Standing in Another Man's Grave

by Ian Rankin

  ‘He went to Smoo this morning,’ she told him. ‘I’m not sure if he’s back.’

  Rebus then showed her the photo.

  ‘You’re the police?’ she surmised. ‘From Edinburgh? Anthony told us all about it. The spot you’re looking for is just by Keoldale.’

  Two minutes later, armed with a fresh pack of cigarettes, he was back in the Saab and driving a further couple of miles, following her precise – almost too precise – instructions. But as he neared the site, he knew it was wrong. Not all wrong; just wrong enough. Gusts snapped at him as he gazed down towards the Kyle of Durness, then up the slope towards the bare hillside beyond a row of embattled trees, some of which looked permanently stooped.

  ‘No,’ he said. The hillside was too steep.

  But then he’d known that all along, and even more so since Edderton. He drove slowly up and down the road, just in case he was missing something, but the shopkeeper in Durness had sent him to the right place.

  It just wasn’t the right place.

  He consulted his map again. He could go back the way he’d come or keep going. The road made a circuit of sorts before joining the A836 again. Rebus had never been one to retrace his steps, so headed south-west towards Laxford Bridge. The route was still narrow, dotted with passing places, but there was no traffic. Rebus reckoned he’d come a hundred miles or more since leaving Dornoch and not once had he been stuck behind a vehicle of any kind. There was sporadic tourist traffic, along with a few delivery vans. But everyone was very polite, flashing their headlights to let him know they had pulled over and he didn’t need to, or acknowledging him with a wave whenever the roles were reversed. Having crossed to the west coast, he found himself heading inland again, south and east past miles and miles of nothing but scenery and sheep. Twice he had to stop for ewes on the road, and once he caught sight of a large bird of prey gliding over one of the distant summits. There were patches of snow up there, and a huge greasy sky. He passed lochs with wildfowl resting on the glassy surface, and his tyres pressed ancient roadkill further into the tarmac. He had just reached a narrow, dogleg-shaped loch when his phone sounded. He had one missed call. He pulled over and returned it. The signal was fine.

  ‘Dad?’ It was Samantha’s voice. ‘Where are you? I got back and saw your note . . .’

  Rebus had got out of the car. The air was clear and sharp as he inhaled. ‘Would you believe I was just passing?’

  ‘No.’ She was stifling a laugh.

  ‘Happens to be the truth. There was something I had to check in Durness.’

  ‘How did you find the right house?’

  ‘That picture you sent.’ He held it up. Samantha was standing in front of her bungalow, arm around the waist of the tall young man next to her.

  ‘So where are you now?’ she asked.

  ‘Nowhere. Quite literally.’ He looked around him, saw the hillside reflected in the still surface of the loch. ‘If I remembered any of my geography classes, I might be able to describe it.’

  ‘Too far south to turn around?’

  ‘I’d say so. I think I’m about sixty miles from Tongue.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Next time, eh?’ he said, rubbing at his forehead with the meat of his thumb. ‘Or maybe if you’re ever in Edinburgh. How are things anyway? It’s a beautiful location . . .’

  ‘You looked in the windows, didn’t you? Place is a right tip.’

  ‘No worse than mine. How’s Keith doing?’

  ‘He’s okay. Got some work on the decommissioning project at Dounreay.’

  ‘Do you check him for radioactivity?’

  ‘I don’t need a bedside light any more,’ she joked. Then: ‘You should have told me you were coming.’

  ‘It was more of an impulse thing,’ he lied. ‘Sorry I’ve not phoned for a while.’

  ‘You’re kept busy. I saw that woman mention you on the news.’ Meaning Nina Hazlitt. ‘Is that why you were in Durness?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘So that means you might be back?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But everything’s all right with you and Keith?’

  ‘We . . . we’re trying IVF.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘At the Raigmore Hospital. First one didn’t take.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘We’re not giving up – not yet.’

  ‘Good for you.’ He closed his eyes and opened them again. The scenery took its time coming back into focus.

