by Ian Rankin
‘So?’
‘So why pretend Nina Hazlitt’s name meant nothing to him?’
51
On the way back to Inverness, Page sent Clarke a text suggesting dinner.
‘You should take him up on it,’ Rebus suggested. ‘The two of you need to talk.’
‘Can I take you along for moral support?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I need an early night.’
When they arrived at Northern Constabulary HQ, however, the first person he bumped into was Gavin Arnold.
‘Can’t keep you away, can we?’ Arnold said, shaking Rebus’s hand. Rebus introduced him to Clarke, giving her all the information she needed by explaining that ‘Sergeant Arnold is one of the good guys.’
Arnold responded by asking if they fancied a drink later. Clarke told him she couldn’t, while Rebus said he’d consider it.
‘Well, you know where to find me, eh?’
‘By the dartboard?’ Rebus guessed.
Arnold nodded and explained that, like every other uniform in a fifty-mile radius, he had been drafted in to work on the inquiry, as a result of which the building was bursting at the seams.
‘This should all be happening at Burnett Road,’ he complained. ‘That’s where CID is.’ He waved a hand around him. ‘This is suits and bean-counters.’
‘So why base the inquiry here?’
‘Because of the suits and bean-counters — means they get to feel important as they walk past the cameras.’
The inquiry room was certainly filled with bodies. Those who had been elsewhere were now gathered to listen to another of Dempsey’s briefings. DNA matches were coming in, and she could now name two of the victims as Amy Mearns and Jemima Salton.
‘The families are on their way here,’ she said, ‘to be told the findings.’ Her voice was hoarse and she paused to take some water from a plastic bottle, clearing her throat afterwards. Her face was pale and exhausted; and somehow, Rebus knew, she had to find strength for these two meetings and the emotions they would bring. ‘Any questions?’ she asked.
‘How long till we have positive IDs on the other victims?’
‘Not long — hopefully tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘That’s still going to be hard to determine. I’ve requested a couple more pathologists from Aberdeen to speed things up.’
‘What steps do we take next?’
‘We continue door-to-door. Maybe some of the farms have CCTV we can look at; same with shops and garages. We need to talk to everyone.’
‘All the evidence collected from the field and the woods. .?’
‘Is at the lab. Nothing to report so far.’
‘The pubic hair. .’
‘Yes?’
‘We know it doesn’t belong to Annette McKie.’
Dempsey nodded. ‘Once we get a DNA fingerprint from it, I’ll be asking to take swabs from every male within shouting distance of Edderton.’
The officers in the room exchanged looks, knowing the amount of work this would entail.
‘I know I’m asking a lot,’ she said. ‘But we need to be seen to be doing our utmost.’
Yes, Rebus thought to himself, because if nothing else, it might flush the killer into the open. He remembered the tactic he’d suggested at SCRU, and found himself proposing out loud that Dempsey tell the media there was DNA evidence, even if none existed. She stared him down.
‘Have you considered approaching a criminal profiler, ma’am?’ The question came from Siobhan Clarke, maybe to deflect attention away from Rebus. Dempsey met her gaze.
‘I’m open to any sensible suggestions, DI Clarke.’
‘It’s just that there’s been a lot of research done into what makes serial killers choose their particular disposal sites. The fact is, the victims came from a wide geographical area but ended up in that one spot.’
‘Meaning it has some significance for the perpetrator?’ Dempsey was nodding. ‘I’ve already fielded a few e-mails on the subject. If anyone wants to suggest a friendly profiler who isn’t going to break the bank. .’ She looked around the room. ‘Or maybe DI Clarke could do an internet search and see what she comes up with?’ Dempsey’s eyes were fixed on Clarke again.
‘Be happy to, ma’am.’
‘Good.’ Dempsey checked her watch. ‘Well, if there are no more questions, I’ve got a couple of grieving families I need to prepare for. .’
There were sympathetic sounds from around the room. Page was pushing past a few officers in order to get to Siobhan Clarke.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
‘Here and there,’ she answered.
