by Ian Rankin
‘Hello, Darryl,’ Rebus said, resting his back against the Saab. ‘Is it worth me asking how you come to know where I live?’
‘This is the information age, if you hadn’t noticed.’
‘How’s your mum doing? And the rest of the family?’
‘There’s a funeral needs planning.’
‘There’s also a friend of your mother’s who needs calming down.’
‘You think I’m bothered about him?’
‘I think you’ve got a head on your shoulders. In a lot of ways, you’re smarter than Frank Hammell. Someone needs to bring him back from Inverness.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Christie stated. He was dressed in the same dark suit, with a fresh white shirt but no tie. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and studied Rebus. ‘Frank says you might be okay.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Despite being Cafferty’s man.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Frank’s wondering if you might keep your ears open, on behalf of the family.’
‘Oh?’
‘Any names that come into the frame – all we’d need is a head start.’
‘Frank wants his hands on them before they can be brought into custody?’
Christie nodded slowly. ‘But I don’t want that to happen.’
‘No?’
‘Things could get messy afterwards, and I don’t want my mum being more upset than she already is.’
‘Frank Hammell has a pretty good track record, Darryl. If he gets hold of someone, there’s not going to be a trace of them afterwards – not for a long time.’
‘This is different. I’ve not seen him lose it the way he’s been doing.’
It was Rebus’s turn to study the young man in front of him. ‘You really are smarter, aren’t you?’
‘I’m just a bit more rational at this point in time. Plus it’ll put my job on the line if he does something stupid.’
‘It’s more than that, though. I’d say you’re canny by nature. My bet is, you kept your head down in school, did well in exams. But always watchful, learning how things are and what makes people tick.’
Darryl Christie offered a shrug of the shoulders. When he removed his hands from his pockets, he was holding a card in one. ‘I’ve got lots of phones,’ he said. ‘If you ring this number, I’ll know it’s you.’
‘You really think I’m going to hand over whoever did this?’
‘A name and an address; that’s all.’ He looked through the windows of the Saab at the carrier bags on the rear seat. ‘You never know – there might be the price of a washing machine in it . . .’
Rebus watched him turn and head back to the Merc. No swagger to the walk, just an easy confidence. The driver’s eyes were on Rebus, as if daring him to go against Christie’s wishes, whatever those wishes might be. Rebus managed a wink as the window began to slide up, then got into the front seat of the Saab and started the engine. By the time he’d reversed out of his parking space and reached the junction at the foot of Arden Street, the Merc was nowhere to be seen.
The guy in the launderette told him it might be a couple of days. Rebus remonstrated that he didn’t have a couple of days, to which the owner responded by waving his arms in the direction of the backlog of service washes.
‘Way things are,’ he said, ‘I’d almost pay you to load the machine yourself.’
On the way back to the flat, it was a three-way contest between fish and chips, Indian and Chinese. Indian won, and Rebus stopped at Pataka’s, ordering a rogan josh and saying he would wait. He was offered a lager but turned it down. The place was doing good business, the booths filled with couples sharing platters of food and bottles of chilled wine. There were three or four pubs within a two-minute walk, but Rebus flicked through that day’s Evening News instead. By the time he’d finished, his food was ready. He drove back to Arden Street with Maggie Bell playing on the radio. He wondered if she was still going strong . . .
His kitchen filled with aromas as he opened the containers, scooping out the meat, sauce and rice on to a plate. There were beers in the cupboard, so he opened one and added it to the tray, which he carried through to the dining table. The living room felt a bit better, so he closed the window again and put the Bert Jansch album back on. His phone sounded, letting him know he had a message. He decided it could wait. A couple of minutes later, it issued another reminder and this time he got up to check the screen. One missed call; one voicemail.
It was Nina Hazlitt.
‘Guess where I am,’ she was saying.
55
They met at an old-fashioned bar behind the railway station. She was booked on to the sleeper service down to London, a couple of hours still to kill before boarding. She was seated at the bar when he arrived. The pint she’d bought him had been there some time and had gone flat. Rebus said it would be fine anyway.
‘I thought you’d still be in Inverness,’ she told him.
‘Surplus to requirements.’
‘They’ve identified all the bodies now?’
He nodded and took a sip of beer.
‘No sign of Sally,’ she went on, lowering her eyes.
‘Meaning she’s unconnected to the case,’ he offered.
‘But she has to be! Wasn’t I the first person to see it?’
The barman cast a warning look towards them: this wasn’t a place for raised voices. Rebus noticed that the couple at the table next to the window were readying to leave. He picked up his own glass and Nina Hazlitt’s suitcase. After a moment she followed him, carrying her vodka and tonic. When they were settled, she waited for him to meet her gaze. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face sallow and taut, lacking sleep and answers.
‘What did you think of Frank Hammell?’ Rebus asked.
‘He seems very caring.’
‘He’s a gangster.’
‘That’s certainly what the papers imply.’
‘He’s not someone you want in your life.’
‘He’s not in my life.’
‘The two of you looked pretty cosy in Inverness – which one of you arranged that bit of filming?’
‘What does it matter?