  ‘I wish I’d been here. I was only out seeing a friend. Her baby’s nine months . . .’

  ‘At least I know where you are now. When we’re on the phone like this in future, I can picture the view from your window.’

  ‘It’s a nice view.’

  ‘It really is.’ Rebus cleared his throat. ‘I’d better get going. This is supposed to be me working.’

  ‘Take care, Dad.’

  ‘You too, Samantha.’

  ‘I’m touched you came to visit. Really I am.’

  He ended the call and stood there staring ahead of him without taking any of it in. Why hadn’t he told her he’d be dropping by? Did he want to see the look on her face so he could judge whether she was pleased or not? Probably. But then there was the other possibility: that he’d not wanted her to be home. That way they couldn’t end up falling out. He had made the effort, without any of the possible repercussions. Ever since Durness had been mentioned, he’d thought about Samantha, seeing an excuse to visit her without it looking as though he had gone out of his way.

  Just passing.

  ‘You’re a basket case, John,’ he told himself as he headed back to the idling car. ‘And who wants a basket case as a grandad?’

  IVF: she’d not mentioned it before, never really talked about kids. He wondered what the problem was. She’d been hit by a car a decade or so back – could that have caused complications? Or maybe it was Keith and his job. They’d already had a shot at IVF without telling him. Wanting to surprise him maybe? Or did he just not figure in their lives to that extent?

  At Bonar Bridge, instead of taking a right and passing through Edderton again, he headed along the northern side of the Dornoch Firth, picking up the A9 at Clashmore.

  ‘Hello again,’ he told the road. He was driving south now, through Tain and Inverness and Aviemore and Pitlochry. No room in his stomach for a late lunch, but he refilled the Saab’s tank at a petrol station and bought a paper and a bottle of water. There was a veritable convoy on the opposite carriageway, led by a transporter with earth-moving equipment on its trailer. The traffic on Rebus’s side of the road was moving more freely, for which he was grateful. Just south of Aviemore, he pulled into a lay-by behind an articulated lorry and a delivery van, getting out for a stretch and a rolling of the shoulders. Busy as the route was, he got the feeling he could walk a few dozen yards into the hills and be stepping where no feet had ever passed. The wilderness remained wilderness precisely because nobody bothered to stop. He turned at the sound of the van’s door opening, the driver jumping down.

  ‘Any chance of sparking me up?’ the man said, waving a cigarette.

  Rebus obliged.

  ‘The dashboard lighter’s buggered,’ the man explained, nodding his gratitude before inhaling greedily.

  ‘What about the HGV?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Driver’s dead to the world. Curtains shut and everything. We could be in the back, emptying the container, and he’d still be snoring.’

  Rebus managed a smile. ‘Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.’

  ‘Not really. Dutch number plate, meaning you’re more likely to get a few buckets of flowers than a flat-screen television.’

  ‘You really have thought about it.’

  The man laughed and took another drag on his cigarette.

  ‘How do you know he’s all right?’ Rebus asked, meaning the lorry driver.

  ‘If he drives those things every day, he’s far from all right.’ The man tapped a finger
to his temple, then asked Rebus if he was in sales.

  ‘Just had to go up north,’ Rebus answered, keeping it vague.

  ‘Inverness?’

  ‘Further.’

  ‘Wick?’

  ‘North-west, towards Cape Wrath.’

  ‘I didn’t think there was anything up that way.’

  ‘You’re well informed.’ Rebus paused as an artic rattled by, followed by a stream of cars. There was a change in air pressure, as if some force were trying to suck him on to the carriageway.

  ‘It’s worse on motorways,’ the van driver said. ‘Try taking a piss on the M8 hard shoulder.’

  ‘Duly noted. You use this road a lot?’

  ‘Like clockwork: Inverness–Perth–Dundee–Aberdeen. I could drive it blind.’

  ‘Maybe not when I’m in the vicinity, eh?’

  ‘Worried I’d dunt your Saab?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Worried I’d have to arrest you . . .’

  32

  Edinburgh again.

