by Ian Rankin
25
The Tummel Arms wouldn’t open for business for another hour, but its door was unlocked. It was a bright, bustling morning on Pitlochry’s Atholl Road. Neighbours stood on the pavements, grocery bags or dog leads in hand, and shared the local gossip. They were used to visitors, and hadn’t paid Clarke and Rebus a moment’s notice.
‘Hello?’ Clarke called out, pushing open the pub door. The place smelled of bleach. Stools and chairs had been placed on tables so the floor could be sluiced. A woman appeared from the direction of the ladies’ loo, toting a mop.
‘We’re looking for Gina Andrews,’ Clarke explained.
The woman pushed a stray hair behind one ear. ‘She’s at the baker’s. Won’t be long, though.’
‘We’ll wait, if that’s okay?’
The cleaner shrugged, then disappeared again.
‘Trusting souls up here,’ Rebus remarked, eyeing the unguarded row of optics on the gantry.
‘Not really,’ Clarke replied, nodding towards the CCTV camera above the door. The door itself swung open and another woman negotiated her way inside, carrying a large plastic tray piled high with individually bagged rolls and sandwiches. She heaved it on to the bar and exhaled noisily.
‘Police?’ she said, turning towards her visitors.
‘That’s right,’ Clarke said.
‘About Tommy?’
‘Thomas Robertson, yes.’
‘His car’s still parked out the back.’
‘How long has it been there?’
‘Only since last night.’
‘He was in here, then?’
Gina Andrews shook her head. She was in her thirties. Short and stocky, with shoulder-length blonde hair. She had that attitude necessary to good bar staff the world over: fair, but firm when the need arose; someone it wouldn’t be wise to get on the wrong side of.
‘He must have driven here, but he didn’t come in. One of the regulars told me his car was there, so I sent him a text.’
‘Nothing back?’
She shook her head again and started transferring the rolls to a metal salver. There was a printed label on each packet, identifying the filling.
‘How much do you know about him, Ms Andrews?’
‘He’s all right. Likes a drink and a laugh.’
‘Is he your . . .?’
Andrews looked up from her work. ‘My bidie-in? Nothing that serious.’
‘Just a friend, then?’
‘Most nights.’
‘Would you say he had a temper on him?’
‘If the wind’s blowing in the right direction.’
‘Do you know where he was yesterday morning?’
‘No.’
‘He was answering some questions at a police station in Perth.’
‘About the girl who went missing?’
‘What makes you say that?’
Andrews gave a snort. ‘You’re not exactly in downtown Chicago. She counts as big news. Word’s out that the police were up at the construction site.’
‘Did you know that Mr Robertson has a criminal record?’
‘He told me he’d been in jail.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Rammy outside a nightclub. Tommy steps in and ends up being the one you lot lift.’ She had filled one tray and was starting on another.
‘It was attempted rape,’ Rebus told her. She froze for a moment.
‘Victim was pretty traumatised,’ Clarke added.
‘And that makes him a suspect?’ She had gone back to the task, but with slightly less enthusiasm.
‘He’s always been okay with you?’ Clarke enquired.
‘Nice as ninepence.’ She thought for a second. ‘Did you tell him you were going to put me in the picture?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Might explain why he lost his bottle. Got as far as the car park but couldn’t bring himself to face me.’
‘So why abandon the car?’ Clarke asked.
‘No idea.’
‘Mind if I take a look at it?’ Rebus added.
‘Help yourself.’
Clarke nodded at Rebus to let him know he could go. She would be staying; questions still to be asked.
