Standing in Another Man's Grave

by Ian Rankin

  ‘You’re the first person in such a long while who’s taken me seriously. And when you phoned the other night . . .’

  ‘You decided to drop everything?’

  ‘I’m self-employed. Wherever I lay my laptop, that’s my office.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Publishing, sort of. I edit people’s books, do proofreading, sometimes research.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  She managed a laugh. ‘You’re not a very convincing liar – but it can be interesting. Last book I did was an encyclopaedia of myth and legend. It covered the whole of the British Isles – quite a lot from Scotland.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Did you know there’s a dragon buried beneath the Royal Mile?’ She did a quick calculation. ‘We might be perched on one of its wings.’

  ‘No shortage of stories in this city – I’ve heard alibis that were harder to swallow.’

  She smiled. ‘I was a teacher for a while, same as Tom, except primary school. Used to love telling my class a folk tale. Once you had their attention, you kept it.’ Her voice trailed off. He knew she was thinking of her daughter again; doubted Sally was ever out of her thoughts for more than a few minutes at a time on any given day. She kept threatening to place her glass on the table, but it hadn’t quite happened yet. It was almost reduced to ice in any case.

  ‘Get you another?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘My turn.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, having hardly touched the pint. ‘Got the car outside, and this isn’t my first tonight.’

  She decided to have another drink anyway, reaching into her bag for money. Rebus played with a beer mat while he waited for her to return.

  ‘So, anyway,’ she said, squeezing around the table and sitting down again, ‘you’ve managed to unearth the files on those other poor women?’

  ‘The records aren’t as complete as I’d like.’ He saw her look. ‘It happens – things get mislaid; notes that should have been written up aren’t . . .’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Not that there were gaps in Sally’s case,’ he sought to reassure her.

  ‘Is there any possibility that I . . .? No, I suppose not.’ She lowered her eyes.

  ‘I doubt they’d come as any consolation. You might find them a bit . . .’

  ‘Upsetting?’

  ‘I was going to say “cold”. Nobody working the case knew Sally, you see.’

  She nodded her understanding. ‘You’re trying to protect me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d put it like that.’

  They focused on their drinks for a minute. Rebus didn’t know what else to say to her. He didn’t like to think of her as being trapped in limbo, but that’s where she was. The past had its grip on her and wasn’t letting go. He worked with the past, too, but he could always put it back in a box and have it delivered to a storeroom or warehouse.

  ‘Is there a draught?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Thought you were shivering.’

  ‘It happens sometimes. You know that saying about someone walking over your grave?’

  ‘Never really understood it, though.’

  ‘Now you come to mention it, I’m not sure I understand it either. Sure you don’t want another?’

  ‘Trying to get me arrested for drunk-driving?’

  ‘Couldn’t you talk your way out of it?’

  ‘Not these days.’

  She grew thoughtful again. ‘Working cold cases, you must meet a lot of families who’ve lost loved ones . . .’ She watched him nod. ‘I talk to a lot of them, too. Over the internet mostly. You know that in England and Wales they can’t issue a death certificate, no matter how long the person’s been missing? It’s hell for the families – means they can’t sort out the estate. Up here, you wait seven years and the court gives you a Presumption of Death certificate.’

  ‘And that’s what happened to you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Presumption’s not what I want. I need to know what happened to her.’

  ‘Even after all this time?’

  ‘Even after all this time,’ she echoed. Then she sighed, finished her drink in two gulps and asked if he would walk her back to the hotel.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said.

  As they walked back up Victoria Street, he told her he’d not been in the Missoni before.

  ‘I doubt I’d be able to afford it normally,’ she explained, ‘but I got a late deal.’

  The kilted doorman didn’t seem to be around. They stopped at the steps, both lighting cigarettes, standing in companionable silence as the traffic and pedestrians rolled past.

  ‘The rooms are nice,’ she said eventually. ‘In fact . . .’ She looked in her bag. ‘There was something I wanted to give you, but it’s upstairs.’ She looked up at him. ‘Do you want to . . .?’ But he was already shaking his head.

  ‘Then will you wait here while I fetch it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  So she stubbed out her cigarette and headed indoors. Three minutes later she was back, holding a book.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing it over.

  Rebus read the title aloud: ‘The British Isles: Myth and Magic. Is this the one you did research for?’

  She nodded, watching as he flicked through a few pages.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I mean it. I’ll start it tonight.’

  ‘Look, about earlier . . . I hope you don’t think I was trying to proposition you?’

  He shook his head again. ‘Not a problem, Nina. It would have been flattering if you had. Are you heading back in the morning?’

  She gestured towards the building across the street. ‘Bit of research I need to do.’

  ‘The National Library?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this for work?’

  She nodded. ‘I was thinking of staying another night . . .’

  There was an invitation there – or at least an opening – but Rebus ignored it.

  ‘You know you’ll be the first person I call – supposing I make any progress,’ he said instead.

  ‘You seem to be my best hope, John. I can’t thank you enough.’ She moved forward to kiss him, but he leaned back a little at the waist, and instead took her hand in his, shaking it. Her grip was almost fierce. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating.

