by Ian Rankin
Rebus shook his head.
‘That’s why the poor sod scarpered to New Zealand.’
‘Australia, I heard.’
‘Same difference – other side of the planet. That’s how far he needed to be from Frank Hammell.’
‘What about the missing girl’s brother?’
Cafferty thought for a moment. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘His name’s Darryl Christie – kept his dad’s surname. He spoke at the press conference. Manages at least one of Hammell’s bars.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Rebus could see Cafferty storing the information away.
‘Seems like a bright kid.’
‘Then he should get out while he can.’
‘How many places does Hammell own these days?’
Cafferty’s mouth twitched. ‘Hard to say, even for me. Half a dozen pubs and clubs. Fingers in a lot more pies than that, of course. He’s had meetings in Glasgow and Aberdeen.’
Meaning meetings with men like himself.
Rebus watched as Cafferty stirred his coffee. ‘You sound like you still take an interest,’ he commented.
‘Call it a hobby.’
‘Some hobbies end up all-consuming.’
‘Man’s got to have something to fill his retirement. That’s where you went wrong. Nothing to do with yourself all day, so you ended up back in the game.’ Cafferty scooped up some of the mousse from the surface of his drink and spooned it into his mouth.
‘Any idea who might bear a grudge against Hammell?’
‘Present company excepted?’ Cafferty smiled. ‘Probably too many to count, but I doubt they’d bring a kid into it.’
‘If they did, though . . .?’
‘Then any day now they’ll get a message to Hammell, and that’s when he’ll go supernova. You’ll want to know about it if that happens.’
‘We should keep a watch on him?’
‘You should be doing that anyway. I seem to remember a fair few surveillance operations mounted against me in the dim and distant past.’
‘Caught you red-handed, too.’
Cafferty gave another twitch of the mouth. ‘Best not to dwell on it.’
‘Actually, I think we need to, just for a moment.’
Cafferty looked at him. ‘And why’s that?’
‘Because the Complaints are keeping tabs on me.’
‘Tut-tut.’
‘They know, for example, that we’ve been out a few times together.’
‘Someone must have told them.’
‘Wasn’t you, was it?’
Cafferty’s face remained a mask.
‘See, it makes sense to me,’ Rebus continued. His hands were wrapped around his own mug of coffee, but he hadn’t taken so much as a sip since sitting down. ‘In fact, I can’t think of a neater way of setting me up. You keep taking me out for these little drinks and chats, making everyone think we’re bosom buddies . . .’
‘I’m insulted.’
‘Well, someone’s been talking to them.’
‘Not me.’ Cafferty shook his head slowly as he placed his spoon on the table. His phone was vibrating again.
‘Sure you don’t want to answer that?’ Rebus asked.
‘I can’t help it if I’m popular.’
‘You might want to look that word up in a dictionary.’
‘The shit I let you get away with . . .’ Cafferty’s eyes were sudden dark tunnels, leading to darker places still.
‘There you are,’ Rebus said, giving a thin smile. ‘Knew you were still in there somewhere, waiting to come out and play.’
‘We’re finished,’ Cafferty stated, rising to his feet and snatching his phone. ‘You should try being nice to me, Rebus. Sometimes I think I’m the only friend you’ve got left.’
‘We’ve never been friends, and never will be.’
‘You sure about that?’ Rather than wait for an answer, Cafferty started threading his way between the tables, nimble for such a big man. Rebus sat back and looked around him, studying the café’s morning clients. He wished the Complaints had been watching and listening, just this one time; it might have put their minds at rest.
13
‘Did you miss me?’ Rebus enquired as he walked into the SCRU office.
‘Have you been somewhere? Can’t say I’d noticed.’ Peter Bliss was hauling files and folders from a large plastic container. Some sheets fell free, sliding across the floor. Elaine Robison helped pick them up.
‘How are things at Gayfield Square?’ she asked.
‘Coffee’s not a patch on here.’
‘I meant the case.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m not sure anyone’s convinced about the links to the other MisPers.’
‘It was always going to be a hard sell, John.’
‘I seem to be in luck here, though – no Cowan to speak of.’
‘He’s at some meeting,’ Bliss explained, seating himself at his desk. ‘Huckling for a move.’
‘To the CCU,’ Robison added, resting her hands on her hips. ‘Seems there’s a vacancy at the top table.’
‘I was under the impression our dear leader hates cold cases.’
‘But the one thing he does like is advancement. They’d have to promote him DI.’
‘Fast track to DCI and above,’ Bliss said with a shake of his head.
‘Well, his wardrobe’s good and ready, even if he’s not.’ Rebus turned to leave.
‘Not staying for some of that famous coffee?’ Robison asked.
‘Places to go, people to see,’ Rebus said by way of apology.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ she called to him as he headed out of the door.
