Standing in Another Man's Grave

by Ian Rankin

  The first news crew arrived at breakfast time.

  Rebus was out front, smoking a cigarette. Rain had arrived in heavy gusts, and he was sheltering next to the hotel’s entrance. The crew chatted among themselves as they sprinted past him. They didn’t have reservations, but were hopeful; an early check-in would be a bonus; quick shower and something to eat, then they could get on the road to Edderton. English accents; unshaven; bleary-eyed: Rebus got the idea they’d driven through the night to get there. He flicked away his cigarette and headed for the breakfast room. Page was busy on his phone, while Clarke started on the second pot of coffee.

  ‘Slight problem,’ Rebus told her, nodding towards the open doorway. Clarke had a clear view of the reception desk. One of the arrivals held a full-sized news camera at his side. Page saw it too, and told the person he was speaking to that he would call back.

  ‘If they’re staying, we’re not,’ he commented.

  ‘Agreed,’ Clarke said. Then: ‘Any news from Dempsey?’

  Page nodded slowly. ‘First autopsy will start in an hour. Pathologist reckons it’ll take a couple of days to get through them. Meantime, forensics are busy at the locus.’

  ‘Weather won’t be helping,’ Rebus interrupted.

  ‘They’ve covered what they can with plastic sheeting,’ Page informed him.

  ‘I need to buy some wellies,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Me too.’ Rebus lifted one foot so she could see his rudimentary attempt at shoe-cleaning. ‘And trousers, while I’m at it.’ The reception desk had provided a needle and thread, but his repair wasn’t going to hold.

  ‘How about the tetanus?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘What are the symptoms?’

  ‘Headache, dry mouth . . .’ She examined his sewing. ‘Lack of hand/eye coordination.’

  Page was busy checking messages. ‘Are Christine and Ronnie on the road home?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Clarke confirmed.

  ‘Dempsey’s going to want the families brought to Inverness,’ Page said. ‘It’s a murder investigation now.’

  ‘That reminds me, we should buy Ruby a nice juicy bone,’ Rebus said.

  All three of them watched as the news crew entered the dining room, grabbing a table before heading for the buffet. There was a swagger to them, as though they suddenly owned the place.

  ‘I think that’s our cue to make an exit,’ Page said, getting to his feet.

  They decided not to check out – not until they knew there was somewhere else for them to go. There wasn’t much leg room in the back of Clarke’s Audi, but that was where Rebus ended up. On the way to Northern Constabulary HQ, Page decided to entertain them with a pep talk about protocol and how they were ‘representatives’ of Lothian and Borders Police so should ‘showcase’ their talents and not make ‘waves’ – or any foul-ups. Rebus got the feeling the speech was aimed squarely at him. He met Clarke’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but she wasn’t giving anything away.

  The building they were looking for was next to a roundabout and across the road from a twenty-four-hour Tesco. The police HQ was a modern three-storey construction of pink stone and smoked glass. There were journalists waiting on the roadway and pavement in front of it, setting up cameras or busy on their phones. A uniformed constable checked Page’s warrant card before nodding the Audi in the direction of a parking space. Rebus spotted a sign next to the entrance with the motto Protect and Serve on it, written in Gaelic as well as English. Bit late for the ‘protect’ part; all that was left was the ‘serve’ . . .

  Once indoors, they learned that Detective Chief Superintendent Dempsey had already left for the first autopsy. It was being held at nearby Raigmore Hospital. Rebus couldn’t help thinking: same place as Sammy’s IVF. Page was asking for directions when a text arrived on his phone.

  ‘Dempsey,’ he explained to Clarke and Rebus. ‘Resident pathologist’s apparently annoyed by the number of bodies – live rather than dead – and wouldn’t welcome us adding to the total.’ He gnawed at his bottom lip. Rebus knew what he’d be thinking. They were here as guests of Northern Constabulary. It wasn’t really their case – not until Annette McKie was formally identified. Even then, common sense dictated that the McKie inquiry would be bundled with the others. With Edderton as the locus, it was Northern’s case, no contest. If Page complained or made a fuss, they could be sent packing at a moment’s notice. On the other hand, what use were they to anyone just hanging around, waiting to be told what had already happened in their absence?

