Standing in Another Man's Grave

by Ian Rankin

  He paused long enough for a cigarette, taking in his surroundings. There was a new-looking shopping mall within walking distance, plus business units, some of them not yet leased. This was an area of the city for sales reps rather than tourists. When he eventually headed indoors to reception, he noted that the carpet was tartan and there was a stag’s head on the wall. Plenty of wood panelling and piped music. A man in a pinstripe suit was checking in.

  ‘Your usual room, Mr Frazer,’ the receptionist was assuring him.

  The receptionist was young – early twenties, maybe even late teens. Curly blonde hair and lashings of aquamarine eyeshadow. Behind her, a man much the same age was busy with paperwork. When Rebus’s time came, she had the same smile as for Mr Frazer. It faltered only when he showed her his ID and the e-fit of Sally Hazlitt.

  ‘Recognise her?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Looks a bit like Susie,’ the receptionist said. ‘What do you think, Roddy?’

  The young man turned from his work long enough to give a crisp nod. Rebus noted that he was wearing a waistcoat of the same tartan as the carpet.

  ‘Susie works here?’ Rebus asked. The receptionist’s badge identified her only as Amanda.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know if anyone showed her this photo? It’s been on the news.’

  ‘She’s a different shift from me.’ She was growing wary now.

  ‘When was she last seen?’

  She had picked up the phone next to her. ‘You need to speak to the duty manager. . ..’

  The duty manager’s name was Dora Causley and she sat with Rebus in the lounge as a pot of tea was fetched. She held the e-fit and studied it carefully.

  ‘It’s very like her,’ she admitted.

  ‘Susie?’

  ‘Susie Mercer. She’s been with us nearly nine months.’

  ‘Not at work today, though?’

  ‘She phoned in sick a few days back. By rights, she should have produced a doctor’s line by now . . .’

  ‘I’d like to speak to her.’

  Causley nodded slowly. ‘I can get you her details.’

  ‘Thank you. And do you happen to know if anyone might have shown her this photo or mentioned the likeness to her?’

  ‘No idea, sorry.’

  She left him to his tea and shortbread, returning a few minutes later with a slip of paper: home address and phone number.

  ‘Do you know where this is?’ Rebus asked.

  Causley shook her head. ‘I’ve only been in Inverness a couple of years. Amanda can find it for you on the computer.’

  Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘What about Susie Mercer? Is she a local?’

  ‘English accent,’ Causley said. ‘No shortage of them in these parts.’

  ‘Is she married?’

  ‘Don’t remember seeing a ring.’

  ‘She must have a personnel file – any chance I could take a quick look?’

  ‘I’d need authorisation for that.’

  ‘My word’s not good enough?’

  The firmness of her smile was answer enough.

  Armed with a route map printed from the internet by Amanda, Rebus set out to the car park. The Saab’s bonnet was still warm to the touch. ‘Sorry, old-timer,’ he apologised. ‘We’re not quite done yet.’

  The address was a flat above a charity shop in the city centre. Rebus pressed the bell and waited. He had been forced to leave his car on a double yellow line. Parking didn’t seem to be possible otherwise. He pressed the bell again, checking the name beneath it: Mercer. There was one other buzzer, the name next to it scored out. Rebus tried it anyway, and a minute later the door opened. A man in his mid twenties stood at the foot of the stairs, chewing a mouthful of dinner.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘I was looking for Susie Mercer.’

  ‘Haven’t seen her today.’

  ‘She’s been off sick. Workmates are a bit worried.’

  The man seemed to accept this. ‘I’m in the flat next to hers. I can usually hear her television.’ He was leading Rebus up the narrow flight of uncarpeted stairs. There were two doors at the top, one standing open, revealing what looked to Rebus like a bedsit: sofa, bed, cooker all visible. The man tapped on Susie Mercer’s door. After a moment, Rebus tried the handle, without success. There was no letter box for him to peer through.