ETHICS AND STANDARDS was what it said on the wall next to the office, but everyone called them the Complaints. Rebus tried the handle. It didn’t budge. Combination lock. He knocked, pressed his ear to the door, knocked again. Further along the corridor was the Deputy Chief Constable’s office, and the Chief Constable’s beyond that. Rebus hadn’t been hauled up here for a carpeting in quite some time. His years on the force, he’d seen the pen-pushers come and go. They were always full of new ideas, tweaks they were keen to make, as if you could change the job by means of strategy meetings and focus groups. The Complaints was part of that – every year or two, their name seemed to change – Complaints and Conduct; Professional Standards; Ethics and Standards. One cop Rebus had known, the Complaints had gone after him because a neighbour had complained about the height of his leylandii. The whole process had taken the best part of a year, after which the cop had decided he didn’t like the job any more.
Another result for the Complaints.
Rebus gave up and took the lift down to the cafeteria. Bottle of Irn Bru and a caramel wafer. He walked over to a table by the window. The window looked on to the sports field, where you could sometimes see off-duty officers playing rugby. Not today, though. The chair made plenty of noise as Rebus pulled it out from the table. He sat down and returned the stare of the man sitting there.
‘Malcolm Fox,’ he stated.
Fox didn’t deny it. He was twenty years younger than Rebus, and a stone and a half lighter. A bit less grey in his hair. Most cops looked like cops, but Fox could have been middle management in a plastics company or Inland Revenue.
‘Hello, Rebus,’ Fox said. There was a plate in front of him, nothing on it but banana peel. The glass next to it contained tap water from the jug by the cash till.
‘Thought maybe we should meet properly.’ Rebus took a mouthful of Irn Bru and stifled a belch.
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’
‘We work in the same building: any reason we can’t be sitting together?’
‘Every reason.’ There was nothing confrontational in Fox’s style, no emotion when he spoke. He had the casual confidence of someone who knew they were on another plane from those around them.
‘Because you’re putting together a file on me?’
‘Today’s police force is very different
from the one you got used to. Methods have changed, and so have attitudes.’ Fox paused. ‘Do you really think you’d fit in?’
‘You’re telling me not to bother reapplying?’
‘That’s a decision only you can make.’
‘Who was it told you about me and Cafferty?’
Fox’s face changed slightly, and Rebus realised he’d made a mistake. The man knew where Rebus had got that gen: Siobhan Clarke. A black mark against her.
‘Ask yourself this,’ Rebus ploughed on. ‘Could it have been Cafferty himself? Using an intermediary? Just to screw up my chances.’
‘Better if you’d simply kept clear of him in the first place.’
‘Hard to disagree.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Maybe I was hoping he might let something slip – I work cold cases, remember.’
‘And has he?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Not so far. But the amount of skeletons around Cafferty, there’s always a chance.’
Fox looked thoughtful as he sipped his water. Rebus unwrapped the wafer and bit into it.
‘The file on you,’ Fox said eventually, ‘goes back to the 1970s. In fact, to call it a “file” is doing it an injustice; it takes up one whole shelf.’
‘I’ve been called into the headmaster’s office a few times,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Never been given my jotters, though.’
‘I wonder: is that down to luck or guile?’
‘There was always a good reason why I did what I did – and it got results. The High Hiedyins recognised that.’
‘“Room should always be made for one maverick”,’ Fox quoted. ‘That’s what a former Chief Constable wrote about you. He underlined the “one”.’
‘I got results,’ Rebus repeated.
‘And what about now? Think you can break cases without bending a few rules along the way? We’ve no room for even one maverick these days.’
Rebus shrugged. Fox spent a moment studying him.
‘You’re on secondment to Gayfield Square,’ he said. ‘That brings you back into contact with DI Clarke.’
‘So?’
‘Since you retired, she’s managed to unlearn some of the stuff you taught her. She’s going to keep rising through the ranks.’ Fox paused. ‘Unless . . .’
‘You’re saying I’m a bad influence? Siobhan’s her own woman. That’s not about to change just because I’m around for a week or two.’
‘I hope not. But back in the day, she covered up for you a few times, didn’t she?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Rebus tipped the bottle to his mouth again.
Fox managed to force out a smile, studying Rebus the way a sceptical employer might an underqualified job candidate. ‘We’ve met before, you know.’
‘We have?’
‘Sort of – we were on the same case one time, back in my CID days.’
‘I don’t remember.’
Fox shrugged. ‘Not so surprising really – I don’t think you made it to a single briefing.’
‘Probably too busy doing real work.’
‘With a mint on your tongue to mask the smell of booze.’
Rebus gave him a hard stare. ‘Is that what this is about – me not giving you the time of day? Did I nick your sweets in the playground and now you need to get your own back?’
‘I’m not that petty.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Quite sure.’ Fox was rising to his feet. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘You know there’ll be a physical? If you go ahead with your application, I mean.’
‘Constitution of an ox,’ Rebus declared, thumping his chest with a fist. He watched the other man leave, then finished his caramel wafer before heading outside to the smoking zone.
14
Rebus had brought the MisPer files with him to Gayfield Square. He made sure Page saw him lugging them to Siobhan Clarke’s desk. It took three trips, the Saab parked out front with its POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign prominent.
‘Thanks for the help,’ Rebus said to the room at large. He was sweating, so removed his jacket and draped it over Clarke’s chair. A female officer came across to ask him about the boxes.
