by Ian Rankin
Then there was the fact that Fox had seen Rebus in action. Their time together in CID had been short, but it had been enough, the preening ego obvious from the start – always late, or off somewhere, the paperwork piling up on his desk while he coughed his way to another cigarette break. If in doubt, Fox had been told, try the pub across the street, you can usually find him there, deep in thought with a whisky in front of him.
Did I nick your sweets in the playground and now you need to get your own back . . .?
It wasn’t that at all. The force had spent generations tolerating and turning a blind eye to cops like Rebus. Those men were gone now, memories of them fading, their foibles no longer humoured by officers of Fox’s generation. Rebus was the last. He had to be convinced that his time was past. Then there was Siobhan Clarke, a good detective who had flourished once freed from Rebus’s influence. Now that he was back, her loyalty to him could well prove her undoing. So Fox sat on his sofa with the TV news channel muted, sifting through his pages of notes on the man. Ex-army, divorced, one daughter. A brother who’d served time for drug-dealing. No current relationships, other than with the bottle and anyone who happened to sell tobacco. A flat in Marchmont, bought back when he was first married, that no cop would be able to afford these days. A string of one-time colleagues who had fallen by the wayside, including a couple killed in the line of duty. Whichever way you looked at it, Rebus was bad news. Siobhan Clarke had to know that. She wasn’t stupid. The Chief Constable should know it too. Did Rebus have something on the boss – was that the explanation? Something buried in all the paperwork? And maybe there was some hold he had over DI Clarke, too – missed by Fox despite his diligence.
He knew what he had to do. Start reading again. Start from the very beginning . . .
Information was always worth paying for, that was the way Cafferty looked at it. The cop’s name was Ormiston and he didn’t come cheap, but he had delivered tonight. Cafferty tapped Darryl Christie’s number into his phone and waited. The young man answered.
‘You on your own?’ Cafferty asked.
‘Just driving home.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I’m on my own.’ It sounded like Darryl was using the car’s speakerphone. ‘I thought I’d have heard back from you before now.’
‘It was certainly an intriguing text.’
‘Reckon your man Rebus is in Frank’s pay?’
‘I wouldn’t put anything past Rebus. But it’s Hammell I’m phoning about.’
‘Yes?’
‘Police have got CCTV of him and your sister.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘At the bus station, arguing. Cops pulled Hammell in for questioning. Seems he’d tailed her from home to the train station and then on to St Andrew Square.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘His story is she took money from him for a train, and he was annoyed she then went for the cheaper option.’
‘You’re well informed, Mr Cafferty.’
‘Always, Darryl.’
‘Is this coming from your man Rebus?’
‘That would be telling. I just felt you ought to know. I’m not sure your mum does – and I’m guessing Frank’s said nothing to you about it.’
‘He hasn’t,’ Darryl Christie confirmed. ‘Anything else?’
‘A quid pro quo, maybe? What’s your boss up to at the moment?’
‘He’s just been hosting a drinks party at his house.’
‘Any faces I’d know?’
‘A couple from up north – Calum MacBride and Stuart Macleod.’
‘Alliances being forged?’
‘I didn’t hear much business being discussed.’
‘Interesting, all the same. And how are things with the family?’
‘Much the same.’
‘Still keeping an eye on your mum?’
‘We’ll be fine.’
‘Of course you will. But remember, anything I can do to help . . .’
‘Thanks, Mr Cafferty.’
‘Your dad would be proud of you.’
‘My dad is proud of me.’
‘Safe home then, Darryl,’ Cafferty said, ending the call.