‘I was looking for you earlier.’ He sounded disappointed in her.
‘I was at the end of the phone.’
‘Mine needs charging,’ he muttered. ‘Nobody seems to have the right adaptor. Did you get my text about dinner tonight?’
‘She’s delighted to accept,’ Rebus interrupted, receiving a stern look from Clarke. ‘And though I’d love to be there too, it so happens I have other plans.’
Having said which, he made his exit.
That evening, despite best intentions, Rebus took a cab from the guest house to the pub. He sat in the front and told the driver he never seemed to be able to find a parking space in Inverness.
‘You should see it at weekends,’ he was informed. ‘Multi-storeys, supermarket car parks — full all day.’
‘Place must be booming.’
The driver gave a snort. ‘Wish I could say I was seeing some of the benefits.’
When Rebus walked into the Lochinver, Gavin Arnold was lining up an out-shot. His dart ended up just the wrong side of the wire and he continued to shake his head as he watched his opponent end the game with double seventeen. They exchanged handshakes and pats on the arm. Arnold saw Rebus and waved him towards the bar.
‘What are you having?’
‘An IPA would do the trick.’
‘Two please, Sue,’ Arnold said. Sue Holloway smiled a greeting at Rebus and got to work.
As they watched her pour, Rebus asked Arnold how things were going.
‘I’m on doorstepping duties,’ he replied. ‘Reckon the shocks have gone on my car already, the number of farm tracks I’ve been up and down.’
‘With no result to show for it?’
‘Which DCS Dempsey insists is a result in itself. Narrowing things down, she calls it.’
‘In a way, she’s right.’
‘It just makes for a bloody tedious day, that’s all.’
‘Stop moaning,’ Holloway said. ‘And these are on the house as a way of saying thanks.’
‘For what?’ Rebus asked.
‘Trying to find the twisted bastard and stop him doing it again.’
‘Cheers then,’ Arnold said, clinking his glass against Rebus’s before taking a sip. ‘How about you, John? Any progress?’
‘I seem to be surplus to requirements, Gavin. Spent half the day sightseeing.’
‘Culloden?’ Arnold guessed.
‘Black Isle, actually.’
‘If they widen the search any further, I’ll end up there before long. What did you think of the place?’
‘I saw some dolphins.’
‘Did you go to Culbokie?’ Arnold watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Nice wee pub there with a beer garden looking over the Cromarty Firth.’
Rebus remembered how he knew the name — Culbokie was where Brigid Young had left her mobile phone the day she’d been abducted.
‘Hey, Gav,’ one of the other darts players called. ‘You seeing this?’
The man meant the TV set above the door. It was tuned to a news channel. On the screen some people were settling themselves around a table. Looked like another bar, this time with menus and napkins. Flashbulbs were going off, and at one point the news camera was jostled.
Rebus recognised Frank Hammell and Nina Hazlitt. They were shaking hands, as if they’d just been introduced to one anot
her. Another couple were there too, not looking comfortable at the amount of attention and the proximity of the cameras.
‘That’s Brigid Young’s sister and her man,’ Arnold explained. Across the bottom of the screen ran the words A9 FAMILIES MEET.
‘Isn’t that the Claymore?’ Sue Holloway said.
‘Looks like,’ Arnold admitted. Then, for Rebus’s benefit: ‘It’s right across the road from here.’
Someone had gone to the door to check. Rebus, Arnold and half a dozen others decided to follow suit. Sure enough: an outside broadcast van with a satellite dish on its roof. And lots of lights moving around inside the Claymore Bar. Rebus crossed the street and peered through the window. He saw the table and the four figures seated at it. A man emerged from the back of the van and started setting up a tripod with a lamp at the top of it. He ran a cable back to the van and plugged it in, further illuminating the interior. Hammell glanced towards the window, his narrowed eyes meeting Rebus’s. Then he turned back towards the microphones and continued with his speech. Rebus could see no sign of Darryl Christie. Nina Hazlitt was handed a drink from a tray. Brigid Young’s sister had her hand clamped around that of the man next to her. As other gawpers closed in around him, Rebus retreated to the Lochinver. Arnold was stationed in front of the TV, watching proceedings. Someone had turned the volume up.
