Standing in another's man grave ir-18

by Ian Rankin

  ‘He pulled off the A9 to fill up?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  She gave a lengthy sigh. He imagined her seated on the edge of her sofa, elbow on knee, hand pressed to forehead. Not quite ready to face the day yet, and already landed with this.

  ‘The longer he has, the more chance we’re giving him to dump anything that could be incriminating.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, then,’ she said, getting to her feet. She found the number and gave it to him twice while he jotted it down and checked it.

  ‘Thanks, Siobhan.’

  ‘I suppose Dempsey will have contacted James,’ she commented.

  ‘I dare say I’m in for yet another bollocking.’

  ‘Except that you’re not a cop any more.’ She paused. ‘Which means I shouldn’t even be talking to you, and you shouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘Aren’t I naughty?’ Rebus said with a tired smile. Then: ‘I thought I saw a dolphin earlier.’

  ‘Or maybe a selkie?’

  ‘You implying I see things that aren’t there, DI Clarke?’

  ‘How many lies are you going to tell the petrol station?’

  ‘As few as necessary. I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Always supposing they allow you more than one phone call,’ she said.

  Rebus managed another smile before punching in the number she had given him. But the petrol station’s footage for the day of Annette McKie’s disappearance was not available.

  ‘You’ve already got it,’ he was told.

  ‘It’s at Inverness?’ Rebus nodded his comprehension, ended the call and tried another number.

  ‘John?’ Gavin Arnold answered. ‘What can I do for you this fine, stress-free morning?’

  ‘Raise those stress levels, maybe,’ Rebus suggested.

  ‘By doing what?’

  ‘Bending a few rules,’ Rebus answered, going on to explain his request.

  62

  Fox was usually first into the Complaints office, but not today. Tony Kaye was standing behind Fox’s desk, holding a cardboard beaker of coffee in one hand and using the other to sift through one of the stacks of paperwork relating to John Rebus.

  ‘Early bird,’ Fox said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up.

  ‘Thought I’d maybe have a word before Joe Naysmith arrives.’

  ‘Lost your phone?’

  ‘I thought this was best done face to face.’

  ‘Spit it out, then.’

  Kaye rested a hand on one of the piles of paper. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

  ‘You’re going to tell me we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘The guy’s old-school, Malcolm. It’s amazing any of them still survive.’

  ‘So he’s some kind of endangered species and we should be feeding him bamboo?’

  ‘A good hunter knows when not to pull the trigger.’

  ‘You’ve seen the phone logs, Tony: is there any villain in the city he’s not cosied up to?’

  ‘DI Clarke said it — if Rebus is attached to the McKie case, he’s got plenty of reasons for talking to Frank Hammell.’

  ‘And Cafferty?’

  ‘Used to be Hammell’s employer.’

  Fox shook his head slowly. ‘The man’s a liability — and dangerous with it.’

  ‘That’s for the board to decide.’

  ‘With our input. Are you saying I put a halo over Rebus’s head?’

  ‘Just stick to the facts. Don’t let it get personal.’

  ‘Who says it’s personal?’

  ‘It is, though. You worked CID at St Leonard’s, same time he did.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I remember you once telling me, not every good detective fits in at Complaints.’

  ‘Are you saying I couldn’t hack it in CID?’

  It was Kaye’s turn to shake his head. ‘I’m saying Rebus got results the old way, without seeming to earn them. He did that because he got close to some nasty people in a way you couldn’t. This is what you’re good at, Malcolm.’ He tapped the desk. ‘Rebus specialises in something a bit different — doesn’t necessarily make him the enemy.’

  ‘We’ve got to be accountable, Tony. Rebus and his ilk don’t see that. In point of fact, I think he gets his jollies sticking two fingers up to the rest of us.’

  ‘Doesn’t make him the enemy,’ Kaye repeated quietly.

  Fox’s phone vibrated, letting him know he had a message. He looked at the screen, then at his colleague.

  ‘Have you mentioned any of this to the Chief?’