Darryl took a mug of tea into his bedroom. It was after midnight again. He’d phoned both pubs and the club – quiet nights in all three. He lay on his bed, phone active, checking the net while he played back the events of the evening. Frank Hammell lived in a mews house near Raeburn Place. He’d put Darryl in charge of the catering and welcoming the guests. Plus making sure glasses were kept topped up. That was fine by Darryl – he could listen in on as many conversations as he liked. The bottles of whisky, wine and champagne were stored in the room Hammell used as an office, meaning it was easy for Darryl to boot up his boss’s laptop, get it working, and plug in the memory stick he’d brought with him. Left it to do its job while he poured more drinks. Frank Hammell enjoyed playing the host, treating Darryl like a lackey – more whisky, more samosas, more of those mini hamburgers. And Darryl was happy to look obliging. Hammell had even ruffled his hair at one point in front of Calum MacBride, calling him ‘a good lad’.
A good lad, yes. A good lad who knew almost every aspect of the business and was learning more every day. A good lad who was paying off long-term employees and replacing them with leaner, hungrier models who knew where their loyalty lay.
Stretched out on his bed with his head supported by a pillow and his laptop balanced on his flat stomach, Darryl slotted home the memory stick. Financial records, not all of them password-protected. Those that were would be the kind the taxman never saw. Hammell had trusted Darryl with some passwords. The rest wouldn’t be a problem. Darryl had a friend who spent his whole life hacking – one good reason Darryl himself would never succumb to online banking. Hammell had, however.
‘Makes life simpler,’ he’d said.
Simpler, yes, if you were stupid enough.
The blinds hadn’t been closed yet and he glanced up at the sky. Overcast again; the house silent apart from the hum of his laptop’s fan. He thought about his sister, taking cash from her mother’s lover. She wouldn’t have said please or thanks – Frank Hammell would have offered. But following her to make sure she got on the train? Arguing with her at the bus station? Darryl wondered what that was all about. No way he could ask without his employer asking in turn how he knew.
Then he remembered the package . . .
40
Page was just starting the briefing when Rebus arrived at Gayfield Square next morning. Christine Esson handed him nine sheets of paper held together with a staple. Rebus scanned them while Page spoke. The final five pages comprised the material gleaned the previous night from the files, but they were preceded by details of the two new MisPers.
August 2007, Jemima Salton, age fifteen, had failed to return home from a party, some of her clothing turning up in a picnic area on the banks of Loch Ness. The party had been held in Invermoriston and Jemima lived six or so miles away in Fort Augustus. Her plan had been to walk or hitch home in the early hours. Divers had been sent in, but the loch stretched for miles. Accidental drowning had been the verdict. No body ever turned up, and her phone and bag remained missing. Her family had maintained her bedroom almost as a shrine. The photo had been sent to them at three in the morning, though they hadn’t seen it until later. No message. They’d checked the bedroom. No Jemima either . . .
November 2009, sixteen-year-old Amy Mearns had had an argument with her parents and gone to visit various friends in the village of Golspie. There had been a trip to a nearby beach, and at some point Amy had drifted away. Her jacket was found the following day, attached to a fence above the seashore, blown there perhaps. Amy herself had not been seen again.
‘Accidental drowning,’ Page intoned once more. Rebus could feel the man’s eyes on him. ‘You’ll note from the map that Golspie is on the A9, north of Tain and Dornoch, while Invermoriston is on the A82, south of Inverness and within easy reach of the
A9. Two patterns seem to be emerging – the photos, plus that road – and that means I’m taking them seriously.’ He paused. ‘Any thoughts so far, John?’
Rebus only now looked up from his reading. ‘It’s a busy enough route. Tourist traffic as well as vans and lorries. It also covers a lot of ground. Not easy to get an investigation going . . .’
‘Nevertheless,’ Page barked. But he didn’t seem to know what to say next. Clarke saved his blushes by suggesting that the various constabularies needed to be contacted and a summit of sorts held.
‘All sorts of jurisdiction and protocol issues,’ she said.
Page nodded.
‘We also need to do what John did with the previous cases,’ Esson piped up. ‘Talk to families and friends, try to get a better sense of the MisPers’ lives in general and their movements on the day they vanished.’
Page nodded at this, too.
‘The photo is just about all we’re left with,’ Ogilvie added. ‘If we’re confident it’s Edderton, we should organise a sweep of the area and interview anyone who lives locally or visits regularly.’