‘Impromptu press conference,’ he stated. ‘Dempsey won’t be happy.’
‘What have they been saying?’ Rebus asked.
‘Mr Hammell’s complaining about a lack of effort; Ms Hazlitt wants to be swabbed for DNA.’
‘And the other two?’
‘Seem not to know what they’ve gotten into. You ready for a top-up?’
‘My shout,’ Rebus said, lifting Arnold’s empty glass from him and making for the bar. When his phone buzzed, he reckoned he knew who it would be, but he turned towards the TV screen to check. Nina Hazlitt was talking. Frank Hammell could be seen next to her, studying the screen of his own phone. Rebus checked the message:
You still here?
He texted back, then paid for the drinks. It was a further half-hour before Hammell walked in. The only surprise was that he had brought Nina Hazlitt with him.
‘This is Nina,’ Hammell said.
‘John knows me,’ Hazlitt said. ‘Though you might not know it from the way he’s been behaving.’
This seemed to come as news to Hammell, who had a twenty-pound note in his hand, ready to attract Holloway’s attention. Rebus looked around the bar. Everyone seemed to have recognised the visitors, while pretending to mind their own business. Arnold was halfway through another game of darts, his glance towards Rebus managing to pose both question and warning.
‘Same again?’ Hammell was asking Hazlitt.
‘Why not?’ she said.
‘What about you, Rebus?’
‘I’m fine as I am.’ Rebus’s eyes were on Hazlitt’s. ‘So how are you doing?’
‘I’ll be better when I get some news.’
‘Tomorrow or the day after, that’s what I’m hearing.’
‘Then you know no more than we do,’ she stated.
When Hammell handed her a glass, Rebus asked him where Darryl Christie was.
‘Back in Edinburgh. Needs to be there for his mum.’
‘Shouldn’t that be your job too?’
Hammell glared at him. ‘What about you? Boozing it up when there’s a freak out there you should be catching.’
‘I’m sure John’s doing all he can,’ Hazlitt broke in. ‘Might explain why he’s too busy to reply to messages. .’
‘I saw Thomas Robertson,’ Rebus told Hammell. The man had ordered both a whisky and a pint, sinking an inch of the latter before adding the former to the mix.
‘Remind me,’ he said.
‘The road worker from Pitlochry,’ Rebus obliged.
‘And why bother telling me?’
‘He’d gone ten rounds with a battering ram.’
Hammell shrugged and took out his phone, checking its screen. Rebus turned his attention back to Nina Hazlitt. ‘What was all that in aid of, across the road?’
‘Media awareness,’ she answered.
‘Your idea or his?’ Rebus nodded towards Hammell.
‘Does it matter?’
It was Rebus’s turn to shrug. Arnold was gesturing from the dartboard, where he had just finished his game. Rebus walked over to him.
‘Hell are you doing?’ Arnold hissed.
‘I can’t help it if those two decide to wander in.’
‘So it’s just coincidence?’ Arnold didn’t sound convinced. ‘You sure all the TV people have packed up? If this ever gets back to Dempsey. .’
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ Rebus gave a wink and returned to the bar. Hammell asked him if he was finally ready for that drink. Rebus shook his head.
‘Better be off. Another early start in the morning.’
‘One more won’t hurt,’ Nina Hazlitt pressed, a certain amount of pleading in her eyes. Rebus couldn’t tell if she wanted his company for its own sake, or was merely reluctant to be stuck alone with Hammell.
‘Hey, guys!’ The bar’s door was wide open, someone standing there with their phone held up in front of them. Rebus, Hazlitt and Hammell couldn’t help turning towards the voice. The young man smiled as he checked the quality of the photo he’d just taken, then offered a thumbs-up as he backed out on to the pavement, the door swinging shut after him.
Rebus had recognised Raymond, Dempsey’s journalist nephew — and so had Gavin Arnold. The two men shared a look.
