Standing in Another Man's Grave

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus turned his attention to the leader of the group.

  ‘Who is it you want to see?’ the man asked. Shaven head; neat moustache/beard combo peppered with grey. He too was a survivor.

  ‘Mr Hammell,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘He knows you’re coming?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Might not want to see you, then.’

  ‘Maybe if you tell him it’s about Annette.’

  The doorman chewed this over, at the same time working the gum in his mouth.

  ‘Does Mr Hammell know you?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Okay then. Follow me.’

  Inside the foyer lay an acre of red carpet. There were tiny twinkling lights set into the ceiling, and the old box office was where you still paid your entrance money. Behind two sets of swing doors, Rebus could hear pounding dance music and a few drunken female whoops. The doorman had stopped long enough at a narrow stairwell in one corner to unhook a red rope. The sign next to it said STAFF ONLY. They climbed to the balcony area, the walls throbbing from the sound system.

  ‘That Marcus needs a bouncer of his own,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘It’s turning into a young man’s game, same as everything else.’

  Emerging at the top of the stairs, Rebus saw that some of the old cinema seating remained, rows of plush velour awaiting an audience that would never come. A mirror ball was working hard at entertaining the dancers below. Red and blue lights pulsed. The doorman led Rebus past the back row of seats to an office, where he knocked and entered without waiting to be asked, stranding Rebus on the door’s other side. Half a minute later, he was back, leaving the door open this time and signalling for Rebus to go in.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rebus said. ‘I mean it.’ The doorman nodded, aware that he was now owed a favour, something he could tuck away in his back pocket for the future.

  The office surprised Rebus by being large, bright and modern. Pale wooden furniture, ochre-coloured leather sofa. There were framed publicity shots for old films on the walls, including many Rebus had seen in his youth.

  ‘Found them when we bought the place,’ Frank Hammell explained. ‘Hundreds of them left to rot in the roof space. I think they were supposed to be insulation.’ He had come from behind his desk to shake Rebus’s hand. He held on to it and asked if there was news.

  ‘Not much,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Mind if we sit?’

  Hammell took one end of the sofa and Rebus the other. Tonight Hammell was wearing stonewashed denims with brown brogues. A silver-tipped belt strained in combat with the gut it encircled. White short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. He ran a meaty hand through his hair.

  ‘Rob’s a gent,’ he told Rebus, nodding towards the door.

  ‘Certainly seems to have a bit more grey matter than Doorman Donny at the Gimlet.’

  ‘Brains and brawn don’t always mix. It’s getting harder to find good guys.’ Hammell gave a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Anyway, I leave the hiring and firing to Darryl. So what brings you here, Rebus?’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me where Thomas Robertson is.’

  ‘Mind if I ask you a question first?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Who the hell is Thomas Robertson?’

  Rebus tried staring him out, but Hammell seemed to have played the game before. ‘He’s someone we were questioning,’ he eventually decided to explain.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And now he’s gone missing.’

  ‘You think he’s the one who took Annette?’

  ‘No, but I’m pretty sure you think he did.’

  Hammell stretched out both arms, palms upwards. ‘Never heard of him till you walked in,’ he protested.

  ‘He was part of a road crew working north of Pitlochry. Drove into town and that’s the last anyone saw of him.’

  ‘So he’s a fugitive?’

  ‘He’s not been charged with anything.’

  ‘How come he ended up on your radar, then?’

  ‘He has a bit of previous.’

  ‘Abduction?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Assault.’

  ‘And now you’ve questioned him and let him go?’

  ‘We searched his sleeping quarters. Didn’t find anything linking him to Annette.’

  Hammell was thoughtful. ‘How exactly am I supposed to have known about him?’

  ‘There was some gossip on the internet.’

  ‘Only net that interests me is the away team’s at Tynecastle.’ He paused. ‘I saw on the news . . . photos of those other women. And the picture Annette sent . . . Is there anything I can tell Gail, just something to chase the gloom?’

  ‘We’ve had plenty of suggestions. Tomorrow or the day after, we’ll be checking the shortlist personally.’