Page puffed out his cheeks, visibly daunted by what lay ahead.
‘Something to bear in mind,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘The earliest victim we have is Sally Hazlitt, and I’m beginning to think she may still be alive. Same might go for one or more of the others.’
‘How much do we let the media know?’ Clarke asked Page.
‘At this stage, as little as possible.’
‘If we turn up mob-handed in Edderton, they may start to get an inkling.’
‘We need to talk to Grampian Constabulary first – or is it Northern?’
‘The latter,’ Rebus answered.
‘We also need to talk to the families of Jemima Salton and Amy Mearns as soon as possible,’ Clarke said. ‘For several years now they’ve been under the impression their daughters drowned. We’ve just put the idea in their heads that they may have been abducted and murdered instead.’
‘Good point.’ Page was rubbing a hand up and down his jaw. ‘An order of priority is needed – can I leave that with you, Siobhan?’
She nodded her agreement. ‘You’ll be wanting to brief the Chief Constable,’ she told him, trying her best to make it sound like a reminder rather than the strong suggestion it actually was.
‘I’ll call his office,’ Page said, glancing at his watch. A moment later he had retreated to his cupboard. There was silence in the room, all eyes on Clarke. She, on the other hand, was staring in Rebus’s direction.
‘John,’ she said, ‘can you divvy up the cold cases? We need fresh interviews with all concerned. Did our abductor lie in wait, or had he met the women beforehand? Could he be in some job that took him to those specific places, or to those particular victims?’
‘It’s a tall order,’ Rebus warned her.
‘Worth a try, though, wouldn’t you say?’ Her look dared him to defy her.
‘Absolutely,’ he responded, the team gathering around him to receive their orders.
Rebus had lost count of the number of cases he’d worked, cases often as complex as this one, requiring interview after interview, statement after statement. He thought of the material in the boxes, now being pored over by those around him – paperwork generated in order to show effort rather than with any great hope of achieving a result. Yes, he’d been on cases like that, and others where he’d despaired of all the doors knocked on, the blank faces of the questioned. But sometimes a clue or a lead emerged, or two people came forward to furnish the same name. Suspects were whittled down. Alibis and stories unravelling after the third or fourth retelling. Pressure was sustained, enough evidence garnered to present to the Procurator Fiscal.
And then there were the lucky breaks – the things that just happened. Nothing to do with dogged perseverance or shrewd deduction: just sheer bloody happenstance. Was the end result any less of a victory? Yes, always. It was possible that there was something he had missed in the files, some connection or thread. Watching the team at work, he couldn’t decide if he would want them to find it or not. It would make him look stupid, lazy, out of touch. On the other hand, they needed a break, even at the expense of his vanity. So he watched them, their heads bowed as they sifted through the documents, chewing on their pens, underlining, making notes, or typing their thoughts into their computers. Putting together more detailed chronologies, deciding who should be questioned, ready to suggest some avenue that had been missed – either by the original inquiry or by Rebus.
More chewing of pens. More notes. Trips to the kettle and coffee pot. The occasional offer to fetch snacks from downstairs. Rebus was the only one who took cigarette breaks. During one, he made sure the cars in the car park were empty before tapping a number into his phone.
‘I want to talk to Hammell,’ he told the person who answered. ‘Tell him it’s Rebus.’
After a few seconds, the man’s voice was back in Rebus’s ear. ‘He can’t speak at the minute.’
‘Tell him it’s important.’
‘He’ll phone you back.’
And that was the end of the conversation. Rebus stared at the display, cursing under his breath. He lit a second cigarette and paced the car park. It was hemmed in by the two-storey police station and the back of a Georgian tenement. Lots of windows; no signs of life. Pigeons on the rooftops, just getting on with things. A large red-brick chimney belonging to some art studio on Union Street. A plane making a sharp turn, heading for the airport. Car horns sounding from the direction of Leith Walk, and a siren in the distance, failing to come any closer.