  Kaye shook his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wants a word.’ Fox’s eyes scanned the mass of paperwork. There were boxes of it on the floor next to his desk. Thousands of pages detailing dozens of infractions. But dozens of arrests, too. And no smoking gun. Same with the notes at Fox’s house — all of it circumstantial; easy to read into it anything you liked.

  ‘You think it’s about Rebus?’ Tony Kaye was asking.

  ‘What else?’ Fox said, making for the door.

  ‘They could bounce me down the stairs for this,’ Arnold complained, meeting Rebus outside Northern Constabulary HQ.

  Rebus held out a brown paper bag, which Arnold took and opened, pulling out a croissant and biting into it. Then he gestured for Rebus to follow him into the building, where he was signed in as a visitor and handed a pass, ‘to be worn at all times’.

  Arnold was still chewing as they reached the inquiry room. He made another gesture — letting Rebus know he should wait there — before disappearing through the door. When he came out again, he was holding a clear plastic envelope containing several CD-sized silver disks.

  ‘Laptop?’ he asked.

  Rebus shook his head.

  Arnold gave a twitch of the mouth as if to indicate that he’d expected this. He led Rebus along the corridor until he found a room with an unused desk. He gave the mouse a nudge, activating the monitor, then entered his password.

  ‘CaleyThis?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘Short for Caledonian Thistle.’ Arnold pulled out the chair and nodded for Rebus to sit down. The disk drive was on the floor beneath the desk, and he crouched in front of it, sliding home the first of the disks.

  ‘Eight hours’ worth,’ he warned Rebus.

  ‘Won’t take me nearly that long.’

  ‘Anybody asks, you tell them whatever story you like.’

  ‘Keeping your name out of it?’ Rebus guessed. Then he held out his hand. ‘Thanks, Gavin.’

  The two men shook, and Arnold left him to it.

  Rebus reckoned he could focus on a specific hour of comings and goings on the petrol station’s forecourt — thirty minutes either side of Annette McKie’s arrival in Pitlochry. The first disk he tried was no help, being too early in the day. Ditto the second and third. When he got to the fourth, he fast-forwarded, keeping an eye on the clock in the corner of the screen. Eventually, when he was happy, he leaned forwards and watched intently.

  Dempsey couldn’t place him at first. When she did, her face tightened. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’

  Rebus had hidden the visitor’s badge in his pocket. ‘Not a crime, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually, it probably is.’

  He had found her in one of the meeting rooms. She had been seated but was now standing. The other officer was wondering what was going on. Dempsey dismissed the man with a wave and an announcement that they would finish their discussion later. Once she was alone with Rebus, she folded her arms and waited.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ was all Rebus said. She saw that he was holding a small silver object in one hand.

  Both Magrath brothers, along with Kenny’s wife Maggie, were brought in for questioning that same afternoon. Search warrants had been applied for, and Dempsey seemed to think they wouldn’t be long arriving. Meantime, preliminary questions were being asked of neighbours in Rosemarkie.

  The media had reacted quickly to the news. The ranks of reporters had swollen outside HQ,
and a radio car was in position, a satellite dish on its roof. No TV as yet, or none that Rebus could see from the windows of the inquiry room. He had asked to be present at the interviews, but Dempsey had put the kibosh on it. He wasn’t even a serving police officer — a lawyer could make ‘potentially devastating’ use of that.

  ‘In fact,’ she’d told him, ‘best thing would be if you went back to Edinburgh. And remind me, how did you get in here in the first place?’

  She’d said she would call him with news — she didn’t want him to think she was ungrateful. But as yet it was all just supposition mixed with what might turn out to be coincidence.

  And that was it: Rebus was dismissed.

  He texted a brief thank you to Gavin Arnold, not being able to track him down in the flesh, and headed outdoors. Raymond, Dempsey’s nephew, nodded a greeting and asked if he had any comment. The other journalists frowned and twitched, not knowing who Rebus was. They quickly gathered round Raymond, keen to be included. Rebus took his time getting a cigarette lit before he spoke.

  ‘Persons of interest are currently being interviewed by DCS Dempsey and her team,’ he obliged.