  ‘No sightings of Annette, though? Her picture’s been everywhere . . .’

  Rebus didn’t say anything to this. Hammell got up and walked behind his desk, opening a drawer and bringing out a bottle of vodka.

  ‘Want one?’

  When Rebus shook his head, Hammell lifted a single glass from the drawer and poured an inch into it.

  ‘How’s Annette’s mother doing?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘How do you think?’

  There was no knock at the door. It just opened, and a young man Rebus recognised as Darryl Christie was standing there. He saw that Hammell had a visitor and began to mutter an apology.

  ‘The two of you should meet,’ Hammell said, gesturing for the young man to come in. Rebus reckoned Christie merited standing up for.

  ‘We spoke on the phone,’ he explained, extending his hand. ‘I’m John Rebus.’

  ‘Is it to do with Annette?’

  ‘Just a progress report,’ Hammell reassured him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  Christie’s phone buzzed and he checked the message on the screen. He was a handsome enough lad, and his tailored suit looked brand new. A suit was an interesting choice. It belonged to the world of grown-ups, of serious business. Hammell dressed sloppily because he could afford to: no one was going to misjudge him, whatever he chose to wear. Darryl had to work that bit harder. In denims, there was always the chance he would be mistaken for a nobody.

  ‘What’s this I hear about photographs?’ Christie asked.

  ‘Your sister sent one,’ Rebus explained. ‘Or at least, one was sent from her phone. Same thing with a missing person from a few years back. Right now, that’s about as much as we have.’

  ‘Plus a suspect who’s gone AWOL,’ Hammell interrupted. ‘We’ve not got him locked in the cellar, have we, Darryl?’

  ‘Not last time I looked.’ Christie’s phone buzzed again, alerting him to a new message.

  ‘Always the fucking texts,’ Hammell complained. ‘Take him to a show or the best restaurants, he hardly looks up from that bloody phone.’

  ‘It’s how business gets done,’ Christie muttered, his fingertips busy on the touchscreen.

  Hammell wrinkled his nose and caught Rebus’s eye. ‘People like you and me, we prefer things face to face. That was all you had in the old days. Tonight you could have phoned me, but you came in person.’ He nodded his approval. ‘Sure you won’t take that drink?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Rebus said.

  ‘You could offer me one,’ Darryl Christie commented.

  ‘But then I’d have to pour you into a cab at the end of the night.’

  Christie ignored this. He waved his phone in his employer’s direction. ‘I have to deal with this,’ he said, turning and exiting the room.

  ‘Not even a word of goodbye, eh?’ Hammell shook his head in mock despair. ‘He’s a good kid, though.’

  ‘How long have you known his mother?’

  ‘Didn’t you ask me that already?’

  ‘I don’t recall you answering.’

  ‘Maybe because it’s still none of your business.’

  ‘Line of work I’m in, every little detail counts. You knew Darryl’s dad?’

&nbs
p; ‘Derek was a mate.’ Hammell offered a shrug.

  ‘Any truth in the rumour you ran him out of town?’

  ‘Is this coming from your mouth or your pal Cafferty’s?’

  ‘I’ve told you, he’s not my pal.’

  Hammell poured himself another generous shot of vodka. Rebus could smell it. Wasn’t the worst aroma in the world . . .

  ‘Cafferty’s finished anyway. Game over.’ Hammell tipped the glass and drained it.

  ‘Can you tell me what Annette’s like?’ Rebus asked. ‘Or is that none of my business either?’

  ‘Annette’s a proper little madam – always needs to get her own way.’

  ‘I was thinking that,’ Rebus said, nodding his agreement. ‘Her bussing it to Inverness . . .’

  ‘One of my guys would have driven her!’ Hammell growled.

  ‘You suggested as much?’

  ‘But she had to do it her way – and see where that got her!’ Hammell made an exasperated sound and started refilling the glass again.

  ‘You blame her?’

  ‘If she’d just listened to reason, none of this would be happening.’ He paused, stared down into his glass, swirling its contents. ‘Look, you know me, right? You know who I am . . . It annoys me that I can’t do anything to help.’

