by Ian Rankin
‘Garage that sold me it offered fifteen to take it back,’ Hammell complained. ‘It’s worth three times that.’
‘All the same. .’
Hammell gestured towards Rebus’s Saab. ‘Want to swap? Fifteen plus yours?’
‘I can’t do that, Frank.’
Hammell got into his own car, started the engine and headed at speed towards the main road. Rebus unlocked the Saab, Clarke sliding into the passenger seat.
‘That would have been a good trade,’ she said.
‘The things me and this old beast have been through. .’ Rebus patted the steering wheel. ‘Money doesn’t come into it.’
‘So what now?’ she asked as she did up her seat belt.
‘Now,’ Rebus answered, ‘we start planning.’
‘Planning what, exactly?’
‘How to give Kenny Magrath the fright of his life. .’
67
He made the call Sunday lunchtime, using the number on the card Darryl Christie had given him. Whoever it was who answered, Rebus didn’t recognise the voice.
‘I need to speak to your boss,’ he explained.
‘What boss might that be?’
‘Don’t be daft, son. Give Darryl the name John Rebus and tell him to phone me back.’
Then he hung up and waited. Not quite three minutes had passed when his mobile trilled.
‘I’m listening,’ Darryl Christie said. No niceties; no small talk. Everything changed. Well, that was fine with Rebus.
‘The guy you’re looking for is Kenny Magrath. He lives with his wife in a house in Rosemarkie. I can give you the address.’
‘I know about him,’ Christie interrupted. ‘It was all over the net — he’s been checked out by Dempsey’s lot and let go.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Rebus said. ‘But hear what I’ve got to say, then decide for yourself.’
‘You’ve got two minutes.’
It took Rebus a bit longer than that to lay out his reasoning: the van at the petrol station; the retirement of Gregor Magrath; the way Kenny Magrath had acted when confronted. There was silence on the line when he finished. Then Darryl Christie’s voice:
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘Because I can’t get to him — he’s made too good a job of covering his tracks.’
‘Are you taping this?’
‘If I am, I’m about to sign my own arrest warrant. He has to disappear, Darryl. And it has to look like he’s done a runner, otherwise the pair of us might come under the magnifying glass. Can’t have his body being found.’
‘Bodies have a habit of turning up, though, don’t they?’
‘Depends where they’re left.’
‘Are you inviting yourself to the party?’
‘No,’ Rebus assured him. ‘The less you tell me, the better. Magrath has a workshop he uses — a garage, across from the pub at the far end of the village. Goes there first thing in the morning, and when he knocks off in the evening. I’d say evening would be best — it’s nice and dark by five o’clock. His van can’t be left behind, not if he’s supposed to have scarpered in it.’
‘You’ve given this some thought.’
‘I’ve not had much else to do — you said it yourself, Dempsey proved less than useless when I went to her.’
‘You know what I’ll do to you if this is a stitch-up?’
‘Yes.’
‘This isn’t some trick Cafferty’s come up with?’
‘No.’
‘And what’s stopping me from going straight to this bastard’s house and kicking his door down?’
‘For one thing, he has neighbours. For another, you’d have to do something about his wife. My way’s better. You take him to woods somewhere — plenty of forests up north. I can suggest a few if you like. .’ Rebus’s voice trailed off as he waited to see what Christie would say.
‘Not necessary,’ was the answer.
Which was good news: it meant he already had a spot in mind.
‘I reckon he’s a creature of habit,’ Rebus went on, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Likes his dinner ready when he comes home. That means his wife will start to worry sooner rather than later. If he’s half an hour behind schedule and not answering his phone, she’s going to go out looking, and it won’t be long after that before she calls it in.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘There’s a place you can take the van?’
‘Want me to tell you?’
‘I just want to make sure this is done right — for both our sakes.’
‘No qualms?’
‘Not a one.’
‘We’re not going to speak again, you and me.’
‘As long as I can close the file, I’m happy. Call it a little retirement present I’m giving myself.’
‘If this works out, I might chip in a clock for your mantelpiece. On the other hand, if it doesn’t. .’
Darryl Christie ended the call without bothering to finish the threat. Rebus stared at his phone until the screen went blank.
‘Well?’ Siobhan Clarke said. She was standing in the living room, hands cupped around a mug of coffee. Rebus rose from his chair and poured himself a drink, then thought better of it and pushed it aside. Instead he lit a cigarette, heading to the sash window and pulling it open so Clarke couldn’t complain.
‘Promising,’ he decided, blowing smoke through the gap. ‘No more than that.’
‘Did he mention which forest?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘But he knows about the one his old boss used from time to time. And it’s perfect — not much more than forty-five minutes from the Black Isle. He won’t want to be riding around roads he doesn’t know with someone he’s just abducted — not when there’s a wife at home readying to call the police.’
‘And the van?’
‘I’m guessing dumped in a loch or sent for scrap.’
‘Why not make it look like an accident? Van goes off the road with Magrath at the wheel?’
‘Too much can go wrong — any half-decent scene-of-crime unit would smell something.’