‘Just trying to get things straight in my head.’
‘I don’t see that it’s any of your concern, John.’
‘Maybe not.’ He paused. ‘What about the other guy – I suppose he’s none of my business either?’
She gave a sigh. ‘Which “guy” are we talking about now?’
‘The one who lives with you – is his name really Alfie?’
‘I told you, he’s my brother.’
‘You don’t have any brothers, Nina.’
Her mouth opened a little. He watched as colour flooded her cheeks.
‘What makes you say that?’ she was eventually able to ask.
‘I’m a cop; we’re good at finding stuff out.’ Rebus paused. ‘So who is he?’
‘He . . . lives with me.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Why did you lie?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you reckon your feminine charms wouldn’t work on me if there was someone else in the picture?’
She had lowered her eyes again. Her hands had dropped into her lap, resting there palms up. ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded quietly.
‘Plus the grieving mother probably plays better with the media if there isn’t somebody else waiting at home.’
‘John . . .’
He gestured for her not to go on. He wasn’t even halfway down the pint but knew he was going to leave it. His stomach felt queasy, filled with undigested meat and swelling rice. He rose to his feet. Nina Hazlitt didn’t move. She seemed fascinated by her hands. Or maybe it was just that the pose had worked for her in the past. Rebus rested his knuckles against the edge of the small table and leaned down towards her, lowering his voice.
‘She doesn’t want to see you,’ he told her. ‘But for what it’s worth, I don’t think she’s got any intention of telli
ng the world about her father.’
Nina Hazlitt flinched, her head jerking up. ‘Where is she?’ she said.
Rebus shook his head as he straightened up.
‘You’ve seen her?’
He was turning away towards the door. She was on her feet now. ‘I’m begging you!’ she called out. ‘I just want to say sorry, that’s all! Will you tell her I’m sorry? John! Will you tell her . . .?’
But Rebus had pulled open the door, leaving her world well and truly behind him.
During the drive back to his flat, he expected any number of calls or messages, but none came. Once he’d parked his car, he took out his phone and found the number for Sally Hazlitt’s mobile. He tapped in a text – She says sorry – and sent it, unsure if it would ever find a reader.
After Bert Jansch, it was the turn of the Stones, and after that some Gerry Rafferty. Rebus had emptied a fair amount of Highland Park into himself, and didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse. He had taken the nylon plectrum from his pocket, the one made all those years ago by Jim Dunlop’s company, and was rubbing it between his fingers while he did some thinking about Nina Hazlitt. Had he told her the truth out of simple spite? Would it have been better to leave it unsaid? He’d almost called his own daughter, just to hear her voice for five minutes, but it was too late in the day.
Five families, able finally to grieve properly, but with accompanying horror. Five victims plucked from the world, stripped and buried. Was their killer keeping his trophies – his store of clothing, purses, phones? Rebus really hoped so. He knew that Dempsey would make an appeal at her next press conference. It would be based on detailed descriptions of the women’s belongings when they’d disappeared. He wondered if Dempsey was married – she didn’t wear a ring, but that was hardly conclusive these days. Maybe she had children. Rebus’s phone was on the arm of the chair and he kept checking it, wondering if he could maybe call Siobhan Clarke, just to tell her about his evening. Instead, he flipped the vinyl to side two, turned the volume down a shade, and trickled a final measure of malt into his glass.
The TV was playing silently: a news channel. The A9 story had lost its top billing to a new political crisis in Europe. There was a fresh interview with Frank Hammell, but they only played half a minute of it. Already he was losing his novelty. When they cut back to the studio, a still frame of Hammell from the Edderton cordon was behind the newscaster’s shoulder. Hammell’s eyes bulged, flecks of saliva either side of his open mouth, finger stabbing at the viewer, as if ready to gouge out an eye. If a suspect ever did come to light, only to go missing, Hammell would get both blame and acclamation. Rebus was trying to work Hammell out. Was he so fiery because it was in his nature, or was he trying to impress Annette’s mother? Did he maybe just like all the media attention? The other families had learned stoicism, or had come to embrace defeat. Not Frank Hammell, even though he wasn’t family.
Not family.
Trailing Annette . . . arguing with her . . .
But not family.
Rebus considered this as he finished what was in his glass and decided against another. Instead, he made tea, and used it to wash down a couple of paracetamol. After which, despite the lateness of the hour, he called Frank Hammell. An automated female voice told him the number had not been recognised. He checked and tried again – same result. So he took Darryl Christie’s card from his pocket and punched that number into his phone.
‘Already?’ Christie said, answering straight away.
‘I need to speak to Hammell. I thought I had a number for him.’
‘He changes it every few weeks – he’s worried your lot might be tapping him. Is it anything I can help with?’
‘No.’
‘Care to give me a clue?’
Rebus could hear soft music in the background. As far as he knew, Darryl still lived at home. Maybe he was in his bedroom. ‘It’s nothing important,’ Rebus said.
‘Do you always call people at midnight with stuff that isn’t important?’