  ‘Any names?’

  Rebus kept his eyes on Raymond. The young man was pointing his phone, using it as a mic.

  ‘The persons of interest are local,’ Rebus went on. ‘I don’t doubt tongues are wagging. .’

  Then he got into his car and started the engine.

  Was he heading home? He wasn’t sure. First he drove to Rosemarkie and cruised past the lock-up. Kenny Magrath’s van was parked in front, and Rebus stopped, getting out to peer through its windows again. It looked exactly the same as before, except for a Tupperware box and a Thermos — lunch prepared by Maggie, at a guess. A leftover sandwich was visible through the plastic. The lock-up itself still boasted its padlock. Rebus walked around the vehicle. It was small, with thin tyres, their tread reduced through use. Could a van like this have been driven into the woods at Edderton without getting stuck? Rebus checked for damage but didn’t find any, just a bit of mud. The van was only a year or so old, judging by the number plate. He was walking around it again, checking more closely for non-existent scrapes and scuffs, when the forensics team arrived. There were four of them — two in a Ford Transit and two in a Vauxhall Astra. One of them recognised Rebus from the Portakabin at Edderton. He jutted out his chin and gave a twitch of the head, as much acknowledgement as Rebus was going to get.

  Before anyone else could ask who he was or demand ID, Rebus garnered all the authority he could muster and explained that they would find the lock-up well organised and with few obvious hiding places.

  ‘You might want to check the perimeter,’ he added. ‘If he’s kept any trophies, I doubt they’re going to be under your noses.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ he was asked.

  ‘I was here with him earlier. He seemed perfectly relaxed about a search of the place.’

  The questioner nodded his understanding.

  ‘Have all the warrants been signed?’ Rebus enquired, receiving another nod for his efforts. ‘Both brothers’ homes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I think you might want to add the green Land Rover sitting outside Gregor Magrath’s place. Not sure who it belongs to, but strikes me it should be checked. More of an all-terrain vehicle than this.’ Rebus gestured towards the van.

  ‘Why don’t you arrange that, then?’ the team leader asked.

  ‘Not my job,’ Rebus explained, retreating to the Saab.

  63

  He was back at Whicher’s. Now that the initial fuss about the bodies had died down, they had rooms available, but Rebus wasn’t sure he would be staying. Instead, he sat in the lounge, plugged in his phone for a recharge, and ordered a helping of steak pie and chips, along with a pot of tea.

  During a trip to the toilets, he had a wash and studied himself in the mirror. He looked like a man who had slept in his car. At reception, they handed him a pack containing toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and shaving cream, and he returned to the toilets for a patch-up job.

  With his belly full and another pot of tea on its way, he felt more human. There were plenty of papers to help him bide his time, plus the hotel’s copy of Cracking the Code. He’d asked for the TV to be tuned to a news channel, but with the sound muted.

  ‘No trouble at all, sir,’ he’d been told by the waiter in the tartan waistcoat.

  A couple of hours passed with no word from Dempsey. Rebus checked that his phone was still getting a healthy signal. When it did eventually ring, caller ID told him it was Siobhan Clarke on the line. Rebus answered.

  ‘Dempsey’s just been having a word with James Page,’ she told him. ‘She’s wondering if you’re back in Edinburgh yet.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And James spoke to DS Cowan at SCRU, but he hasn’t seen you either.’

  ‘Funny, that.’

  ‘You’re still in Inverness?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ He told her about the CCTV — Kenny Magrath stopping to refuel at the petrol station no more than five minutes after Annette McKie had left it on foot — then about Kenny and Gregor Magrath being taken in for questioning. ‘Did Dempsey tell Page whether the interviews had finished?’

  ‘No idea,’ Clarke confessed.

  ‘You and him not best buddies?’

  ‘Leave it, John.’

  ‘Pity — I really liked the guy.’

  ‘You don’t take a telling, do you?’

  Rebus smiled to himself. ‘Dempsey was supposed to be updating me,’ he went on to explain. ‘That’s why I’m still here.’

  ‘You really think this is it, don’t you?’