  ‘Maybe next time we can compare myths and legends,’ he said.

  She nodded, averting her eyes, then turned and hurried back into the hotel. Rebus got into his car, turned the key in the ignition and signalled to make a U-turn.

  All the way home he was anticipating her call, but it never came.

  18

  Lochend at midnight.

  Darryl Christie slipped out of the house. He’d been home less than an hour. His mum was dead to the world, having been prescribed sleeping pills. Darryl’s two younger brothers, Joseph and Cal, shared the bedroom next to Annette’s. Darryl’s own room was downstairs, in what had been built as a conservatory. He’d added blackout blinds when he’d taken it over. Several times Frank Hammell had offered to find them a bigger and nicer place, but Darryl’s mum had grown up in Lochend, as had her parents before her. All her friends lived within walking distance of the house – and besides, Darryl and Annette would be moving out before long. Growing up, with their own lives to live.

  Darryl had examined every inch of his sister’s bedroom, finding nothing to help explain her disappearance. He’d even contacted a few of her very closest pals, but nobody seemed to have any ideas. It had been Darryl, too, who had broken the news to his father, having reminded Gail that someone needed to do it.

  ‘You’re the man of the house, Darryl,’ she’d said, reaching for the vodka bottle.

  The house had seen more than its fair share of visitors. Faces Darryl hardly knew wanted to offer sympathy, sit with Gail for a while and feed on her grief. Her closest friends had become like bodyguards, fending off curious neighbours and rubberneckers. The landline rang doze
ns of times a day, and Gail’s mobile was always needing to be recharged.

  Darryl had tried his best to stay out of it, retreating to his room. He could hear the voices in the living room and kitchen, and often they tried offering him tea and beer and a sandwich, tapping on his door and calling out to him. And when everyone had departed for the day, the house felt cold and empty, Joseph and Cal walking on tiptoe so as not to disturb their mother, doing homework without needing reminding, making their own dinner if necessary. When Darryl was required elsewhere, he would tell them: ‘You’re in charge. Anything urgent, phone me.’

  Frank Hammell had asked him if he needed time off, but he had shaken his head.

  ‘Cops are useless, Darryl,’ Hammell had said. ‘But I’ve got feelers out. We’ll get to the bottom of this, one way or the other . . .’

  Outside the house, Darryl paused to examine the sky overhead. You never saw many stars – too much light pollution. There was the beginning of an overnight frost on the pavement and the car windscreens. Plenty of people still awake – TVs glowing from living room windows; some music from a distant party; a dog barking, desperate to be allowed back indoors. Darryl walked to the corner and shook the hand of the man standing there.

  ‘I thought we might walk,’ Cafferty said. ‘Not far – just to stop us freezing our backsides off.’

  ‘Sure,’ Darryl said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

  ‘We’ve not met before, have we?’ Cafferty asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s just that sometimes I forget a face, and that looks like a lack of respect next time I see the person.’ He glanced towards the young man. ‘Don’t want that happening between us, Darryl.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Cafferty.’

  ‘How long have you been working for Frank?’

  ‘A while.’

  ‘He used to work for me, you know.’

  ‘Your name’s been mentioned.’

  ‘Probably not with any great enthusiasm.’ A taxi rumbled past, driver’s-side window down, seeking an address. Cafferty watched it, as did Darryl.

  ‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’ the older man said with a thin smile. Then: ‘I should have said at the start, I’m sorry about your sister. Anything I can do to help, you only have to ask.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Frank doesn’t need to know – it can be between us. If that’s okay with you, Darryl.’ Cafferty seemed to study the young man. ‘I met your dad a few times, back in the day.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Just in the pub, you know. He was friends with Frank.’

  ‘Aye, he was.’

  ‘But then they say love’s no respecter of friendship.’ Cafferty turned a corner and Darryl realised they were doing a little circuit that would bring them back to his house. ‘I like that you kept your dad’s surname,’ Cafferty was saying. ‘Are you still in touch with him?’

  Darryl nodded.

  ‘Well, tell him I said hello.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are we out for a walk together at the dead of night?’

  Cafferty chuckled, then sniffed and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

  ‘You know a cop called Rebus?’ he asked as he wiped at his nose.

  ‘I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘He mentioned your name to me. I’ve got a lot of friends in this town, people who make sure I’m as well informed as I need to be. You might think Frank has a lot of friends too, but they’re not the sort that can always be trusted. What do you think he would do if it turned out one of them had snatched your sister? What if they were using her as a bargaining tool of some kind?’

  ‘That’s not what the cops think happened.’

  ‘And they’re always right, are they? Come on, Darryl, we know better than that. But I’m hearing that you’re a bright one, and that’s why we’re out here together tonight. Frank Hammell’s enemies are going to see you as their enemy, too. Which means a friend like me makes sense. That’s all I’m asking.’ Cafferty stretched out his arms to consolidate the point. ‘Anything you feel able to share, I’ll listen. Later on, it might be that you’re ready to step out from Frank’s shadow . . .’

  ‘And you’ll be there to help?’

  ‘I’m here for you and your family, Darryl. Any time you feel you need me.’

