.
‘How’s your brother?’ Rebus asked.
She looked flustered, as if trying to remember how Rebus knew about him.
‘He answered the phone that night,’ Rebus explained.
‘Ah,’ she said. Then: ‘He’s all right.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘Alfie.’
‘Is he just visiting, or . . .?’
‘Are you always this inquisitive?’ she asked with a laugh. Then, stretching out an arm to point at the Bow Bar: ‘Is this the place?’
Rebus opened the door for her. She took one look at the interior and declared it ‘charming’. There was a table by the window, recently vacated. Rebus took the empties to the bar and ordered IPA for himself and a vodka tonic for her. The place was just noisy enough – no
chance of anyone eavesdropping on their conversation. Back at the table, they chinked glasses.
‘So, how are things?’ she asked.
‘Things are interesting. I’ve got a foot in the door with the Annette McKie inquiry.’
‘They accept there’s a connection?’
‘They accept the possibility.’
‘Well, that’s progress.’ She seemed immediately more energised, pulling her shoulders back, eyes gleaming.
‘There’s no proof yet. And to be honest, the McKie case is throwing up other possibilities. The photos are the real link.’
‘Photos?’
He realised she didn’t yet know. ‘Annette McKie’s phone was used to send a photograph of a landscape at dusk. Same thing happened with Zoe Beddows.’
She took a moment to digest the information. ‘That can’t be coincidence. What about Brigid Young?’
‘The technology wasn’t around back then.’
‘Sally had her phone with her in Aviemore.’
‘Yes, I remember you saying.’
‘I don’t think it could take pictures though . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘Some of the people she knew at school keep a page for her on Friends Reunited.’
‘That’s kind of them.’
‘It has photos of her – school trips, parties, concerts. . .’
‘Any way to know who visits it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Might be worth finding out.’
She stared at him, eyes narrowing. ‘Why?’ But before he could answer, she had worked it out. ‘You think someone took her? One person stalking all these girls and then sending out photos? And he might have gone online posing as a friend. . .?’ Her voice was rising, and Rebus gestured for her to bring it down a little. She took a couple of sips of her drink, trying to compose herself.
‘I’ll ask,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘I’ll ask Sally’s friends.’
Rebus thanked her and decided to try for a change of tack, asking what brought her back to Edinburgh.
‘You, of course,’ she eventually answered.
‘Me?’