  ‘You put up the reward.’

  ‘And all that’s done is flushed out every nut job and greedy bastard in a four-hundred-mile radius.’

  ‘I doubt you could be doing anything we’re not. It only gets problematic if you decide to go your own way.’

  ‘I’ll say it one more time: I don’t know anything about this guy Robertson. But if you need a hand getting him back . . .’ Hammell fixed Rebus with a look.

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary – or wise.’

  Hammell gave a shrug. ‘The offer’s there. And how about that bonus? Bankers can’t be the only ones, eh?’ He had reached into one of the pockets in his jeans and produced a fat wad of what looked like fifty-pound notes.

  ‘No,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Aye,’ Hammell stated, reckoning he knew the truth of it. ‘Cafferty already pays you a big enough retainer.’

  Rebus decided it was time to go, but Hammell had other ideas.

  ‘I’d been told you’re like him, and it’s true. You could almost be brothers.’

  ‘Now I’m feeling insulted.’

  Hammell smiled. ‘Don’t be. It’s just that one like Cafferty has always seemed too many.’ He stared into his drink before lifting it to his lips. ‘Shame you didn’t leave well alone in that hospital when you had the chance.’

  28

  It was two a.m. when Darryl Christie got back to the house in Lochend. His mother had dozed off in front of one of the TV shopping channels. He roused her and sent her to bed, though she’d demanded a hug first. The hug had been forthcoming, in exchange for a promise to take things easy with the booze and the pills.

  Joseph and Cal had tidied the kitchen and washed up after dinner. Darryl checked the fridge – plenty of ready meals and milk. He’d placed a twenty-pound note on the table for groceries, and it was still there. Upstairs his brothers were in their bunk beds, but the small TV was warm to the touch and there were video games strewn across the floor. Some of them looked like they belonged to Annette. Joseph had asked permission to borrow one or two, and Darryl had agreed.

  ‘I hope you two are asleep,’ he warned them, though they weren’t about to open their eyes and give up the pretence. Closing the door, he slipped into his sister’s room and switched on the light. The walls had been painted black, but then decorated with posters and stickers. There were little stars and planets on the ceiling that glowed in the dark – those had been a Christmas present from Darryl. He sat for a moment on her single bed. He could smell her perfume, reckoned it was coming from the pillow. He lifted it and sniffed. There was no real sense of absence – at any moment she could come bounding in, demanding to know what he was doing there. They’d been competitive when younger, landed a few slaps, kicks and bites. But not recently, having come to inhabit different worlds.

  ‘Just come home, you silly bitch,’ Darryl said quietly, rising to his feet and heading back downstairs. He lay down fully dressed on his narrow bed, leaving the lights off in the conservatory so he didn’t need to close the blinds. Then he tapped a name into his phone and waited until his father picked up.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s been two weeks.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Not great.’

  ‘I can’t come back, Darryl.’

  ‘Why not? Hammell wouldn’t dare touch you.’

  ‘This is my life now.’

  Darryl Christie stared at his faint reflection in the glass panels overhead. Light pollution again: no stars visible.

  ‘We miss you,’ he told his father.

  ‘You miss me,’ Derek corrected him. ‘Is Frank still treating you right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Cal and Joe?’

  ‘They’re okay.’

  There was silence for a moment. ‘Is Frank there tonight?’

  ‘Not since Annette went missing.’

  ‘His choice or your mum’s?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  They spoke for a few more minutes, until Derek Christie reminded his son how much the call was costing.

  ‘I keep telling you,’ Darryl said, ‘it’s Frank’s tab.’

  ‘Even so . . .’

  And that was that – goodbyes and talk of the trip to Australia Darryl would someday make. Afterwards he swung his feet on to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. He had been lying to his father: he did have a phone paid for by Frank Hammell, but this wasn’t it. This belonged to Darryl, which was why he used it to send a text message to Cafferty. He reckoned the old boy would be sound asleep. Maybe it would wake him and maybe it wouldn’t. He punched it in anyway and hit ‘send’.