‘Life’s rich tapestry,’ Rebus muttered, as if to the friendly cigarette held between his fingers. A couple of minutes later, he was readying to discard it when his phone rang. Not a number he recognised. He answered by giving his name.
‘Something you’ve got to tell me?’ Hammell enquired. All business; no time for chat.
‘It isn’t Thomas Robertson,’ Rebus stated.
‘So?’
‘It just isn’t. You need to let him go or stop hunting him down.’
‘Which would you prefer?’
‘Depends if you have him or not.’
‘What makes you so sure he’s not the guy?’
‘He was in jail when one of the women disappeared.’
‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t snatch Annette.’
‘Yes, it does. We’re pretty confident they’re all linked.’
‘Convince me.’
‘Have you got him or haven’t you?’
‘This is bullshit, Rebus.’
Rebus pondered his options for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘It looks like there are at least two other victims we didn’t know about. One was snatched in November 2009. Robertson was in Peterhead at that time. Both these new victims, photos were sent from their phones, same as with Annette.’ Rebus paused. ‘I could get in trouble for telling you this, but I need you to understand.’
‘All right, I understand. But I never did find that little gobshite.’
Frank Hammell ended the call.
The rest of the day felt a lot like limbo. Things were happening, but not in the vicinity of Gayfield Square. Page had taken Clarke with him for his meeting at HQ with the Chief Constable. Rebus had asked her to text him updates, but she’d probably thought it bad manners to whip her phone out in the middle of the Chief’s office.
Northern Constabulary had requested copies of everything Page’s team had. Esson and Ogilvie were given the job of collating and sending it. Gavin Arnold called Rebus from Inverness to tell him the station was buzzing. Rebus decided the corridor was the best place to continue their conversation.
‘We’re having to draft officers in from all over,’ Arnold went on. ‘Dingwall’s the nearest cop shop of any size, but it’s too far from Edderton. It’ll be Portakabins on site and a loan of some land.’
‘I know a friendly farmer,’ Rebus said, giving Arnold Jim Mellon’s name and contact number. ‘He’s the
one who recognised the locus in the first place.’
‘Thanks, John – I might get a brownie point or two for that.’
‘One favour less I owe you.’ Rebus peered through the doorway. The team was restless, impatient for the return of James Page with their instructions. ‘How long till the media gets wind of it?’
‘One of my colleagues is probably blabbing to the local paper as I speak.’
‘Bound to happen, I suppose.’
‘Will you be back up this way?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I remember that drowning – the one in Loch Ness. Nobody thought anything of it at the time.’
‘No reason to. What about Golspie – any memory of that?’
‘None. Slap-bang on the A9, though. Do you reckon that’s what they’ll call him: the A9 Killer?’
‘I’m just hoping this is the end of it.’
‘That depends on us catching him.’
‘I suppose it does,’ Rebus said.
‘Positive news on that front is a chief super called Dempsey will probably head the case at our end.’
‘Good, is he?’
‘One of the best we’ve seen up here. Not a bloke, though – first name’s Gillian.’
‘My mistake.’ Rebus watched as Page and Clarke reached the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve got to go, Gavin.’
‘Give me a bell if you hit town. And if I’m in your neck of the woods for a Caley away game . . .’
‘The pies are on me,’ Rebus confirmed, following two stern faces into the CID office. It took only seconds for everyone to gather around Page.
‘Bottom line,’ he began, ‘Chief’s not entirely convinced by Edderton. As he says, it’s a photo of a photo – that’s been confirmed, by the way. Could have been taken at any time and used merely to throw us off the scent. On the other hand, the A9 connection is too strong to dismiss, and since Pitlochry seems to be getting us nowhere, he’s spoken with Inverness and requested a search of the area where the photo was taken, plus interviews with the locals. Northern Constabulary are already actioning this, but they may be short a few bodies, so we’re going to pitch in. Christine and Ronnie, I want you to go talk to the parents in Golspie and Fort Augustus.’
