Standing in another's man grave ir-18

by Ian Rankin

  ‘We could head out to Edderton,’ Clarke suggested.

  After a moment’s consideration, Page nodded his agreement.

  So it was back on to the A9, the rain growing heavier as they crossed the Kessock Bridge, side winds buffeting the car. Clarke had set the wipers to their maximum speed, but they still struggled to cope.

  ‘Never did buy those wellies,’ Rebus commented from the back seat.

  ‘There’s an umbrella somewhere at your feet,’ he was told. He reached down and picked it up. It was pink and retractable, and looked to have a circumference no bigger than a drum cymbal.

  ‘It’s yours if you want it,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rebus replied without enthusiasm.

  The uniform at the cordon was dressed for the elements. He even had a plastic shield for his clipboard. Their names were jotted down, along with the Audi’s registration number. A camera crew were sheltering in the back of their van, doors open so they could keep an eye on things. Raymond — Dempsey’s nephew — was seated in his own car, a white Volkswagen Polo. His window was down, and he offered a nod of greeting towards Rebus as the Audi crawled past the cordon and started to ascend the hill, rivulets of rainwater either side of it. The Portakabin had been unlocked and was providing shelter for those taking a break from the crime scene. SOCOs cupped their hands around beakers of instant soup, trying to get warm. Page decided to keep moving up the slope towards the locus. Clarke glanced back and saw that Rebus was happy where he was, but gesturing for her to stick with her boss.

  There was just about room enough for Rebus inside the Portakabin. A couple of SOCOs were waiting for the kettle to boil, mugs at the ready. Bottles of water; empty Cup-a-Soup sachets. No sign of the evidence bags from the previous evening — the lab had probably taken them.

  ‘Not the best of days for it,’ Rebus said to no one in particular. ‘And no sign of the heater we were promised.’ Then: ‘Have all the bodies gone now?’

  There were nods of confirmation.

  ‘Still just the five?’

  ‘Just?’

  ‘I’m thinking we should be thankful there aren’t more.’

  ‘They’ve brought the dog back for a final recce,’ one SOCO said.

  ‘Any effects in the graves?’ Rebus asked, trying to keep his tone conversational.

  ‘Sorry — who are you again?’

  ‘I’m with the Annette McKie team. I was here when Ruby found the first of them.’

  This seemed to satisfy the room — just about. ‘No effects,’ he was told. ‘No clothing, no jewellery, nothing.’

  ‘And one body a good bit more recent than the others?’

  There were more nods.

  ‘She should be easy enough to identify,’ someone conceded.

  ‘The others won’t be?’

  ‘Dental records maybe. Or a DNA match. Do you want some soup?’

  The offer told Rebus that he had been accepted. ‘Thanks,’ he said, even though he was still full from breakfast.

  ‘Grabs them from the A9,’ another of the team was saying, ‘buries them here and sends a picture — got to be local.’

  ‘Might just be someone who knows the road,’ Rebus cautioned. ‘Any tyre tracks up there?’

  ‘Nothing useful as yet.’

  ‘Only three or so weeks since he was last here, though.’

  ‘Ground might have been frozen — dipped below zero the night the McKie girl went missing.’

  Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘You’ll keep looking?’

  ‘Until we’re told to pack up.’

  ‘Clothing and personal effects might have been buried separately.’

  ‘We’ve a metal detector coming later today, plus the offer of geo-phys if we want it.’ The man’s eyes were on Rebus, daring him to doubt the effort being made. Rebus blew across the surface of the soup instead. Reconstituted peas and carrots had never held such fascination for him.

  47

  Late in the afternoon they reconvened at Northern Constabulary HQ in Inverness. Dempsey was due to host a press conference at the top of the hour, but wanted her team to hear the news first. The mood was solemn. Photographs were handed round. According to the pathologist’s report, all five corpses were women, but only one was readily identifiable. Rebus stared at the face of Annette McKie. Her eyes were closed and bits of earth still clung to her eyelashes, hair and ear lobes.