Outside, Rebus got a cigarette lit and made for the rear of the building. The gravel car park had space for only four vehicles, a sign explaining that it was reserved for staff. That wouldn’t have bothered Robertson: as far as he was concerned, he was practically family. The only car there now was a beat-up Ford Escort, mostly blue in colour, though one door panel and a front wing were of different shades. The rear bumper was missing, one tail light smashed. It was a private enough spot, no buildings overlooking it. Rebus examined the gravel surface around the car for any obvious signs of a struggle, then peered in through the windows. The car itself was locked, the interior messy: empty crisp bags and soft-drink cans; newspapers and petrol receipts. He jotted down the details of the licence plate and did another circuit of the vehicle. The tax disc’s time was almost up, and it would take a friendly mechanic and possibly a backhander to see the Escort through any MOT. At least two of the tyres were balder than Bobby Charlton on a windy day. When he planted the toe of his shoe against the modified exhaust, it wobbled badly.
Back inside the pub, the cleaner was taking her leave. Rebus held the door open for her. Andrews had finished one chore and started another, loading clean glasses into their shelves. Rebus gave Clarke a shrug to let her know he had nothing for her. She responded with the exact same gesture.
‘He wouldn’t happen to be hiding out at your place?’ Rebus asked Andrews.
‘Your pal here just made the selfsame accusation.’ She turned towards them and folded her arms: nothing defensive about the body language; quite the opposite, if her face was anything to go by.
‘I’ll take that as a “no”, then.’ Rebus pointed towards the display of rolls. ‘Mind if I buy one?’
‘You can get them at the bakery.’
‘The roast beef with horseradish,’ he told her.
Their staring contest lasted a good ten seconds, during which time he placed some money on the bar. She relented and handed him the first roll that came to hand. It was ham and mustard, but Rebus thanked her anyway.
‘Ms Andrews,’ Clarke informed him, ‘was telling me she reckons he’ll have headed back to the north-east. He has friends there he keeps in touch with.’
‘Any names?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not that she can recall.’
Rebus’s look said it all: that’s a big help.
Then he bit into the roll.
Their next stop was the road crew, Bill Soames and Stefan Skiladz providing another less-than-enthusiastic welcome.
‘You planning to scare off every man I’ve got working here?’ Soames asked, hands stuffed into jacket pockets. The traffic was its usual diesel growl, choking the air and ensuring they had to shout. The weather was closing in, the temperature dropping and fog creeping towards them across the valley.
‘Way it looks to me,’ Clarke responded, ‘it was his workmates who sent him packing.’
‘Tommy never needed much excuse to go into the town,’ Skiladz said.
‘There’s been no word from him?’ Rebus asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘His car’s at the back of the Tummel Arms.’
‘No surprise there.’
‘He didn’t go in, though,’ Clarke added.
‘Well he didn’t come back here either.’
‘Sure about that?’
Soames gave Rebus a hard stare. ‘You saying we’re lying?’
Rebus tried to make his shrug seem casual. ‘Or being lied to, maybe. Is any of his stuff missing?’
Soames left it to Skiladz to answer.
‘Nothing,’ the Pole said.
‘See, if I was thinking of doing a runner,’ Rebus went on, ‘I’d want to pack a few things first.’
‘Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight,’ Soames said. ‘You lot had just given hi
m a grilling, dredging up his past . . .’
‘And it was all tea and sympathy when he got back here?’ Rebus’s smile was thin and humourless.
‘We’re not covering for him. Look around you.’ Soames made a sweeping motion with one arm. ‘Piss-poor place for a game of hide and seek.’
‘Did your search team find anything?’ Skiladz interrupted.
‘No,’ Clarke admitted.
‘Because there’s nothing to find. You’re wasting time and effort and I don’t think the girl ever made it this far – not on foot.’
‘And that means you’ve fucked over an innocent man,’ Soames added. Then, with a glance towards Clarke: ‘Pardon my French.’
‘We’re wasting our time here,’ Clarke told Rebus.
‘Isn’t that what Stefan just said?’ Soames commented.
But Clarke was already heading back to the car.
26
James Page had been busy.
Esson’s e-fits of the missing women had been released to a few favoured media outlets. TV liked them, and that evening’s Scottish news would carry them. The public had also started suggesting locations for the photo sent from Annette McKie’s phone. Some had even submitted their own photos to back up their hunches. Page had made space on a wall of the CID room, and Esson had pinned them up. More were arriving all the time. Page led Clarke and Rebus into his office.
