by Ian Rankin
‘Don’t do breakfast,’ he informed Rebus as he pulled out the chair across the table.
‘Me neither, unless it’s already paid for.’ Rebus polished off the last triangle of toast. ‘Sleep all right?’
‘Like a baby – wet the bed three times.’
Rebus smiled, as he felt was expected.
‘How about you?’ Arnold asked.
‘I never seem to be able to sleep late in hotel rooms.’
‘That’s hardly fair, is it?’
‘Hardly,’ Rebus agreed.
Their waitress was pouring refills when Causley, forewarned by the front desk, marched towards them, eyes only slightly bloodshot.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
Rebus was about to say something about her inability to check her phone for messages, but Arnold had sprung to his feet and was shaking her hand. ‘Sergeant Arnold,’ he reminded her. ‘We met when you had that break-in.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good job it was kept out of the papers, eh?’ Arnold turned towards Rebus. ‘Turned out to be one of the housekeeping staff.’
Causley busied herself trying not to squirm. Arnold was still holding her hand, and she knew what was expected.
‘You’ll be wanting to see that file,’ she said.
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Arnold replied, only now loosening his grip.
Having played his part, Arnold had headed off to work, and half an hour later, Rebus was checking out of the hotel, taking with him photocopies of Susie Mercer’s CV, application letter, references and twelve-week performance review. He sat in the Saab and went through everything for a second time. The references were from other hotels, one in Northern Ireland and one on Mull. Mull was the more recent, and Rebus called the number. Yes, he was told, Susie Mercer had worked there the previous summer. The hotel in Northern Ireland, on the other hand, had no record of her.
‘Though we did have a Susan Merton here around that time.’
Rebus waited for the woman to pull Merton’s photograph from her personnel file, then described Mercer to her.
‘Sounds about right,’ she conceded. Rebus asked if a copy of the photo could be sent to him. She snapped it with her phone and a couple of minutes later it arrived on his screen. It was blurry, and the cut and colour of the hair were different, but he’d bet his pension Susan Merton and Susie Mercer were the same person. He had tried Mercer’s number half a dozen times, leaving messages when prompted. Now he punched in a text and sent it, asking her to get in touch without revealing who he was.
Looking down the CV, he saw more hotel and restaurant work, plus stints in department stores and as an office temp. High school in Aylesbury; further education college in the same town. Rebus had only the vaguest notion that Aylesbury was somewhere near London. Her date of birth was June 1, 1981, while Sally Hazlitt’s was the reverse – January 6. 6/1 and 1/6 – easy to remember. When his phone rang, he answered automatically. It was Peter Bliss.
‘Someone’s looking for you,’ Bliss said, keeping his voice down.
‘Cowan?’
‘Gayfield Square told him you’d be back here first thing.’
Nicely played, Page: just a smidgen of revenge . . .
‘I’m in Inverness,’ Rebus confided. ‘I’ll be another three hours at least.’
‘Inverness?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘You should call in on Gregor Magrath.’
It took Rebus a moment to place the name. ‘The guy who started SCRU?’ He remembered the card Nina Hazlitt had given him, the one with Magrath’s number on it.
‘He lives up that way.’
‘You reckon Cowan would be happier if I told him that was what I was doing?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Well, thanks for the warning anyway.’
‘So we’ll see you this afternoon?’
‘Will there be bunting?’
Bliss was stifling a laugh as he ended the call.
38
Cowan was on the phone when Rebus walked into the SCRU office. Bliss gave Rebus a wink and Elaine Robison added a little wave, their attitude suggesting that the workload had been managed more than adequately in his absence.
‘He’s here now,’ Cowan was saying into the receiver, eyes on Rebus. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’ He paused as he listened. ‘Yes, I’ll tell him. Straight away, yes.’
He ended the call and told Rebus not to bother taking his coat off. ‘DCI Page wants to see you. Any idea why that might be?’
Rebus was stumped. All he could come up with was that the case files were taking up space and needed to be moved.
‘Where the hell have you been anyway?’
‘Didn’t realise you would be pining for me, Dan . . .’
Out in the car park, Rebus apologised to the Saab one more time before starting the engine. There was a single dry cough of complaint before the motor caught. He got on the phone to Siobhan Clarke. Before she could speak, he told her that he’d just been to Inverness.
‘And the thing is, I think Sally Hazlitt’s definitely still alive. Soon as that e-fit went public, she did a runner. I don’t suppose it counts as conclusive, but all the same . . .’
‘Throwing into doubt your whole serial-killer theory?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thing is, John, there’s a problem with that – it’s why James wants to see you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Couple more victims by the look of it. We’ll tell you all about it when you get here.’
Two of the Gayfield Square detectives would be ‘hot-desking’, so that Rebus could have the one going spare. The boxes had been piled next to it and on it.
‘The desk drawers are out of bounds, I’ve been told to advise you,’ Page said. ‘DC Ormiston’s keeping his stuff in there for the duration.’ They were in his office, Page seated behind his desk, Siobhan and Rebus standing. ‘Siobhan tells me you’ve changed your thinking about the first victim.’
‘She tells me,’ Rebus countered, ‘that there may be others.’