Christ, this kid was sharp. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ Rebus said, readying to end the call. But Christie told him to wait. He seemed to be weighing something up. Rebus heard sounds of glasses and coughing. Some sort of bar or club, but nowhere busy. The music sounded recorded.
‘Is that jazz?’ Rebus asked.
‘You like jazz?’
‘Not hugely. And I’d have thought you were about three decades too young for it.’
‘Got a pen on you?’
‘Yes.’
Christie recited Hammell’s new number, which Rebus added to the back of the card before thanking him.
‘I’ll let you in on the secret of jazz,’ the young man said, ‘if you like.’
‘Go on then.’
‘It’s all about control . . .’
When the music died, Rebus realised that Christie had ended the call.
He stared at the number jotted on the card, suddenly unwilling to talk to Hammell. He would sleep on it – after adding the number to the list of contacts on his phone.
There was an inch and a half of whisky left in the bottle.
He decided to leave it there and call it a moral victory. ‘It’s all about control,’ he said to himself, sliding the guitar pick back into his pocket and heading for bed.
56
Rebus was leaving the house next morning when a horn sounded. Hammell was beckoning to him from the white Range Rover Sport. Rebus crossed the road as Hammell wound the driver’s-side window down.
‘I need to change addresses,’ Rebus complained. ‘Seems every bugger in creation knows where I live. When did you get back?’
‘Middle of the night. Didn’t seem to be any point sticking around.’ Hammell hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and hadn’t had much sleep either. ‘Darryl seemed to think you’d be calling me.’
‘I was planning to.’
‘Well, here I am.’
‘Here you are,’ Rebus couldn’t help but agree. Hammell was waiting for more. Rebus looked up and down the empty street. ‘Phone might be better, though . . .’
‘Why?’
‘Less chance of you being tried for assault.’
Hammell’s eyes narrowed still further. ‘Maybe you should just spit it out.’
Rebus considered his options. ‘Okay then,’ he said, leaning in towards the open window and lowering his voice. ‘Is Annette McKie your daughter?’
The car door swung out suddenly, catching Rebus a glancing blow as he backed away. By the time Hammell got out, Rebus had put some distance between them. They stood in the middle of the road, twelve feet apart.
‘Hell are you saying?’ Hammell snarled.
‘Sure you want to do this here, Frank?’ Rebus indicated the dozens of tenement windows either side of them.
‘She’s fifteen years old,’ Hammell went on, taking a couple of steps towards Rebus, fists bunched. ‘You saying I was doing her mum behind Derek’s back?’
‘I’m saying you’re acting like a parent – tailing her, keeping tabs on her, giving her money, and then having fights about how she spends it and who she sees. And if that’s not the case . . .’
‘Which it’s not,’ Hammell spat.
‘Then there’s another scenario we need to discount.’
‘And what’s that?’ Hammell’s eyes were huge and he was breathing heavily, as if pumping himself up for combat.
‘There’s forensic evidence, Frank. A pubic hair that doesn’t belong to Annette. Once the lab get a DNA profile, they’re going to match it against her sexual history. They want to know if it belongs to whoever killed her, or just someone she’d been seeing.’
Rebus had backed away a couple of steps, but Hammell was no longer moving.
‘So I have to ask, Frank – were you and Annette an item? Because if you were, then there’s a good chance of that DNA coming straight back to you. And meantime the team will have been tied up on a wild goose chase, giving the real killer more time to cover his tra
cks.’
‘You’re asking if I was sleeping with my girlfriend’s daughter?’
Rebus didn’t say anything.
‘Is that what you’re asking?’ Hammell persisted. When Rebus stayed silent, he launched himself forward, his whole weight landing on Rebus, both men hitting the ground. Rebus felt all the air being punched out of his body. Hammell was trying to gain some purchase, Rebus rolling so he could dislodge his attacker. A delivery van had entered the street but stopped dead, its driver emerging to watch. Rebus gave Hammell a shove and started getting to his feet, but Hammell’s foot caught him in the ribs and he went down again, grazing his knuckles against the tarmac.
‘You piece of—’
Hammell didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence. His groin was just the right height for a headbutt, and that was what Rebus delivered. Hammell gasped and pitched forward, Rebus grabbing him by the hair and pulling him down until his face met the road surface. The van driver had made tentative progress towards the two men.
‘You need to break it up!’ he cautioned. ‘Somebody’s going to be calling the police!’
Rebus was on his feet, heart racing, head pounding from where it had made contact with the ground. When he inhaled, his ribs complained. Hammell was on hands and knees, spitting dribbles of blood from his mouth. Rebus made sure there was distance between them and waited for the man to get up. Hammell’s face was almost purple, bits of grit stuck to it.
‘Lost a fucking filling,’ he said, wiping a string of blood and saliva from his chin. Rebus waved the van driver away without taking his eyes off his opponent. ‘Probably one of my balls as well.’ Hammell stared hard at Rebus. ‘Dirty bastard of a fighter, aren’t you?’
‘Only way I was going to stop you, Frank,’ Rebus said. ‘Are we ready to talk now or what?’
Hammell had a finger hooked into his mouth, checking the damage. He gave a slow nod.