  Your pal Rebus has taken a shine to Hammell. He was at Jo-Jo’s tonight.

  Proper spelling and punctuation – only the best for Mr Cafferty. Darryl switched to his other phone to send one final text. Afterwards he might manage a few hours’ sleep. A few hours seemed to be all he ever needed. By six or six thirty he’d be on his laptop, at the start of a new working day. He checked the wording of the message and made sure it was going to the right number, then pressed ‘send’ and lay back on his bed again, eyes open. He reached for the remote and used it to close the blinds around and above him. The system had cost a fortune – more than three times what he’d told his mother – even after Frank Hammell had negotiated a hefty discount. Darryl started to unbutton his shirt. Judging by the illuminated screen, a message had arrived already on one of his phones . . .

  Part Three

  And looking from a low ridge

  To loch waters in the west

  Where darkened hills are dreaming . . .

  29

  It was, as Rebus had explained to James Page, a no-brainer.

  ‘You’ve got the engine here, running beautifully. Me, I’m by way of a spare light bulb in the glove box. I’m the part you can afford to be without.’

  And Page had agreed, despite Clarke’s protestations, which was why Rebus had filled his Saab with petrol and hit the road north again. Perth with its roundabouts, then Pitlochry and the roadworks, and on to House of Bruar, where he stopped for lunch. His parking bay was right outside the menswear shop, and he glanced at the window display, deciding that he was still not ready for strawberry-coloured cords. A sign at the Drumochter Summit informed him he was 1,516 feet above sea level. The mountains either side of him looked forbidding, yet hill-walkers had set out for the day – their cars parked in lay-bys – or else were returning to their vehicles, cheeks ruddy, breath visible in the air. At Aviemore, he signalled right, deciding on a detour through the town. There wasn’t much to it, but it was b
ustling. Loch Garten was signposted. He recalled taking his daughter there thirty years before. The RSPB had built a hide, complete with telescopes and binoculars, but there had been no sign of the famous ospreys – just an empty nest. How old would Sammy have been? Five or six. A family driving holiday. These days he had to call her Samantha, on those rare occasions when he called her at all. She preferred sending her father texts, rather than actually engaging in a conversation. Rebus couldn’t blame her, not when the conversations – his fault – almost always ended up in another petty disagreement. He had told Nina Hazlitt that he couldn’t know what she’d been going through, but more than once he had almost lost Sammy.

  He had to wait at the T-junction before he could rejoin the A9, losing count of the number of lorries and vans he was now going to be tailing, some of which he was sure he had overtaken on a stretch of dual carriageway many miles back. He had to remind himself that he was in no rush. He had plenty of CDs with him, and a box of chewing gum purchased at the petrol station. A spare packet of cigarettes and a half-litre bottle of Irn Bru. When he passed a turn-off to the Tomatin distillery, he gave it a little salute, having done the same for Dalwhinnie fifty miles or so back. Despite Inverness being only ten miles away now, and the road mostly dualled, it seemed to take an age to reach its outskirts. Culloden battlefield was nearby – another site they’d visited on that holiday. It had been a bleak place with a small visitors’ centre in a building no bigger than a bothy. Sammy had kept saying how bored and cold she was.

  The four p.m. news was on the car radio as Rebus entered Inverness. Traffic here was more congested still, and he made no friends by getting himself into the wrong lane then trying to get out of it again so he wasn’t forced into the city centre. He crossed the Kessock Bridge on to the Black Isle, then another bridge across the Cromarty Firth, where he had to salute another distillery – Glen Ord. He knew this route from the fold-out map, but had bought another map before leaving Edinburgh. There seemed to be four huge construction platforms in the water to the right. Rain was falling, and the windscreen wipers provided a hypnotic rhythm. It took a moment for him to realise what the sound reminded him of: waking up to the stylus still plying its course around an album’s run-out groove. Alness was fourteen miles south of Tain and boasted Dalmore distillery, while Tain itself had Glenmorangie. At the next roundabout he left the A9 for the A836, signposted towards Bonar Bridge, Ardgay and Edderton. He had a phone number for a local farmer and punched it into his mobile.