Page nodded and picked up a sheet of paper, reading from it.
‘It’s the photo sent from Annette McKie’s phone. It chimed with a couple of families. Both have lost teenage daughters in the past five years. Suspected drownings, neither body recovered.’
‘They sent photos from their phones the day they vanished?’ Rebus guessed.
Page nodded slowly. ‘In one case, the photo no longer exists. But the parents swear it was the same as the one they saw on the news.’
‘And the other family?’
‘Kept all their daughter’s things. Here’s the picture they were sent.’ Page was tapping the screen of his computer. Rebus walked around the side of the desk so he could see it.
‘Christ,’ was all he could think to say.
It was Edderton, no doubt in his mind at all.
That night, Rebus stayed late at the office. Clarke had volunteered her services and the two of them were giving some order to the boxes, sorting out what might be important. Page wanted a precis, something he could take to the Chief Constable. Northern Constabulary would need to be persuaded to cooperate in the inquiry – the area around Edderton searched; local people questioned at length and in detail – and that meant putting together the facts, while trying to predict queries and problems, then prepping possible responses. Clarke was working on the timeline.
‘Do we add Sally Hazlitt or not?’ was one of her questions.
Rebus didn’t really know.
‘1999, 2002, 2008 and 2012. To which we can add 2007 and 2009.’ She stared at the figures. ‘I know what a profiler would say.’
‘Enlighten me, if you must.’
‘They’d say serial offenders start out slow, then become more prolific the longer they get away with it.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Three possibilities: one, it’s because they want to be caught; two, it’s precisely because they’re no
t being caught; three, it’s because they’re becoming addicted to it – each new victim satisfying them for a shorter time.’
‘Is that the sort of stuff you need to know these days to be a DI?’
‘I think it’s worth looking at those essays Christine printed out. Our guy has given us one big problem: no disposal sites to work with. But we do have Edderton. It has to mean something to him.’
‘Unless he chose it at random to throw any police investigation off the scent. Could be somewhere he stopped just the once. Maybe someone else snapped the original picture and he got hold of it somehow.’
Clarke considered this, trying not to look too disheartened. They worked in silence for a few more minutes until she asked him about Inverness and he filled her in on the details of his trip.
‘And the Saab didn’t break down?’
‘Not ready for the knacker’s yard just yet.’
‘Apparently not.’
Rebus stretched his spine and rolled his shoulders. ‘We about done here?’
‘I should type all this up.’
‘Ready to present to Page first thing?’
‘It would make sense.’
‘A cold drink would make sense, too.’
‘Give me another half-hour.’
‘And what will I be doing all that time?’
‘Getting your Inverness adventure down on paper,’ Clarke suggested.
Afterwards, they walked to a bar on Broughton Street, Clarke sucking in lungfuls of the night air as if tasting freedom after long captivity.
The pub was well lit and filled with conversation rather than music. A pint of beer and a gin, lime and soda. Rebus, feeling reckless, even threw in salted peanuts and a bag of crisps.
‘How are you feeling?’ Clarke asked as they clinked glasses.
‘I’m all right.’
‘I meant with all the driving you’ve been doing.’
‘You offering to apply the Deep Heat?’
‘No.’ She smiled and took a sip.
‘It’s weird up there,’ Rebus said. ‘Beautiful and bleak and eerie, all at the same time.’ He swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘One particular stretch south of Durness – I doubt it’s changed since the time of Sir Walter Scott.’
‘You should have taken a navigator.’
‘I really did think you were needed here.’
‘And I know that’s not the whole truth.’ She paused, inviting him to comment, but he opened the crisp bag instead.
‘What about Edderton?’ she asked eventually.
‘Farming and tourism, I’d say. A distillery an easy commute away. Plus some rigs in the Cromarty Firth.’
‘Dornoch?’
‘Nice wee place. Good-looking beach. No sign of Madonna.’ He wiped foam from around his mouth. ‘Everything seemed so . . . normal.’ He shrugged. ‘Just normal.’ His phone went and he checked the screen. ‘Nina Hazlitt,’ he informed Clarke.
‘You going to answer?’ She watched him shake his head. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d probably lie to her, tell her there’s no news.’
‘Why not the truth?’
‘Because I want to be a hundred per cent sure – maybe a hundred and ten.’
They waited until the phone had stopped. It sounded once more to tell Rebus he had voicemail.
‘If Sally is alive,’ Clarke said, ‘what do you think her story is?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘What was her place like in Inverness?’
‘Pretty anonymous. I think she moves around a lot, never stays anywhere long.’
‘Maybe it’s like the song says – she hasn’t found what she’s looking for.’
‘Who has?’ Rebus said, lifting the pint to his mouth again.
‘You’re not doing too badly,’ Clarke commented, causing him to raise an eyebrow.
‘This case,’ she explained. ‘It’s put a spring in your step.’
‘I’m a regular Fred Astaire all right.’
‘You know it’s true, though . . .’
He managed to lock his eyes on to hers. ‘I don’t think it is. The job’s changed, Siobhan. Everything’s . . .’ He struggled to find the words. ‘It’s like with Christine Esson. Ninety per cent of the stuff she does is beyond me. The way she thinks is beyond me.’