  ‘Manual strangulation,’ Dempsey was intoning. ‘We may even get lucky and come up with a thumbprint. You’ll see signs of bruising to the neck, especially around the voice box. Large hands, the pathologist says. Judging by decomposition and insect activity, victim has been deceased for between twenty and twenty-five days.’ She looked up at the room. ‘Three weeks today since she was abducted, so I think it’s fair to say she wasn’t kept alive for long.’ Dempsey returned to her notes. ‘From the visual evidence, I’m prepared to name the victim as Annette McKie, but the family are on their way from Edinburgh to make the formal identification.’

  ‘Did the other victims die the same way?’ someone asked, interrupting Dempsey’s flow. She glowered at the miscreant.

  ‘No way of telling. Deterioration is too advanced. All the pathologist would say is that she can’t see initial signs of stab wounds or gunshots on any of them. Regarding Annette McKie, there’s probable sexual activity, but as yet no indications of forced penetration. Pathologist’s got a mountain ahead of her, however, and we can’t expect a full report for a few more days. We have the particulars of the missing women provided by our friends at Lothian and Borders, and those will be useful in the preliminary stages. I have to stress that we don’t know for sure who the other victims are. I don’t want any of you jumping to conclusions.’

  There were nods and grunts of acknowledgement. Clarke had raised her hand. Dempsey considered for a moment before deciding to grant permission for a question.

  ‘Who’s ID’ing Annette McKie?’

  ‘One of her brothers, I think. Apparently her mother’s in bits. Probably been watching the live feed on TV.’ The mention of TV caused her to glance at her watch. ‘I need to get ready to face the jackals,’ she said. ‘We can have another confab after. Meantime, thinking caps firmly on heads. I want constructive ideas — as many as you can throw at me. Now, back to your posts, everybody.’

  As the meeting broke up, Page lunged forward, ready to press his case for inclusion in the media conference. Rebus turned to face Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘We don’t have “posts”, do we?’

  She looked around the room. ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘we don’t.’

  ‘Nor do we have a place to sleep tonight — unless we risk the hotel.’

  ‘Another good point.’

  ‘And the pair of us still need boots of some kind.’

  She couldn’t deny it: her shoes were caked with mud from earlier. ‘Are you suggesting a shopping trip?’

  ‘And maybe a quick visit to the tourist office — check out the bed-and-breakfast situation.’

  Clarke was staring towards Page. Page was smiling at Dempsey, bowing his head in gratitude. He was in. ‘We’ll only be an hour,’ Rebus pressed her.

  ‘Fine,’ Siobhan Clarke said through gritted teeth.

  They were walking back into Northern Constabulary HQ with the address of a willing guest house when the press pack’s interest was aroused. A car was arriving, a white Range Rover Sport with tinted rear windows. Frank Hammell was driving, Darryl Christie in the passenger seat, his attention focused on the screen of his phone. A few photos were taken, TV cameras hoisted to shoulders, but otherwise they were allowed some room and a bit of respect as they parked in the bay allotted to them and got out. No one thrust a microphone into their faces while demanding to know their reaction to the news. Rebus ended up holding the door open for Hammell and Christie, neither man seeming to recognise him, perhaps because they were avoiding all eye contact.

  While the two men gave their names at the reception desk, Rebus and
Clarke flashed their respective IDs and preceded them into the body of the building.

  ‘Dempsey must be meeting them here,’ Clarke said in an undertone.

  ‘Nicer than the mortuary.’

  ‘That’s still where they’ll end up, though. .’

  True, Rebus thought. He had been present dozens of times as relations and friends — mums and dads; partners; lovers — watched the uncovering of the sheeted figure. They would blink away tears, maybe utter a gasp or a choking sound, and be asked to verify the identity of the person lying coldly inert in front of them. Never a task to be relished, and Rebus had always proved hopeless afterwards, not quite finding the right words, the comforting phrase. They usually all wanted the same reassurance: that he or she hadn’t suffered.