  Long tailbacks into the city, a forty-mile-per-hour limit enforced by average speed cameras. Bloody roadworks. And then, as he entered the city itself, signs warning him about the tram project with its diversions and road closures. His back was on fire. Too much time at the wheel, and hardly the most relaxing of drives. At Gayfield Square he stuck the POLICE sign on the dashboard before getting out, patting the Saab’s roof in thanks for not breaking down on him. Then he headed inside, expecting his nemesis to be waiting. Instead, there was a new face behind the Plexiglas, and she accepted Rebus’s ID at face value, buzzing him through. He climbed the stairs and entered the CID office. Everyone was clustered around Christine Esson’s computer.

  ‘What have I missed?’

  Page looked up briefly. ‘Welcome back,’ he said, gesturing for Rebus to come and look.

  ‘It’s the CCTV from the bus station,’ Siobhan Clarke explained. It had been looked at before, but only to make sure Annette really did board the Inverness coach. ‘Christine had the idea of winding it back a bit . . .’

  Esson was using her mouse pad to move the action forwards and backwards, a few frames at a time. Annette skipped towards the bus queue, then seemed to retreat until she left the frame altogether. There was a cut to another camera, showing her from further away. Different angle, but obviously shot at the same time. Back, back, back towards the glass doors of the bus station. The door opening as she got closer to it, closing as she went through it, her hand pressed to the metal handle. She was on the pavement now, their view of her opaque, glass in the way.

  ‘Can we zoom in?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Not necessary,’ Page said. ‘Watch what happens.’

  A figure was approaching her, speaking to her. Rebus sucked air through his teeth. It was recognisably Frank Hammell. His hand was grasping her arm. And then the pair of them moved out of shot again. Esson paused the recording, then played it forward in real time. Hammell and Annette walked into shot, his hand grabbing her as if reluctant to let her go. She shrugged him off and pushed open the door, striding purposefully across the concourse. Cut to the other camera. Was that relief on her face? She was up on her toes, a bag slung over one shoulder, joining the short queue to board the single-decker coach, glancing back just once to see if Hammell was there.

  ‘The one and only,’ James Page said, straightening up. He rested his palm on Esson’s shoulder. ‘Good work, Christine.’ Then he clapped his hands just once, keeping them pressed together. ‘So now we bring Mr Hammell, that good friend to the McKie family, in for a little chat.’

  ‘He never mentioned being at the bus station?’ Rebus guessed.

  Clarke answered with a shake of the head. ‘And we’ve just managed to get an itemised list from Annette’s mobile network. She sent a dozen texts from the bus – ten to her pal Timmy, the other two to a phone belonging to Frank Hammell. Only time her phone was used after that was for the photo to Thomas Redfern.’

  ‘Incoming calls?’

  ‘We don’t have those.’

  ‘Be interesting to know if Hammell texted her back.’

  ‘We’ll ask him,’ Page responded crisply. ‘This is a man with a criminal record, isn’t that right, John?’

  ‘He’s a criminal all right, but as yet we’ve never nailed anything on him.’

  ‘Well, he’s lied to this inquiry, and that’s quite enough to be going on with.’

  ‘Obstruction at the very least,’ Ronnie Ogilvie agreed.

  Page nodded slowly. ‘Back to your desks then, everyone. Siobhan, get on the phone to Mr Hammell and request his company.’ Page caught Rebus’s eye, gesturing towards his office. Rebus followed him, not bothering to close the door. He’d had enough of close confines for one day.

  ‘How did it go?’ Page was asking.

  ‘I’m convinced the photo was taken at a place called Edderton.’

  ‘Siobhan seems to agree. But she also said something about it being some sort of hoax . . .?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I think the abductor’s playing a game with us.’

  Page took a moment to digest this. ‘And Hammell?’ he asked.

  ‘Needs to be interviewed.’

  ‘He could have followed her to Pitlochry . . .’

  ‘He could,’ Rebus admitted.

  Page remained thoughtful. ‘How was the rest of your trip?’