  ‘We could head out to Edderton,’ Clarke suggested.

  After a moment’s consideration, Page nodded his agreement.

  So it was back on to the A9, the rain growing heavier as they crossed the Kessock Bridge, side winds buffeting the car. Clarke had set the wipers to their maximum speed, but they still struggled to cope.

  ‘Never did buy those wellies,’ Rebus commented from the back seat.

  ‘There’s an umbrella somewhere at your feet,’ he was told. He reached down and picked it up. It was pink and retractable, and looked to have a circumference no bigger than a drum cymbal.

  ‘It’s yours if you want it,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rebus replied without enthusiasm.

  The uniform at the cordon was dressed for the elements. He even had a plastic shield for his clipboard. Their names were jotted down, along with the Audi’s registration number. A camera crew were sheltering in the back of their van, doors open so they could keep an eye on things. Raymond – Dempsey’s nephew – was seated in his own car, a white Volkswagen Polo. His window was down, and he offered a nod of greeting towards Rebus as the Audi crawled past the cordon and started to ascend the hill, rivulets of rainwater either side of it. The Portakabin had been unlocked and was providing shelter for those taking a break from the crime scene. SOCOs cupped their hands around beakers of instant soup, trying to get warm. Page decided to keep moving up the slope towards the locus. Clarke glanced back and saw that Rebus was happy where he was, but gesturing for her to stick with her boss.

  There was just about room enough for Rebus inside the Portakabin. A couple of SOCOs were waiting for the kettle to boil, mugs at the ready. Bottles of water; empty Cup-a-Soup sachets. No sign of the evidence bags from the previous evening – the lab had probably taken them.

  ‘Not the best of days for it,’ Rebus said to no one in particular. ‘And no sign of the heater we were promised.’ Then: ‘Have all the bodies gone now?’

  There were nods of confirmation.

  ‘Still just the five?’

  ‘Just?’

  ‘I’m thinking we should be thankful there aren’t more.’

  ‘They’ve brought the dog back for a final recce,’ one SOCO said.

  ‘Any effects in the graves?’ Rebus asked, trying to keep his tone conversational.

  ‘Sorry – who are you again?’

  ‘I’m with the Annette McKie team. I was here when Ruby found the first of them.’

  This seemed to satisfy the room – just about. ‘No effects,’ he was told. ‘No clothing, no jewellery, nothing.’

  ‘And one body a good bit more recent than the others?’

  There were more nods.

  ‘She should be easy enough to identify,’ someone conceded.

  ‘The others won’t be?’

  ‘Dental records maybe. Or a DNA match. Do you want some soup?’

  The offer told Rebus that he had been accepted. ‘Thanks,’ he said, even though he was still full from breakfast.

  ‘Grabs them from the A9,’ another of the team was saying, ‘buries them here and sends a picture – got to be local.’

  ‘Might just be someone who knows the road,’ Rebus cautioned. ‘Any tyre tracks up there?’

  ‘Nothing useful as yet.’

  ‘Only three or so weeks since he was last here, though.’

  ‘Ground might have been frozen – dipped below zero the night the McKie girl went missing.’

  Rebus n
odded his understanding. ‘You’ll keep looking?’

  ‘Until we’re told to pack up.’

  ‘Clothing and personal effects might have been buried separately.’

  ‘We’ve a metal detector coming later today, plus the offer of geo-phys if we want it.’ The man’s eyes were on Rebus, daring him to doubt the effort being made. Rebus blew across the surface of the soup instead. Reconstituted peas and carrots had never held such fascination for him.

  47

  Late in the afternoon they reconvened at Northern Constabulary HQ in Inverness. Dempsey was due to host a press conference at the top of the hour, but wanted her team to hear the news first. The mood was solemn. Photographs were handed round. According to the pathologist’s report, all five corpses were women, but only one was readily identifiable. Rebus stared at the face of Annette McKie. Her eyes were closed and bits of earth still clung to her eyelashes, hair and ear lobes.