  It would have been quick. That was what you were supposed to say, no matter how untrue. Smashed-in skulls, cigarette burns, broken fingers and gouged eyes. . It would have been quick.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Clarke was asking.

  ‘Let’s see what the boss thinks.’

  She glanced at him. ‘Told you you’d run out of song titles sooner or later.’

  Page was on his phone in the teeming inquiry room. When he spotted Clarke and Rebus, he ended the call and made his way towards them.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.

  ‘Buying boots,’ Clarke answered. ‘And finding rooms for tonight so we’re well away from the media scrum. How did the press conference go?’

  ‘She did well.’ The praise sounded grudging. Page fixed Rebus with a look. ‘She wants you to brief the team.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s traced the timeline all the way back to you and your missing persons. That’s what she needs from you: the details of all those cases.’

  ‘Two of them we only just found out about.’

  ‘The other three, then. I’ve already briefed on Annette McKie.’

  ‘We’re one body short,’ Clarke added. ‘Six A9 victims, five recovered.’ It was her turn to look at Rebus. ‘Are you going to tell them you think Sally Hazlitt’s still alive?’

  ‘I probably should,’ Rebus determined. Then, to Page: ‘When’s this briefing scheduled for?’

  ‘About five minutes from now.’

  ‘I suppose if we hadn’t turned up in time, you’d have been happy to fill my shoes?’

  Page opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

  ‘I need to go for a slash,’ Rebus said into the silence. Then, to Clarke: ‘You going to tell him Hammell and Darryl have arrived?’

  Clarke was doing just that as Rebus made his exit. As he headed down the corridor, however, he came face to face with Frank Hammell and Darryl Christie as a uniform led them towards Dempsey’s office.

  ‘For a retired crock,’ Hammell said, placing him eventually, ‘you don’t half get about a bit.’

  Rebus focused his attention on Darryl, who was only now looking up from his phone. ‘Sorry about your sister,’ he offered. ‘How’s your mum doing?’

  ‘How do you think she’s doing?’ Hammell snarled. Rebus ignored him.

  ‘What about you, Darryl? You all right?’

  The young man nodded. ‘What happens now?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘You’ll be taken to the hospital for the identification.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s her?’

  Rebus nodded slowly. Darryl’s mouth twitched and he lowered his eyes to the screen of his phone again, fingers busy texting.

  ‘Some bastard’s going to pay big time,’ Hammell spat.

  ‘This probably isn’t the place to be saying that,’ Rebus warned him.

  ‘It’s true, though.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘And none of your lot better find themselves in my way.’

  A door opened further along the corridor. Dempsey stood there, wondering what was taking her visitors so long.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she called out.

  Hammell had time for one last glare in Rebus’s direction before shouldering past him and walking towards her. Rebus held a hand out towards Darryl Christie, but the young man ignored it, attention focused on his phone as he followed Hammell into Dempsey’s office.

  48

  Rebus’s presentation went as well as he could have wished. The team had plenty of questions for him, none of them stupid.

  ‘Bright kids,’ he commented afterwards to Clarke.

  ‘It’s how they make them these days.’

  They had checked out of the hotel, driven to the guest house near the battlefield at Culloden, and inspected their rooms. There was no evening meal, so they’d headed into town and stopped at the nearest Indian restaurant. Page wasn’t with them; he’d been invited to dine with Dempsey and a few other senior officers. When Clarke’s phone rang, she wasn’t at the table, having gone to visit the toilets. Rebus saw that the call was from Gayfield Square and decided to answer.

  ‘It’s Rebus,’ he said.

  ‘Is Siobhan there?’

  ‘Who wants her?’

  ‘Dave Ormiston — I’m the one whose desk you were given.’

  ‘She’ll be back in a minute. Is it anything I can help with?’

  ‘Thomas Robertson has rejoined the land of the living.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Aberdeen sent us the message. He’s in hospital there.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘From what I can tell, he took a bit of a pasting from person or persons unknown.’

  ‘Local police involved?’