Clarke lowered herself on to the sofa. Rebus’s map was there, a circle drawn around a wooded area just outside Aviemore. ‘He won’t go rushing up there tonight?’
‘Darryl’s the careful sort — he’s going to spend time mulling it over.’
‘Meaning he might still get cold feet?’
‘Always a possibility.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t think he’ll touch Mrs Magrath?’
‘He’s not the type. He’ll look for the flaws in the plan, maybe try to work out if there’s any other way.’
‘How many men will he take?’
‘Two or three — one of them to drive away the van.’
‘Do we need reinforcements? I could ask Christine or Ronnie. .’
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘I feel bad enough letting you get involved.’
‘As if you had a choice.’ She was smiling at him above the rim of the coffee mug.
‘Remember: you’re the only cop here. If Fox and his crew ever get wind of this. .’
‘I’d be scuppering my chances of joining the Complaints.’
‘You want to work for Fox?’
‘He told me I’d be good at it — I think he meant it in a kind way.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Do you fancy it?’
‘I’d have to take a vow of silence, wouldn’t I?’
‘About me, you mean?’ Rebus blew another stream of smoke out of the window.
‘The stuff I could tell them. .’
‘True enough,’ he said, stubbing out the cigarette on the ledge before flicking it into the void.
68
On Monday, they were in position by three thirty, parked on Rosemarkie’s narrow main street, Clarke’s Audi tucked in between two other vehicles, pointing south. Rebus’s reasoning: after grabbing Magrat
h, this was the way they would come — unless they wanted to end up in Cromarty.
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Clarke had replied. The shop windows were illuminated, and locals walked past carrying bags of groceries. Rebus and Clarke had checked out Magrath’s workshop, but there was nowhere to park that wasn’t conspicuous. Rebus was passing the time explaining to Clarke that it was Darryl Christie who had abducted Thomas Robertson.
‘Darryl’s the one who’s always surfing the web — that’s how he’d have learned we’d lifted someone from the road crew at Pitlochry. Easy enough to find him, have him followed to the Tummel Arms and then snatch him.’
‘And smack him about?’
‘To get him to talk. But then comes news that it can’t have been him after all, so they dump him in Aberdeen.’
‘Why Aberdeen?’
Rebus watched as a car drove past — no one he knew inside. ‘Maybe because Frank Hammell has friends there, meaning we’d go on thinking it was him behind it and not his spotty wee lieutenant.’
Clarke nodded her understanding.
‘Something I wanted to ask you,’ Rebus went on.
‘What?’
‘Fox told me he was easing off for the time being — you didn’t have a word with him, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Says he wants me back in CID so he can nab me good and proper.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Have you signed the forms?’
‘There’s still a good chance I’ll fail the physical.’
‘Hard to disagree.’
‘Thanks a bunch.’
Another car: driven by a young woman.
‘Will Magrath pass by here?’ Clarke asked.
‘Depends where he’s been working.’
‘Assuming he’s started back to work in the first place.’
‘I didn’t say the plan was perfect.’ Rebus checked the time. Daylight was fading fast. When he looked up again, he saw the black Mercedes M-Class.
‘Clickety-click,’ he told Clarke, turning away so his face wouldn’t be visible to anyone in the approaching vehicle. Clarke had her own head angled forward, as if fussing with the Audi’s stereo.
‘Four of them, I think,’ she said as she straightened up again, peering into the rear-view mirror.
‘Darryl in the passenger seat,’ Rebus confirmed.
‘Not a bad start.’ She exhaled, releasing some of the tension. ‘They’re even a bit early.’
‘They need time to scope the place out.’
‘If Christie’s the cautious sort, he’ll be looking for traps.’ She was starting the ignition.
‘What’s your thinking?’
‘Move the car a bit further along, maybe tuck ourselves down a side road. We know what we’re on the lookout for — a huge black Merc heading south.’
‘You’re worried they’ll come back and spot us?’
‘Yes.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. It didn’t take long to find what they needed. They parked again, facing the main drag, and Clarke switched the engine off, before changing her mind and switching it on again.
‘A bit of warmth,’ she explained, turning the heater up.
‘Good idea.’ The dashboard gave the outside temperature as five degrees. There would be a frost later — the skies were clear, a couple of stars already visible. Rebus held his hands in front of the air vent, rubbing them together.
Twenty minutes later, they both spotted Magrath’s van, the name prominent on its side.
‘Headed for the lock-up,’ Rebus stated.
‘There’s still time for a change of strategy,’ Clarke argued. ‘Confront them then and there.’
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘We need him scared, remember.’
‘My way’s less risky.’
‘Just don’t lose them.’
‘Are you saying my driving’s not up to it?’
Rebus gave her a look, then focused on the road. A couple of minutes for Kenny Magrath to reach the lock-up. . bundled into the car. . They’d want to be quick. But what if someone from the pub had stepped out for a cigarette? Or a bus full of inquisitive locals was passing? Rebus had seldom known time to creep so slowly. And just as he was about to open his mouth and say something to that effect. .