‘Missing persons,’ he explained. ‘Three of them, between 1999 and 2008. All last seen on or around the A9, just like Annette McKie.’
She lifted the lid of the topmost box and peered inside. She stood a little over five feet tall, short dark hair in what Rebus might have called a pageboy cut. She reminded him of an actress – maybe it was Audrey Hepburn.
‘I’m John,’ he said.
‘Everybody knows who you are.’
‘Then I’m at a disadvantage.’
‘Detective Constable Esson. But I suppose you can call me Christine.’
‘You always seem to be glued to your computer,’ he told her.
‘That’s my job.’
‘Oh?’
She placed the lid back on the box and gave him her full attention. ‘I’m our link with the online community.’
‘You mean you send e-mails?’
‘I contact networks, John. Missing persons networks. I’ve been posting on Twitter and Facebook, plus updating the L and B website.’
‘Asking for sightings?’
Esson nodded. ‘Making sure her photo is disseminated as widely as possible. An ask can circulate the globe in seconds.’
‘These networks,’ Rebus asked, ‘would they have details of historic cases?’
Esson looked at the boxes again. ‘Might well have – want me to check?’
‘Could you do that?’
‘Give me their names and dates of birth, photos if you have them . . .’ She paused. ‘I thought your theory was they’re all dead?’
‘As of now that’s all it is – a theory. Worth challenging, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Sure.’
‘Names, DoBs, photos?’
She nodded. ‘And anything else relevant: distinguishing marks; where they were last seen . . .’
‘Got it,’ Rebus said. ‘And thanks.’
She accepted this with the beginnings of a blush and retreated to her desk. Rebus found a pad of paper and began to write down a few salient details about Sally Hazlitt and the others. Twenty minutes later he took the information, along with a selection of photos, over to Esson. She seemed bemused.
‘Ever heard of e-mail?’
‘Is there something wrong with my handwriting?’
She smiled and shook her head, then read out a line from his notes on Zoe Beddows. ‘“Liked the men”?’
‘I’m sure you can find a way of rephrasing it.’
‘I certainly hope so.’ She studied the photographs. ‘I’ll scan these in as best I can. Nothing a bit more high-res?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Oh well.’
‘I see you’ve met Christine,’ Siobhan Clarke said, approaching the desk. She had a bag slung over one shoulder and a laptop tucked under her other arm. ‘Don’t let her challenge you to one of her shoot-em-up games. She’s lethal.’
Esson was blushing again as Rebus followed Clarke to her own little parcel of land.
‘How was Pitlochry?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’
‘The police station?’
‘Serviceable.’ Clarke looked over towards Esson. ‘Thing about playing games online,’ she went on, ‘you get to know people.’
‘Annette McKie played online games,’ Rebus commented.
‘And Christine’s been in touch with dozens of people she played with. If any of them hear a peep from their friend Zelda, Christine will know about it . . .’ She broke off and stared at the boxes. ‘Well done you, by the way. Though now they’re here . . .’ She made show of scanning the office for a spare desk.
‘Is there another room we could use?’ Rebus suggested.
‘I’ll look into it.’ She shrugged herself free of her coat and sat down heavily, before noticing his jacket draped over the chair.
‘Let me get that,’ Rebus said.
‘No, leave it.’ She was opening the laptop. ‘Got the interviews on here,’ she explained. ‘Audio only.’
‘Was there someone there from Tayside Police?’
‘An inspector, all the way from Perth. We didn’t exactly hit it off.’
‘But you spoke to everyone you needed to?’
She nodded and rubbed her eyes, the fatigue obvious.
‘Want me to get you a coffee?’ Rebus suggested.
She looked at him. ‘So it’s true what they say – there is a first time for everything.’
‘And a last, if you’re going to have a go at me.’
‘Sorry.’ She allowed herself a yawn. ‘The two Poles work the night shift. Stefan Skiladz did the translating. Both were involved in petty crime in their younger days, back in the homeland. Gang stuff. Fights and pilfering. They swear they’ve kept their noses clean since coming here. I’ll run their names through the system, just to be sure. I already ran a check on Skiladz, and he was telling us the truth – never a hint of back-pedalling since he got out of jail.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re leaving the interesting stuff till last?’
She looked up at him. ‘Maybe I will take that coffee,’ she said.
Rebus obliged. On his return, he saw that she was busy on her desk computer. She accepted the mug with a nod of thanks.
‘Thomas Robertson,’ she said, ‘works the day shift. Doesn’t like nights; prefers to spend them in the watering holes of Pitlochry. There’s a particular barmaid he’s keen on, though he didn’t say if the feeling is mutual. He told me he was in trouble just the once, resisting arrest after a fight with a girlfriend outside a club in Aberdeen.’
‘And?’
‘He wasn’t telling the whole truth.’ She tapped a fingernail against the computer screen and angled it a little so Rebus could have a better view. Robertson had been charged with attempted rape, the victim someone he’d met that night, the assault happening in an alleyway behind the club. He’d served two years in HMP Peterhead, and had been out of prison less than twelve months. Rebus did a quick calculation in his head. Zoe Beddows had vanished in June 2008, only a couple of months prior to Robertson’s arrest.