  ‘They found him next to some rubbish bins down by the docks. Unconscious, but with ID in his pocket. Credit cards and cash untouched, so not an obvious mugging.’

  ‘He’s going to be okay, though?’

  ‘Sounds like.’

  Rebus took out a pen and reached across the table for a paper napkin. ‘What’s the name of the hospital?’ he asked. ‘Plus, a name and contact number for someone in Aberdeen CID, if you have them.’

  Ormiston gave him what he had, then asked how things were going in Inverness.

  ‘Things are fine,’ Rebus said.

  ‘I saw you on the news — holding open the door for Frank Hammell.’

  ‘Common courtesy.’

  ‘Did you speak to him at all?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘No reason.’ Ormiston made a sound as though he were clearing his throat.

  ‘People usually have reasons for asking questions,’ Rebus persisted.

  ‘Not this time. You’ll let Siobhan know about Thomas Robertson?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rebus said.

  By the time Clarke returned, her phone was off and had been returned to its original position next to her glass of water. She was yawning, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘Minute my head hits that pillow,’ she told him.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Rebus pretended to agree. ‘Reckon we should be getting back?’

  She nodded, and signalled for their waiter to bring the bill. ‘This is my shout, by the way,’ she said. ‘I can always claim it on expenses — and besides, I’m not the pensioner here. .’

  Having returned to the guest house, Rebus stayed in his room long enough to give his phone a bit of a charge and check the quickest route to Aberdeen. The A96 seemed to be the answer. It was a trip of a hundred miles, though, which caused him to hesitate. On the other hand, as soon as he was well enough, there was nothing to stop Robertson doing a runner. Tonight might be Rebus’s only chance. As he crept down the stairs and out of the three-storey house, he wondered how he was going to break the news to the sleeping Saab.

  It was well after eleven when he reached Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. He hadn’t been to the city in years and didn’t recognise any landmarks along the route. Oil was Aberdeen’s core business, and the industrial units he passed all seemed to be oil-related. He got lost a couple of times before chancing on a sign that pointed him towards the hospital. He parked i
n the area reserved for ambulances and headed inside. The reception area was claustrophobic, and whoever manufactured beige paint had made a killing here. The bleary-eyed front desk sent him to the lifts, and he emerged a couple of floors up, pushing open the doors to the ward and explaining to the only duty nurse around that he was a police officer and needed to talk to a patient called Robertson. There were eight beds, seven of them filled. One man was awake, plugged into headphones and with a book held in front of him. The others all seemed to be asleep, one of them snoring loudly. There was a light over Thomas Robertson’s bed, and Rebus switched it on, illuminating the pulpy face. Eyes blackened; chin gashed and sporting thick black stitches. The nose — presumably broken — had been strapped. There was a folder at the foot of the bed, and Rebus opened it. One broken toe, two broken fingers, one cracked rib, a tooth missing, damage to the kidneys. .

  ‘Someone did a job on you, Tommy,’ Rebus said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. There was a jug of water on the cabinet next to the bed, and he poured himself a glass, gulping it down. His head was throbbing from the drive, palms tingling after so long at the steering wheel. He opened the cabinet and reached in for Robertson’s wallet. Credit cards and driving licence, plus forty pounds in cash.

  No mugging, just as Ormiston had said. Rebus replaced the wallet. Handkerchief, small change, belt, watch — this last with its face smashed. He closed the cabinet again and leaned forward, so his mouth was inches from Robertson’s ear.

  ‘Tommy?’ he said. ‘Remember me?’ He reached out a finger and pressed it against the sleeping man’s temple. Robertson’s eyes fluttered and he gave a low moan. ‘Tommy,’ Rebus repeated. ‘Time to wake up.’

  Robertson did so with a jolt, which quickly turned into a wince of pain, his whole body seeming to spasm.

  ‘Evening,’ Rebus said by way of greeting.

  It took Robertson a few moments to get his bearings. He licked dry lips before fixing his puffy eyes on his visitor.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked in a dry croak.