  ‘Largely uneventful.’ Rebus handed over the petrol receipt. ‘Expenses,’ he explained.

  Page studied it. ‘Dated today.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I thought you went yesterday?’

  ‘The trip took longer than expected.’

  ‘You were away overnight?’

  ‘A hotel,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Receipt?’ Page held out a hand, but Rebus shook his head.

  ‘On the house, as it were.’ He turned to go, but Page hadn’t quite finished with him.

  ‘Nina Hazlitt picked you out for praise.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t go to your head.’

  ‘Quite the opposite, James, I assure you . . .’

  Back in the body of the kirk, it struck Rebus once again that he had nowhere to sit, not when the team was accounted for. There was a metal-framed chair that had come from the interview room, but no desk to go with it. Rebus placed it next to Clarke and checked that the legs were not going to collapse beneath him.

  ‘Somewhere to put the boxes?’ he hinted, prodding one of them with his finger.

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘Otherwise I’ve busted a gut lugging them here for nothing.’

  She stared at him. ‘Poor you.’ Then, turning back to her computer: ‘How was the rest of the trip?’

  ‘I took a look at Durness.’

  ‘Thought as much. Explains why you’re only just getting back.’

  ‘It’s not a contender.’

  On her screen, she had found a contact number for Frank Hammell. She pressed her phone to her ear and waited.

  ‘Mr Hammell?’ she said. ‘DI Clarke here. Do you think we could have a word at the station . . .?’ She tapped the nib of her pen against a notebook next to her keyboard. ‘Today, if at all possible.’ She listened to his response, then asked when he would be back. ‘Well, if that’s the best you can do, sir. Noon tomorrow. We’ll see you then . . .’

  She ended the call and looked at Rebus again. ‘He says he’s in Aberdeen on business.’

  Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Thomas Robertson business?’

  Clarke shrugged. Rebus was studying the map on the wall. More pins had been added, new locations suggested. The biggest cluster was still around Edderton. Christine Esson was approaching. ‘Have you told him?’ she asked Clarke.

  ‘Told him what?’

  ‘The sightings.’

  ‘Oh.’ Clarke opened her mouth to speak, but Page called out from his doorway, gesturing for her to join him in his office. ‘You better do it,’ she said to Esson,
rising from her chair and squeezing past Rebus.

  ‘I’m all ears,’ Rebus offered.

  ‘You know we put out the e-fits of the missing women?’ Esson obliged.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve had some sightings.’

  ‘Okay . . .’

  ‘And interestingly, most are of Sally Hazlitt.’

  ‘Why is that interesting?’

  ‘Because she’s been missing the longest. Means the e-fit is less likely to be accurate. Easier to age a photo a couple of years than a dozen.’

  Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘So where did all these sightings take place?’

  She went back to her desk, returning with a pad of paper covered in her writing.

  ‘Brigid Young was spotted last year working in a bar in Dublin. She now has an Australian accent, by the way.’

  ‘Are you okay if we discount that one?’

  Esson smiled. ‘I think we can scratch most of them.’

  ‘But not all?’

  She looked at her notes again. ‘Zoe Beddows has been seen in Brighton, Bristol, Dumfries and Lerwick – all within the past three months.’

  ‘She gets about a bit.’

  ‘And as for Sally Hazlitt . . .’ She did some addition, her mouth forming the numbers. ‘Eleven sightings in total, everywhere from Dover to Dundee.’

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Two people claim to have seen her in Inverness, working in a hotel.’

  ‘Same hotel both times?’

  Esson nodded. ‘The two callers don’t know one another, and they stayed there on different weeks. One was in September, the other October. It’s got to be coincidence, right? I mean, Inverness being on the A9 . . .’

  ‘What’s the hotel called?’

  ‘Whicher’s. It’s part of a chain. I don’t know much more than that.’

  ‘Was she a chambermaid?’

  ‘Receptionist.’ Esson paused. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’

  Rebus nodded slowly. ‘And this is the only example where two people have come forward with the exact same information?’