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Few days back. You think she’s in there?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘I hope she’s all right.’

  ‘Is there a landlord? He’d have a key, wouldn’t he?’

  The tenant nodded his agreement. ‘Want me to fetch him?’

  ‘He lives nearby?’

  ‘Few streets away.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. Sorry again to interrupt your dinner.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ the man said, heading indoors to fetch his jacket. He hesitated, about to lock his door, then told Rebus he could wait inside if he liked.

  ‘That’s good of you,’ Rebus said, accepting the offer.

  The room was small, the only available window open a few inches, presumably to release the smell of cooking. Looked like chilli from a tin, with a bag of nachos to accompany it. There was no TV, just a computer on a desk, and the bowl of leftover food next to it. A movie had been paused. Rebus recognised the actor but couldn’t put a name to him. He plucked a nacho from the bag and popped it into his mouth. From envelopes on a ledge behind the door, it seemed the tenant’s name was G. Fortune. Rebus could only presume the G stood for something other than Good.

  Next to the narrow single bed were a reading lamp and some well-used paperbacks. Thrillers, picked up for between ten and fifty pence, possibly from the charity shop downstairs. No music system other than an MP3 player attached to a large pair of headphones. No wardrobe either, just a rail for jackets, shirts and trousers, and a chipped chest of drawers for everything else. Rebus heard the downstairs door open and close, and two sets of feet begin to climb the stairs.

  The landlord took Rebus’s hand when it was offered, but he had a question ready.

  ‘You’re from the hotel?’

  ‘I never said that,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘Geoff here says you did.’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘He may have got that impression.’ He took out his ID. ‘I work for the police, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Ralph Ellis. So what’s going on here?’

  ‘Just a few questions for Ms Mercer. She’s not been seen at work for a few days. Called in sick but hasn’t provided a doctor’s line.’

  ‘You think maybe she’s . . .?’ Ellis nodded towards the locked door.

  ‘Only one way to find out, sir.’

  Ellis debated with himself for a few seconds, then produced a bunch of keys from his pocket and found the right one, opening the door, calling out to Susie Mercer as he did so.

  The room was dark. Rebus switched the light on. The curtain was closed, the bed unmade. The place was very similar to Fortune’s, down to the clothes rack and chest of drawers. But the hangers had been stripped and the drawers emptied.

  ‘Looks like she’s done a flit,’ Fortune said.

  Rebus made a circuit of the room and the shower room off. Toiletries gone. Some women’s magazines left on the floor next to the bed. Pinholes on the wall above the headboard of the bed. Rebus pointed to them.

  ‘Any idea what the pictures were?’

  ‘A couple of postcards,’ Fortune said. ‘One or two photos of her and her friends.’

  ‘What friends?’

  Fortune shrugged. ‘I never saw them in the flesh.’

  ‘What about a boyfriend?’

  ‘I’ve heard guys’ voices from time to time—’

  ‘Well,’ the landlord interrupted, ‘she’s not here and she’s not dead, so I think we can lock up again.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘Unless you’ve brought a search warrant with you . . .’

  Rebus didn’t want to leave. On the other hand, he couldn’t
see anything worth lingering for. ‘Is the TV hers?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Fortune said.

  ‘It’s not mine,’ Ellis added.

  ‘It might be now,’ Rebus said quietly. Susie Mercer had left in a hurry, taking only what she could carry. He handed business cards to both men.

  ‘In case she gets in touch,’ he explained.

  ‘You don’t think she’s coming back, though?’ the landlord asked.

  Rebus shook his head slowly in reply. Not now her e-fit was out there . . .

  36

  He sat in his car and considered the situation. Then he remembered the cop he’d spoken to in Northern Constabulary, when he’d been tracking down the case files on Sally Hazlitt and Brigid Young. He had a name and contact number in his notebook, so he made the call. The police switchboard answered and he told them who he was and that he needed to speak to Sergeant Gavin Arnold.