‘Is he a serious suspect?’ was Page’s first question.
‘I’m not sure,’ Clarke admitted.
‘The fact that he ran . . .’
‘He’s the type who acts without thinking.’
‘A wanderer,’ Rebus added. ‘Never seems to stay anywhere for long.’
‘Do we have any idea where he would go?’
‘Aberdeen or thereabouts,’ Clarke speculated.
‘Worth letting Grampian Police know they should keep an eye out?’
‘Wouldn’t do any harm.’
Page glanced at his watch. ‘I’m briefing the Chief in an hour. Is there anything more substantial I can give him?’
‘Everybody’s working flat out.’
‘Thus far without a result. And the longer that situation persists . . .’
‘If Annette got a lift,’ Rebus said, ‘it would be in a vehicle heading north. Any of the suggestions or photos from that stretch of the A9?’
‘Between Pitlochry and Inverness, you mean?’ Page checked his computer screen. ‘Not that I can see,’ he concluded.
‘A nice big wall map is what we need,’ Rebus told him. ‘That, and plenty of drawing pins . . .’
Throughout the rest of the day, people phoned and e-mailed their thoughts and suppositions. Some had no firm ideas, but just wanted to say the team were doing a grand job. At which point they’d be thanked and gently nudged off the line with the explanation that other callers were waiting.
Rebus had driven home and returned with his own map, sticking it to the wall with Blu-Tack.
‘I see you’ve already highlighted the A9,’ Esson commented. ‘That was fast work.’
Yes, and there were pinholes, too, near Auchterarder, Strathpeffer and Aviemore.
‘Okay,’ Esson said, taking a sip of hot water before beginning to recite the list: ‘Appin, Taynuilt, Salen, Kendal, Inveruglas, Lochgair, Inchnadamph . . .’
‘Slow down,’ Rebus complained. ‘I don’t know where half these places are. And you made that last one up.’
‘I’ve been to Inchnadamph,’ Ronnie Ogilvie piped up, his hand smothering the mouthpiece of his phone.
‘John’s got a point, though,’ Clarke said. ‘Let’s pinpoint them on Google Maps, and when we know where they are, we flag them up on the wall.’ She looked around the room. ‘Everyone happy with that?’
There were nods of assent.
‘Divvy the list up, Christine,’ Clarke told Esson. She saw that Rebus was studying the photos submitted by the public, comparing them with the one from McKie’s phone. ‘Any of them take your fancy?’
‘A couple.’ He tapped them with his finger. Clarke had to agree.
‘Where are they from?’ she asked.
‘One’s the A838 south of Durness.’
‘That’s way up in the north-west, isn’t it?’
Rebus showed her on the map. ‘Miles from anywhere.’
‘What about the other?’
‘The A836. Little place called Edderton.’
‘Where’s that?’
Rebus shrugged, so Clarke went to her computer and let it do the work. Two minutes later she had her answer.
‘The Dornoch Firth,’ she said. ‘Not more than a couple of miles off the A9, just north of Tain.’
‘Where they make Glenmorangie?’ Rebus asked.
‘You’d know better than me.’
Rebus traced the A9 north from Inverness. It cut across the Black Isle and skirted the Cromarty Firth, heading inland again until it reached the Dornoch Firth, hugging the coast from there until Wick. Tain was marked, and so was the A836. Not many major roads up that way, and thousands upon thousands of inland acres of wilderness.
‘We’ve got plenty more contenders,’ Clarke cautioned, as Ogilvie’s telephone rang again. ‘So let’s just keep at it.’
27
By the end of the day, they felt numb. Ogilvie said he was willing to stay another hour by himself, manning the phone. Clarke shook her head.
‘We all need a break. I’ve asked one of the uniforms to take over until nine. After that, the switchboard will make a note of numbers and say we’ll call them back in the morning. Good work, though, everybody – I mean it.’