  ‘Manual strangulation,’ Dempsey was intoning. ‘We may even get lucky and come up with a thumbprint. You’ll see signs of bruising to the neck, especially around the voice box. Large hands, the pathologist says. Judging by decomposition and insect activity, victim has been deceased for between twenty and twenty-five days.’ She looked up at the room. ‘Three weeks today since she was abducted, so I think it’s fair to say she wasn’t kept alive for long.’ Dempsey returned to her notes. ‘From the visual evidence, I’m prepared to name the victim as Annette McKie, but the family are on their way from Edinburgh to make the formal identification.’

  ‘Did the other victims die the same way?’ someone asked, interrupting Dempsey’s flow. She glowered at the miscreant.

  ‘No way of telling. Deterioration is too advanced. All the pathologist would say is that she can’t see initial signs of stab wounds or gunshots on any of them. Regarding Annette McKie, there’s probable sexual activity, but as yet no indications of forced penetration. Pathologist’s got a mountain ahead of her, however, and we can’t expect a full report for a few more days. We have the particulars of the missing women provided by our friends at Lothian and Borders, and those will be useful in the preliminary stages. I have to stress that we don’t know for sure who the other victims are. I don’t want any of you jumping to conclusions.’

  There were nods and grunts of acknowledgement. Clarke had raised her hand. Dempsey considered for a moment before deciding to grant permission for a question.

  ‘Who’s ID’ing Annette McKie?’

  ‘One of her brothers, I think. Apparently her mother’s in bits. Probably been watching the live feed on TV.’ The mention of TV caused her to glance at her watch. ‘I need to get ready to face the jackals,’ she said. ‘We can have another confab after. Meantime, thinking caps firmly on heads. I want constructive ideas – as many as you can throw at me. Now, back to your posts, everybody.’

  As the meeting broke up, Page lunged forward, ready to press his case for inclusion in the media conference. Rebus turned to face Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘We don’t have “posts”, do we?’

  She looked around the room. ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘we don’t.’

  ‘Nor do we have a place to sleep tonight – unless we risk the hotel.’

  ‘Another good point.’

  ‘And the pair of us still need boots of some kind.’

  She couldn’t deny it: her shoes were caked with mud from earlier. ‘Are you suggesting a shopping trip?’

  ‘And maybe a quick visit to the tourist office – check out the bed-and-breakfast situation.’

  Clarke was staring towards Page. Page was smiling at Dempsey, bowing his head in gratitude. He was in. ‘We’ll only be an hour,’ Rebus pressed her.

  ‘Fine,’ Siobhan Clarke said through gritted teeth.

  They were walking back into Northern Constabulary HQ with the address of a willing guest house when the press pack’s interest was aroused. A car was arriving, a white Range Rover Sport with tinted rear windows. Frank Hammell was driving, Darryl Christie in the passenger seat, his attention focused on the screen of his phone. A few photos were taken, TV cameras hoisted to shoulders, but otherwise they were allowed some room and a bit of respect as they parked in the bay allotted to them and got out. No one thrust a microphone into their faces while demanding to know their reaction to the news. Rebus ended up holding the door open for Hammell and Christie, neither man seeming to recognise him, perhaps because they were avoiding all eye contact.

  While the two men gave their names at the reception desk, Rebus and Clarke flashed their respective IDs and preceded them into the body of the building.

  ‘Dempsey must be meeting them here,’ Clarke said in an undertone.

  ‘Nicer than the mortuary.’

  ‘That’s still where they’ll end up, though . . .’

  True, Rebus thought. He had been present dozens of times as relations and friends – mums and dads; partners; lovers – watched the uncovering of the sheeted figure. They would blink away tears, maybe utter a gasp or a choking sound, and be asked to verify the identity of the person lying coldly inert in front of them. Never a task to be relished, and Rebus had always proved hopeless afterwards, not quite finding the right words, the comforting phrase. They usually all wanted the same reassurance: that he or she hadn’t suffered.