‘Van!’ Clarke called out. Heading back the way it had come, MAGRATH on its side. The shape behind the steering wheel was not Kenny Magrath — too short, too wiry. The black Merc was only a few seconds behind, its occupants hard to discern. Clarke began to follow, keeping her distance. When a delivery lorry came up behind her, she slowed to let it overtake. She’d studied the road map, knew there were few options for the Merc. There were manoeuvres the driver could make to check he wasn’t being followed — slowing to a near stop; pulling over and biding his time; doubling back and finding a different route. But right now the Audi was hidden from view by the delivery lorry.
The first real decision came at Munlochy; the Merc stayed on the A832.
‘Next it’ll be the Tore roundabout,’ Rebus said. ‘Then the A9 south.’
‘If your hunch is right,’ Clarke cautioned.
‘So little faith.’ Rebus managed the beginnings of a smile, but Clarke knew he was nervous — it wasn’t her driving that was making him grip the passenger-side door handle.
When they reached the dual carriageway, the convoy followed the signs to Inverness. Rebus craned his neck to see what was happening past the lorry.
‘They’re leaving it for dead,’ he informed Clarke, so she signalled and moved out to overtake. The Mercedes had passed the van but seemed to want to stay close to it.
‘They could be strangling Magrath right now, you know,’ Clarke commented.
‘They could,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Might have nothing but a corpse on our hands at the other end.’
‘We might at that.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d lose much sleep.’
‘I’m not a monster, Siobhan — but I suppose I’d cope somehow. .’
Over the Kessock Bridge and into Inverness, staying on the A9 and heading south out of the city.
‘So far so good,’ Clarke said under her breath.
‘You planning to stay on their tail all the way?’
‘Give it another mile or two.’
After which she put her foot down, guiding the Audi into the outside lane and eventually overtaking the van, pulling in between it and the Merc before flooring the accelerator and passing that car, too. The clock said ninety-five as she watched the headlights behind her recede.
‘They’re keeping to a steady sixty-five.’
‘Don’t want to get pulled over, do they?’ Rebus suggested.
A further few miles on, a sign indicated a lay-by. Clarke slowed the Audi to a stop behind an articulated lorry which was parked up for the night. She switched off the headlights and slouched down in her seat, Rebus doing the same as far as he was able. He could feel the sweat on his back, his shirt clinging to him.
‘Here they come,’ Clarke said, eyes on the wing mirror. Not just the Merc and the van, but a few other vehicles in their wake. It was completely dark now, no chance the Audi could have been clocked, not the speed the convoy was going. Clarke switched her lights on again and got back on the road.
‘No shortage of disposal sites between here and there,’ she offered.
‘He’s not got the experience, Siobhan. Something tells me he’ll stick to what he knows, places he’s been shown or told about.’
Twenty minutes later, they passed a sign telling them the Aviemore spur was just ahead.
‘Where it all started,’ Siobhan Clarke said.
‘I suppose,’ Rebus replied, watching as a few flakes of snow began to fall. A couple of cars were signalling to turn left.
‘The Merc?’ Clarke guessed.
‘I’d put money on it — just not necessarily my money.’
But yes, the Merc was turning o
ff, while the van stayed on the A9 and its appointment with a scrapyard or similar.
‘We’re sure Magrath’s not trussed up in the back of his own van?’ Clarke asked.
‘As sure as we can be.’
The Audi followed the Merc, still a couple of other vehicles separating them.
‘I think this is working,’ Clarke offered. ‘Insofar as they haven’t spotted us.’ All too soon, though, the covering vehicles were peeling off into new-build housing developments, leaving only the Merc and the Audi — fifty yards between them.
‘Should I stop and let him get ahead?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebus admitted.
‘We could overtake and block the route — don’t tell me Magrath won’t be scared rigid by now.’
‘Not yet.’
She looked at him again. His eyes were fixed on the Merc, his left hand still gripping the door handle. They were in deepening countryside, heading away from Aviemore into a wilderness of mountain and forest.
‘I could overtake again,’ Clarke suggested, breaking off as she saw that, without signalling, the car in front was turning off the road on to a dirt track. There was a gate, but it had been left open. Clarke drove past and kept driving, while Rebus watched the 4x4’s tail lights until they were swallowed up by trees.
‘We’re safe,’ he said. Clarke stopped the car and did a three-point turn, switching off her lights and crawling towards the open gate.
‘Just like Hammell said,’ she muttered. The Merc had disappeared from view. Clarke slid down her window and listened for its engine. ‘Still on the move.’
‘Then we move, too.’
The Audi began to head cautiously up the track, both front windows lowered. Despite the flurries and the sharp night air, Rebus stuck his head out, watching and listening. The route wound uphill into a pine-scented forest, reminding him of Edderton. When they reached a fork, Clarke stopped the car, turning off the engine as a precaution.
‘Hear anything?’
‘No,’ Rebus told her.
‘No lights either.’
‘You think they’ve stopped?’ He had lowered his voice.
‘Maybe.’
‘Do we go left or right?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Ground’s pretty well frozen — hard to tell if there are tracks there or not.’