  ‘He’s not on shift,’ he was eventually told.

  ‘It’s a bit urgent. Would he mind you giving me his home or mobile number?’

  ‘We can’t do that.’

  ‘Maybe if I give you my number then, and you can get a message to him?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  After ending the call, Rebus knew that all he could do was wait. In Inverness. Aka Dolphinsludge. On a dreich weekday evening with the temperature falling rapidly. He drove around without taking much of it in. A couple of supermarkets were open and looked busy. Men stood outside pubs, sucking hard at cigarettes, keen to get back inside. When his phone rang, he pulled over to the kerb.

  ‘What is it I can do for you?’ Gavin Arnold asked.

  ‘Do you remember me, Sergeant?’

  ‘You’re the reason I spent almost half a day covered in the dust of ages while I hunted those damned files. Haven’t stopped sneezing yet.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you.’

  ‘So has there been some progress?’

  ‘It’d be easier if I explained in person.’

  ‘You’re planning to drive up?’

  ‘I’m already here.’

  ‘Man, you should have said – I’m at the Lochinver, just along from the railway station.’

  ‘If it’s a pub, I think I passed it a couple of minutes ago.’

  ‘I’m towards the back of the main room, next to the dartboard. Do you play?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Pity. It’s a league night and we’re a man down . . .’

  More double yellow lines outside the bar – every legal parking spot filled. Rebus left the sign on the dashboard, locked the Saab and pushed open the door of the Lochinver. Arnold waved to him from the bar. The two men shook hands.

  ‘What’s your poison?’ Arnold asked.

  ‘Just a lemonade.’

  ‘Got the car, eh?’ Arnold looked sympathetic. He was in his mid forties, slim and tall. Dressed in dun-coloured chinos and an open-necked white shirt. His cheeks glowed, but that could have been the result of one whisky too many.

  ‘Your turn, Gavin!’ came the call. Arnold gave Rebus an apologetic smile. ‘This takes precedence, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Rebus said. He rested his weight on a bar stool and watched the game. Arnold was good, but his opponent had the edge. The players’ team-mates offered noisy encouragement from their tables. Arnold lost to a single eighteen/double-top out-shot and the two men shook on it.

  This, it turned out, had been the fixture’s decider. After a bit of banter between the teams, Arnold slid on to the stool next to Rebus.

  ‘Unlucky,’ Rebus offered.

  ‘I’ve never beaten the swine yet,’ Arnold replied, his voice betraying his irritation. But he shrugged it off, ordered another whisky for himself and turned his attention to Rebus.

  ‘What brings you all the way from Edinburgh?’

  ‘What brought you all the way from Lancashire?’

  Arnold grinned. ‘Yorkshire, actually. Some days you’d swear the English outnumber the Scots up here. Not that you can always tell by appearances.’ He gestured towards the barmaid and she approached with a smile.

  ‘Sue,’ he said, ‘this is a friend of mine. His name’s John.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, John.’ She reached between the pumps to shake his hand. ‘Any friend of Gavin’s, as the saying goes.’

  ‘Sue owns this place,’ Arnold informed Rebus. Then, to Sue: ‘John here reckons he can place an accent.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘Go on then – where was Sue born? I’ll even give you a clue – her surname’s Holloway.’

  Rebus studied Sue Holloway. Her smile told him this was a game he was fated to lose, though it was incumbent on him to try.

  ‘Manchester?’ he offered eventually.

  ‘Tell him, Sue,’ Arnold said.

  ‘You’re almost right, John,’ Holloway obliged. ‘But I was born in Kirkcaldy.’

  ‘Makes you a Fifer, then,’ he said. ‘Same as me.’

  ‘You’ve probably been back more regularly than I have.’

  ‘Of late, only as far as the M90. But you grew up in Manchester, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she conceded. ‘And for that, you get a drink on the house. Are you sure you want to stick to lemonade?’