These would normally have been Page’s words, but he was at Fettes HQ, attending yet another briefing. Clarke rubbed tension from her forehead as she walked over to the wall map. Rebus was standing in front of it, looking thoughtful.
‘There’ll be more to do tomorrow,’ he advised, ‘with a bit of luck.’
‘The e-fits of the three women? You really think we’ll get sightings?’
‘It would be nice to think so.’ He turned towards her. ‘So what do you make of it?’
She studied the map. ‘How many votes does that make for Edderton?’
‘Four and counting.’
‘Must be just about the whole population.’
Rebus managed a smile. ‘Three for Lochgair, but it’s way over on the west here.’ He tapped the map. ‘Next to Loch Fyne.’
‘And a couple for Durness,’ Clarke added. The map was studded with drawing pins, and a further cluster had been added to the wall beneath the map’s bottom edge.
‘Offerings from England?’ Clarke surmised.
‘And Wales and Northern Ireland.’
She puffed out her cheeks and expelled a blast of air. ‘Isn’t this the sort of thing profilers are supposed to be good at?’
‘Don’t start.’
‘I’m just saying.’ She gave a weary smile. Then, studying the map again: ‘You’re still thinking the A9?’
‘Or just off it.’
‘So that’s – what? – six suggested locations.’
‘Six and counting.’
She nodded slowly, glancing behind her to ensure no one else in the team was close enough to hear. All the same, she lowered her voice. ‘What if it doesn’t mean anything? We narrow it down, maybe even convince ourselves we’ve got the right spot . . . what if it tells us nothing?’
‘Then we try something else.’
‘What, though?’
‘Have a bit of faith, Siobhan. If you can say at the end that you put in the hours and tried your damnedest . . .’
‘I’m sure the family will send us a nice Thank You card.’
‘They might and they might not.’ Rebus placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Whatever you do tonight, make sure it’s a long way from this.’
She nodded her agreement. ‘Same goes for you,’ she told him.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I might even have a nice wee drive out into the country . . .’
/> A couple of city pubs first, though. There was a different face on the door at the Gimlet. He was on his phone and didn’t seem to sense any threat in Rebus. The pub itself was busy, same barmaid as on his previous visit. He gave her a wink of recognition but didn’t stay for a drink. His second watering hole of choice was even less gentrified. The Tytler sat in the middle of a housing scheme in the north of the city, half of which was due to be torn down. The Tytler’s clients looked similarly ready to have a demolition notice slapped on them. Again Rebus chose not to linger; a quick word with the monosyllabic barman and he was off again. A longer drive this time, heading west out of the city into the badlands of West Lothian. Broxburn, Bathgate, Blackburn and Whitburn. Tribal towns; ex-mining communities. Jo-Jo Binkie’s was the name above the door of a converted art deco cinema on a main street predominated by closed businesses and For Sale signs. Three hulking doormen gave him their best stare. They all bore armbands on their coats identifying them as SECURITY, and earpieces with a thin cord which disappeared into the space between neck and collar.
‘All right, pal?’ one of them asked Rebus. Plenty of scar tissue on the man’s face, and a nose that had been broken at least once.
‘Fine,’ Rebus said, making to pass him. But a hand stopped him.
‘Meeting someone?’ the doorman enquired.
‘Maybe.’
‘See, it’s Couples’ Night, so unless it’s a threesome you’re after . . .’
‘Old folks’ home is down the road,’ one of the other bouncers added. ‘They might do a bit of dancing there.’
Rebus broke into a smile. ‘Mind if I steal that one for my book?’
‘What book would that be?’
‘I’m calling it Fuds Say the Funniest Things.’
The young man moved closer. ‘Fud, am I? Maybe we should go round the back and find out . . .’
The third bouncer, who looked the most experienced, had kept his counsel thus far, but now he patted his young colleague on the back.
‘Easy there, Marcus. Our friend’s a police officer.’
Rebus stared Marcus down. ‘He’s right, you know. And the reason I’ve got to the age I have is that I never start a fight I can’t win. Little tip for you there . . . wee man.’