If this ever gets back. .
‘Maybe a whisky,’ Rebus told Hammell.
‘That’s the stuff,’ Hammell replied, waving towards Sue Holloway. The tension seemed to leave Hazlitt’s body. She threw a smile in Rebus’s direction, thanking him for staying. .
He was in bed when he heard a knock at his door. Just shy of midnight, according to his watch. He got up and padded across the floor.
‘Yes?’ he prompted.
‘It’s me,’ Siobhan Clarke said. ‘Are you decent?’
Rebus looked around the small room. ‘Give me a minute.’ He pulled on his trousers and shirt, then opened the door.
‘Not interrupting anything?’
‘I should be so lucky. What’s up?’
‘Seen this?’ She was holding up her phone so he could see the screen. It was a news feed from the local paper. The photo from the Lochinver was there, along with a subheading: A9 Families Thirsty For Answers.
‘Not subtle, is he?’ Rebus commented.
‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘I went out for a drink. Hammell and Hazlitt had been talking to reporters. They wandered into the pub and Tintin got busy with his phone.’
Clarke gave him much the same disbelieving look as Gavin Arnold.
‘But to get to the important stuff,’ he added, ‘how did your meal go?’
‘We were civil to one another.’
‘Did you tell him you resent being dumped for the Chief Super?’
‘Can we just drop it?’ She sounded exhausted.
‘Sorry,’ Rebus said.
‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’
‘If Dempsey’s not sent me packing by then.’ He gestured towards Clarke’s phone.
‘I might not be far behind. James says he’s struggling to find “a viable role” for me.’
‘He’s a real charmer.’
Clarke checked the clock on her phone. ‘Better get some sleep. Night, John.’
‘Everything’s going to work out,’ he was telling her as he pushed the door shut. He listened as she crossed the landing and headed to her own eaves bedroom a further flight up. Another door opened and Rebus heard Page’s voice asking her if she was all right.
‘Fine,’ was all she said, the stairs creaking as she climbed them.
52
Dempsey didn’t wait for them to arrive at HQ. Her chauffeured car drew up as, post-breakfast, Re
bus, Page and Clarke emerged from the guest house. Rebus, already in the process of lighting a cigarette, asked Dempsey if he needed a blindfold to go with it.
‘What in God’s name did you think you were doing?’ she asked him.
‘I was in a pub, having a quiet drink.’ He’d had time to prepare this version of the story. ‘Hammell and Hazlitt were across the road. After they’d posed for the cameras, they found themselves next to me at the bar. We know each other, so we said hello. That’s when Raymond burst in and took his little paparazzi shot.’
‘What’s this about?’ Page asked, frowning.
‘Your officer,’ Dempsey told him, ‘is all over the internet.’
‘Thanks to your nephew,’ Rebus reminded her.
She ignored the jibe. ‘So what did you tell them about the investigation?’
‘What’s to tell? I’m not exactly in the loop.’
Dempsey pointed at him, but her eyes were on Page. ‘I want him gone, do you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear,’ Page responded. Dempsey was already getting back into the car. Her driver started pulling away.
‘Thanks for backing me up there, boss,’ Rebus commented.
‘Go back inside,’ Page said, ‘get your stuff together and check out of your room — Gayfield Square will pick up the tab. We’ll see you in Edinburgh.’
Rebus thought of things he could say, things like: ‘I was solving murders when you were in your pram.’ He didn’t, though. He just gave a little bow of the head in Clarke’s direction, as if to wish her the best of British, then flicked the cigarette to the ground and did as he was told.
When he re-emerged, Mrs Scanlon — make-up immaculate as usual — came with him and wished him well on the journey south. Page and Clarke were gone. Rebus watched as Mrs Scanlon closed the door, then decided on another cigarette before the off. When his phone rang, he considered not answering, but it was Gayfield Square.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘Christine Esson.’
‘Hiya, Christine. If you’ve not already heard, I’ll be joining you shortly.’
‘Any news to report?’
‘Way this thing’s going, the internet’ll know before I do.’