  With fresh drinks in front of them, Rebus warned Gavin Arnold that the tale he was about to tell might take a while.

  ‘As long as you like,’ Arnold reassured him.

  So Rebus laid out the whole story, finishing the lemonade and accepting yet another. Arnold’s darts team had drifted away, the bar only half full by the time Rebus finished. He ended by saying he would let Arnold mull it over while he stepped out for a cigarette. But Arnold followed him into the cold and stood there with him.

  ‘So you think Mercer might be the Hazlitt lassie?’

  ‘She might,’ Rebus conceded, blowing smoke into the night air.

  ‘And when those photos were published, she decided it was time to leave?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  Arnold thought for a moment. ‘Could be a few clues in her personnel file.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘You’re local, I’m not. Easier if you were the one to do the asking.’

  Arnold looked at his watch. ‘Bit late now . . .’

  ‘There must be a night manager at the hotel,’ Rebus suggested.

  ‘Even so . . .’

  ‘I’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘My one bloody night off,’ Arnold muttered, but he was smiling as he said it.

  ‘There’s a whisky on me afterwards,’ Rebus said by way of encouragement.

  ‘That seals the deal,’ he was told.

  They took the Saab, and stopped at Arnold’s police station on Burnett Road long enough for him to change into his uniform.

  ‘Looks better that way, more official,’ he explained.

  Then, with Arnold navigating, they headed to Whicher’s. The night porter had started his shift, but said there was nothing he could do. The office was locked until Dora Causley arrived in the morning.

  ‘How do you contact her in an emergency?’ Rebus asked.

  The porter plucked a card from one of the pockets in his tartan waistcoat.

  ‘Call the number,’ Rebus commanded. Arnold was standing at his shoulder, saying nothing but looking stern and definitely not to be messed with. The porter did as he was told, his eyes on both men.

  ‘It’s gone to voicemail,’ he said eventually.

  Rebus gestured for the receiver, took it, and told Causley she should call him ‘as a matter of urgency’. He recited his mobile number, then handed the receiver back and told the porter they’d wait.

  ‘Bar still serving?’

  ‘Guests only,’ the man explained.

  Arnold took a step forward and glowered at him until it was decided he might be able to bend the rules just this once.

  A single malt for Arnold, and tea for Rebus. They sat in the lounge. Leather chesterfield chairs, piped music. Only three guests were in there with them, huddled a
round the remains of their drinks, discussing as best they could the next day’s business meetings, voices slurred, eyes drooping.

  Arnold had removed both jacket and tie, but was still recognisably an officer of the law. He asked Rebus how long he had left until the gold watch.

  ‘I’m already retired,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Cold case unit’s staffed by crocks like me.’

  ‘You never told me that.’ Arnold seemed to be weighing up whether to take offence or not. Eventually he chuckled into his glass. ‘I never even asked for ID, did I? You could have been anybody.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Rebus said.

  Arnold chuckled again, but more wearily this time. He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Can’t wait here all night, can we?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘She could be out on the town.’ Arnold yawned, stretching both arms wide, straining the buttons of his shirt. ‘You planning on heading back south?’

  ‘That was the general idea.’

  ‘I could get the stuff in the morning and send it to you.’

  But Rebus was thinking of something else. He hadn’t brought his overnight bag with him this time, but all the same . . .

  ‘One for the road?’ he asked Arnold, signalling for the barman. When he ordered whisky for both of them, Arnold knew he could no longer rely on his designated driver to get him home.

  37

  Another dining room breakfast.

  There was no sign of the businessmen from the lounge bar. Most of the guests seemed, like Rebus, to be travelling solo. It was half past seven, and Amanda on reception had informed him that Dora Causley didn’t get in until eight. He’d texted this information to Arnold, along with the offer of bacon and eggs. When Arnold arrived, however, in full uniform and showing no hint of the previous night’s intake, he wanted nothing but coffee and orange juice.