  ‘Frank says you’re retired.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’

  ‘So why the interest?’

  ‘Let’s just say there’s a bit of history between us.’

  ‘A score to be settled?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  Outside the house, they shook hands again.

  ‘Still living at home, eh?’ Cafferty commented.

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘I’ve got a few flats I could let you take a look at.’

  But Darryl shook his head.

  ‘You know your own mind – I like that about you too.’ Cafferty patted the young man’s arm and turned, starting to walk away. Darryl watched him disappear slowly into the darkness then angled his head towards the night sky again. There were stars up there, plenty of them. You just had to believe . . .

  19

  ‘I’ve always liked Perth,’ Siobhan Clarke said. ‘Just maybe not this particular bit of it.’

  She was standing outside the divisional police HQ with Rebus, keeping him company while he smoked a cigarette. The building itself was a tall concrete lump hacked up from the 1960s or 70s. Tenements across the street and a petrol station next door.

  ‘When are you ever in Perth?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Away games. St Johnstone’s ground is just off the M90.’

  ‘You go to away games?’ Rebus sounded disbelieving.

  Clarke supported Hibernian FC. Time was, she’d taken Rebus to a few home matches, back in the days when you could smoke in the stadium. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a goal, just a succession of nil–nil draws made bearable by nicotine and the half-time pie.

  ‘There’s a game in Edinburgh this weekend if you fancy it,’ she was saying. ‘Thought not,’ she added, seeing the look on his face. ‘So what did you get up to last night?’

  ‘I had a quiet one – just a bit of reading.’

  ‘Those papers Christine got off the internet?’

  ‘Christ, no.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Hell are you smiling for? I can read, you know.’

  Someone behind them cleared his throat. He stood in the doorway, doing everything but tap his watch.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ he told them.

  He was a uniformed inspector by the name of Peter Lightheart, same cop who had been with Clarke the previous day at Pitlochry. Clarke had introduced Rebus to him on their arrival this morning, Rebus taking the proffered hand briefly before advising that he would need a quick cigarette before they got started.

  Lightheart’s demeanour belied his name. Clarke had already warned Rebus that the man lacked patience, wit and cunning: ‘So we need to crowd him out of the interview if we can.’

  ‘Two ticks,’ Rebus told Lightheart, indicating that he’d almost finished with the cigarette. To deflect the man’s attention, Clarke asked if the search team had been given its orders.

  ‘Of course,’ Lightheart replied. ‘Probably been at it for the past hour.’

  ‘How many officers?’

  ‘A dozen.’

  ‘Search warrant for the sleeping quarters?’

  Lightheart nodded, looking annoyed that she would think it necessary to check.

  ‘Why here?’ Rebus asked, getting rid of his cigarette butt.

  ‘Sorry?’ Lightheart enquired.

  ‘Doesn’t Pitlochry have a perfectly usable cop shop? We could have talked to him there.’

  ‘No proper interview room,’ Clarke explained. ‘And no technology.’

  Meaning: video camera and audio equipment. A uniformed officer was checking both as Lightheart, Clarke and Rebus filed into the ground-flo
or room. There was nothing on the cream-coloured walls except a No Smoking sign and some attempts at scratchwork graffiti. The camera was high up in a corner, pointing towards the table and three chairs. Thomas Robertson was seated, hands gripping the edge of the table, one knee bouncing nervously. He would be thinking to himself: this is all looking serious. Which was the whole point, of course.

  ‘All set?’ Lightheart asked the officer.

  ‘Yes, sir. Already recording.’

  Lightheart settled himself opposite Robertson, Clarke taking the only free chair left. That was fine with Rebus. He rested his back against a wall, facing Robertson and quite visible to him. Lightheart waited for the officer to leave, then got busy with the formalities: making introductions for the benefit of the camera, and announcing location, date and time. As soon as he was finished, Robertson spoke.

  ‘They’re going to kick me off the job,’ he complained.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Twice in two days you’ve dragged me away from my shift.’

  ‘There’s a reason for that, Mr Robertson,’ Clarke told him. She had printed out the details of his arrest and conviction. ‘If you’d told us the truth yesterday, we might not be here.’

  ‘I did tell you the truth.’

  ‘Let’s be charitable and say you played down the seriousness of the assault.’ Clarke began to read from the charge sheet. Robertson’s eyes met Rebus’s, but saw no sympathy in them. When Clarke had finished, the room was silent for a moment.

  ‘Resisting arrest after a fight with your girlfriend?’ Clarke commented. ‘No, Mr Robertson – attempted rape of a woman you’d only just met.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that – we were both smashed. She was keen enough at the start . . .’

  Clarke held up a photograph, taken at the victim’s hospital bedside.

  ‘Cuts, bruises, abrasions and a black eye. You’re not telling me she was keen on that?’

  ‘Things got a bit . . .’ He shifted in his chair. He was the same man as in the mug shot Clarke had shown Rebus, but something in him had changed. Life had roughed him up a bit. Maybe prison, where he would have been segregated with the other sex offenders. Maybe just the passage of time. He had been handsome, but was rapidly losing those looks.