  It would have been quick. That was what you were supposed to say, no matter how untrue. Smashed-in skulls, cigarette burns, broken fingers and gouged eyes . . . It would have been quick.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Clarke was asking.

  ‘Let’s see what the boss thinks.’

  She glanced at him. ‘Told you you’d run out of song titles sooner or later.’

  Page was on his phone in the teeming inquiry room. When he spotted Clarke and Rebus, he ended the call and made his way towards them.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.

  ‘Buying boots,’ Clarke answered. ‘And finding rooms for tonight so we’re well away from the media scrum. How did the press conference go?’

  ‘She did well.’ The praise sounded grudging. Page fixed Rebus with a look. ‘She wants you to brief the team.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s traced the timeline all the way back to you and your missing persons. That’s what she needs from you: the details of all those cases.’

  ‘Two of them we only just found out about.’

  ‘The other three, then. I’ve already briefed on Annette McKie.’

  ‘We’re one body short,’ Clarke added. ‘Six A9 victims, five recovered.’ It was her turn to look at Rebus. ‘Are you going to tell them you think Sally Hazlitt’s still alive?’

  ‘I probably should,’ Rebus determined. Then, to Page: ‘When’s this briefing scheduled for?’

  ‘About five minutes from now.’

  ‘I suppose if we hadn’t turned up in time, you’d have been happy to fill my shoes?’

  Page opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

  ‘I need to go for a slash,’ Rebus said into the silence. Then, to Clarke: ‘You going to tell him Hammell and Darryl have arrived?’

  Clarke was doing just that as Rebus made his exit. As he headed down the corridor, however, he came face to face with Frank Hammell and Darryl Christie as a uniform led them towards Dempsey’s office.

  ‘For a retired crock,’ Hammell said, placing him eventually, ‘you don’t half get about a bit.’

  Rebus focused his attention on Darryl, who was only now looking up from his phone. ‘Sorry about your sister,’ he offered. ‘How’s your mum doing?’

  ‘How do you think she’s doing?’ Hammell snarled. Rebus ignored him.

  ‘What about you, Darryl? You all right?’

  The young man nodded. ‘What happens now?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘You’ll be taken to the hospital for the identification.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s her?’

  Rebus nodded slowly. Darryl’s mouth twitched and he lowered his eyes to the screen of his ph
one again, fingers busy texting.

  ‘Some bastard’s going to pay big time,’ Hammell spat.

  ‘This probably isn’t the place to be saying that,’ Rebus warned him.

  ‘It’s true, though.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘And none of your lot better find themselves in my way.’

  A door opened further along the corridor. Dempsey stood there, wondering what was taking her visitors so long.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she called out.

  Hammell had time for one last glare in Rebus’s direction before shouldering past him and walking towards her. Rebus held a hand out towards Darryl Christie, but the young man ignored it, attention focused on his phone as he followed Hammell into Dempsey’s office.

  48

  Rebus’s presentation went as well as he could have wished. The team had plenty of questions for him, none of them stupid.

  ‘Bright kids,’ he commented afterwards to Clarke.

  ‘It’s how they make them these days.’

  They had checked out of the hotel, driven to the guest house near the battlefield at Culloden, and inspected their rooms. There was no evening meal, so they’d headed into town and stopped at the nearest Indian restaurant. Page wasn’t with them; he’d been invited to dine with Dempsey and a few other senior officers. When Clarke’s phone rang, she wasn’t at the table, having gone to visit the toilets. Rebus saw that the call was from Gayfield Square and decided to answer.

  ‘It’s Rebus,’ he said.

  ‘Is Siobhan there?’

  ‘Who wants her?’

  ‘Dave Ormiston – I’m the one whose desk you were given.’

  ‘She’ll be back in a minute. Is it anything I can help with?’

  ‘Thomas Robertson has rejoined the land of the living.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Aberdeen sent us the message. He’s in hospital there.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘From what I can tell, he took a bit of a pasting from person or persons unknown.’

  ‘Local police involved?’

  ‘They found him next to some rubbish bins down by the docks. Unconscious, but with ID in his pocket. Credit cards and cash untouched, so not an obvious mugging.’