  ‘Hope springs eternal.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure Dempsey sounded like a woman on the verge of a breakthrough.’

  Rebus had another caller. Number blocked. He told Clarke he’d phone her back.

  ‘Rebus?’ Gillian Dempsey said.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘They’ve been questioned and released.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And there’s not much else to say. Kenny Magrath’s work premises and van have been gone over — stuff’s been sent to the lab but the team didn’t sound hopeful. Same goes for both houses.’

  ‘What about the Land Rover?’

  Dempsey paused. ‘That was your idea, was it? Well, our friendly sheriff signed an extra warrant, but again it looks clean.’

  ‘Clean or cleaned?’

  ‘Somebody may have cleaned it in recent memory,’ she admitted. ‘But not with the thoroughness you’re implying. Besides, we know it was the van in Pitlochry rather than another vehicle, don’t we?’

  ‘What does he say about the stop for petrol?’

  ‘He was on his way back from visiting his son in Glasgow and his tank was low.’

  ‘You don’t think that’s quite a coincidence?’

  ‘As it happens, I do, and so did he — he told his wife as much when Annette McKie became news, asked her if he should maybe come forward. She reasoned there wasn’t much point if he hadn’t seen anything.’

  ‘Funny she didn’t mention that to me.’ Rebus closed his eyes and rubbed his hand across them.

  ‘You think she’s covering for him?’

  ‘Sometimes that’s what families do.’

  ‘Well,’ Dempsey went on, ‘unless the lab finds something, we’re at a bit of a dead end, aren’t we?’

  ‘Did you look at him in the interview room? I mean, really look him in the eye?’

  ‘I did more than that. I had a psychologist watching the camera feed. They didn’t see anything that rang alarm bells. This is a family man, Rebus. Two grown-up kids and a doting wife. Neighbours full of praise and not so much as a speeding ticket to his name.’

  ‘Will you at least do a bit more digging? Check where he was when the other victims were snatched. .’

  ‘I’ve asked him. He’s going to have to go back through his paperwork to find out.’
>
  ‘Shouldn’t that be your job?’

  ‘We’ve sent an officer to the house to fetch it all,’ she said coldly. ‘But as of this moment, we’re still at that same dead end.’ She paused. ‘Incidentally, can I ask where you are? Doesn’t sound like you’re driving.’

  ‘I’m not. I stopped at House of Bruar for a break.’

  ‘You’re heading back to Edinburgh, then?’

  ‘Just as you ordered.’ Rebus rattled the cup in its saucer, so she could hear it. ‘But you’ll let me know if there’s any news?’

  ‘Of course. Oh, and by the way — giving that impromptu statement to my nephew? Not your brightest move, despite the manifest competition. .’

  She hung up on him, and he set the phone down on the table next to the teapot. He was the only person in the lounge. The papers had been gone through from cover to cover, and the TV was still showing footage of some football manager’s fall from grace. It seemed as if the story was on a fifteen-minute loop, same pictures each and every time, and nothing about Edderton, not even on the ticker tape of breaking news along the bottom of the screen.

  ‘What the hell do I do now?’ Rebus asked himself. The answer came to him. ‘Cigarette,’ he said, rising to his feet.

  Forty minutes later, he was seated in the lounge again, staring into space, his mind swirling with thoughts, when he saw a face he knew: Gavin Arnold, in full uniform, cap tucked beneath one arm.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Rebus asked him.

  ‘Looking for you, at DCS Dempsey’s behest. This was second on my list.’

  ‘After?’

  ‘The Lochinver.’

  ‘Want to sit down?’

  Arnold shook his head, looming over Rebus.

  ‘I told her I was at House of Bruar,’ Rebus went on.

  ‘Seems she wasn’t taken in. My orders are to escort you to the A9 and stick with you as far as Daviot.’

  ‘I’m being run out of town by the sheriff?’

  ‘That you are, Hopalong.’

  ‘I didn’t grass you up, Gavin.’

  ‘I know that. But if she set her mind to it, it wouldn’t take her five minutes to work out I’m the one who got you that visitor’s pass.’