‘You’re vinyl, we’re digital?’ Clarke offered.
‘Contacts used to be the way you got things done. The only network that mattered was the one out there on the street.’ He nodded towards the pub window, thinking that Frank Hammell had said much the same to him that night in Jo-Jo Binkie’s, after Darryl Christie had gone.
‘Your way works too, John – Edderton; Susie Mercer. Those were shoe-leather results. So don’t go thinking you’re obsolete.’ She pointed to his near-empty glass. ‘Are we having another?’
‘Might as well, eh?’
He watched her as she queued at the bar. Then his phone rang again, and he decided he might as well answer.
‘John?’
‘Hello, Nina.’
‘I called you a few minutes back.’
‘Signal’s patchy here.’
‘You sound like you’re in a pub.’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘You sound tired, too. Is everything all right?’
‘As well as can be expected.’
‘And the inquiry?’
‘See my previous answer.’
There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘Do you mind me calling?’
He closed his eyes. ‘No,’ he told her.
‘And when you get news, you’ll tell me?’
‘Didn’t I promise?’ I think your daughter’s alive . . .
‘Promises aren’t always kept, John. Should I come north again? I’d like to see you.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Your daughter’s alive, but why did she leave?
‘You sound . . .’
‘Tired?’
‘No, not just tired – strange. Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I have to go, Nina.’ Why would she not get in touch when she knows you’re out there, desperate and searching?
‘John, I—’
He ended the call just as Clarke returned to the table.
‘Let me guess,’ she said, watching him switch off the phone and place it on the table. Then, sitting down: ‘You really don’t want to tell her about Susie Mercer?’
‘No.’
‘I can see how it might make things worse. On the other hand . . .’
Rebus ignored her and picked up the fresh pint.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Here’s tae us.’
As he drank, he couldn’t help but think of the rest of the toast.
Wha’s like us?
Gey few—
And they’re a’ deid . . .
39
Malcolm Fox’s drink of choice was Appletiser. He never touched alcohol, not these days. He always recycled the empty bottles, along with paper, cans, plastic and cardboard. Now the council was asking him to recycle kitchen waste too, and he was running out of room in his bungalow for all the boxes and bags. He already had a compost bin in his back garden, though it was only ever added to in the summer – lawn trimmings and the few weeds he could be bothered to dig up. Fox wasn’t convinced any of it made a difference, yet he found himself unable not to comply. Though the bungalow had no party walls, he always kept the volume low on the TV, and seldom listened to music. He liked reading – almost as much as he liked work.
It would have been against regulations to bring home the files on John Rebus, even if he could have carried them. But he prided himself on his memory and had jotted down pages of salient details, along with several decades’ worth of supposition, rumour and claim. He felt he knew the man almost as well as anyone he’d ever met. Right now, Rebus would be in some boozer somewhere, probably running up a tab that would never require paying. Rebus wouldn’t see that as either bribe or inducement, but rather as standard op
erating procedure. Time was, plenty of his fellow detectives would have felt the same, but those days were past, the combatants long retired from the field. Fox wished Rebus would just take his carcass overseas to some beachside taverna where he could pickle himself at his leisure while spending some of that accrued pension. Instead of which, he had reapplied for a CID posting.
The sheer bloody nerve of the man.
What was more, he still had at least one champion on the force – the Chief Constable had sided with him, and had told Fox that if the Complaints were going to raise an objection, they’d best build a bloody good case.
Look at the man’s record, Malcolm. Who else managed to put Big Ger Cafferty away?
Yes, that counted as a big tick for Rebus, but Fox himself was suspicious. Cafferty hadn’t served much of a stretch. How convenient to have someone on the force who seemed to be his nemesis. Seemed being the operative word. Who was to say the two hadn’t been in cahoots? Cafferty had returned to the city apparently stronger than ever, his empire undiminished. How was that possible, and why had no one managed to put him back inside since? Come to that, wasn’t it convenient that Rebus had been on hand at Cafferty’s hospital bed, ready to give CPR when he flatlined? Would you bring your worst enemy back from the dead? The staff had had to drag Rebus away, such had been the intensity of his focus.
Enemies? Fox didn’t think so.
The Chief Constable had challenged him to build a case, and Fox in turn had asked for permission to look at Rebus’s phone accounts – landline and mobile. The Chief had been reluctant, but Fox had worn him down. The relevant paperwork was on its way. He was hopeful there might be a little bomb tucked away there.
Though he didn’t like to admit it, there was something else about Rebus that gnawed at him. It was the lifestyle. The smell of smoke on the man’s suits – always supposing he owned more than one suit. The pale, pasty face and the three or four extra stone he seemed to carry. And the drink.
The drink above all.
Fox had ceased to take alcohol because he was an alcoholic, while Rebus continued to sup for the exact same reason. Somehow, though, Rebus still functioned, while Fox seldom had. Alcohol fogged his mind and made him short-tempered. It gave him the sweats and the shakes and nights of the worst possible dreams. Rebus was probably the kind who slept better after a dozen or so malts, damn the man.