by Ian Rankin
Clarke had found a tray and was bringing everything through from the kitchen. ‘Didn’t see any biscuits,’ she said.
‘If I get them in, I just eat the lot,’ Magrath explained.
When she glanced in Rebus’s direction, Magrath knew why. ‘Your colleague has broken the news,’ he told her.
They drank the tea in silence for a moment, then Magrath asked how Bliss was keeping.
‘Still breathing,’ Rebus answered.
‘And every one of them sounding like his last, eh?’
Rebus acknowledged the truth of this. ‘Tell me something,’ he said. ‘During your time in charge, how many cases did you manage to close?’
Magrath thought for a moment. ‘Just the two. Made progress on six more, but it never got as far as a prosecution.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘Actually, of those two, one fell into our lap – guy came forward to confess as soon as he heard we’d reopened the inquiry. I think it was a weight off his conscience.’
‘We could do with a few more consciences in the world,’ Clarke stated.
‘That we could, lass.’
‘Is that an old wooden truncheon?’ Rebus asked, gesturing towards the bookshelves.
‘From before your time, I’m sure.’
Rebus had walked over to the shelf in question. ‘Mind if I . . .?’ He picked it up and felt its heft. It was nicely weighted, with a leather wrist strap and grooves wide enough for his fingers. ‘We’re barely allowed handcuffs these days,’ he commented.
‘And pepper spray and extendable batons,’ Clarke reminded him.
Rebus waved the truncheon in Magrath’s direction. ‘Ever use it?’
‘Came in handy a few times, I have to admit.’ Magrath leaned back in his chair. ‘You came all this way just to tell me about SCRU?’
‘Actually,’ Clarke said, ‘we were watching the dolphins at Chanonry Point . . .’
‘Bliss called me,’ Rebus went on, ‘and explained we were near your place.’
Magrath smiled and nodded to himself. ‘He didn’t want to be the one to break the news.’
Rebus replaced the truncheon on its shelf. There were family photos there, posed groupings in gilt-edged frames. ‘You know Nina Hazlitt, don’t you?’
Magrath seemed to take a second to place the name.
‘Mother of Sally Hazlitt,’ Rebus prompted him. ‘She went missing from Aviemore at the Millennium.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Magrath nodded again. ‘Memory’s not what it was,’ he apologised.
‘She’s been all over the media this past week or so,’ Rebus added. ‘She’s full of praise for you.’
Magrath’s eyes widened. ‘Why would that be?’
‘Because you gave her the benefit of the doubt when no one else would.’
‘I listened to the woman’s story.’
‘And looked into it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. She heard about a woman vanishing from somewhere near Strathpeffer – convinced herself it might tie into her own daughter’s disappearance.’
‘Others weren’t nearly as helpful, and she hasn’t forgotten it.’
‘I really don’t think I did very much . . .’
‘All I’m saying is, don’t be surprised if you’re mentioned in dispatches.’
‘I’d much rather she didn’t say anything.’
‘Mind if I ask why?’
‘Because it’s just one more case that went nowhere.’ Magrath had risen from his armchair, seeming to need the reassurance of the unchanging view from his window. ‘Another in a long line of failures,’ he said, more to himself than anyone else in the room.
‘She may have been right, though,’ Rebus said. ‘About the abductions, I mean.’
‘You have to wonder about the human race sometimes, don’t you?’ Magrath said with a sigh.
They stayed a few more minutes, Rebus listening as Magrath told Clarke about sightings of whales and explaining the difference between dolphins and porpoises. The man seemed at peace in his retirement, with its cottage, sea views and village life – it was just a pity none of it appealed to Rebus.
When they left, Magrath returned to his chair on the porch, giving them a wave before settling with his newspaper once again.
‘Reckon the Land Rover’s his?’ Clarke asked.
‘It’s the right vintage.’
She looked at Rebus. ‘Something wrong?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I just think his memory’s fine, that’s all. And judging from the pile of papers by his chair, he keeps up with the news.’
‘So?’
‘So why pretend Nina Hazlitt’s name meant nothing to him?’
51
On the way back to Inverness, Page sent Clarke a text suggesting dinner.
‘You should take him up on it,’ Rebus suggested. ‘The two of you need to talk.’
‘Can I take you along for moral support?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I need an early night.’
When they arrived at Northern Constabulary HQ, however, the first person he bumped into was Gavin Arnold.
‘Can’t keep you away, can we?’ Arnold said, shaking Rebus’s hand. Rebus introduced him to Clarke, giving her all the information she needed by explaining that ‘Sergeant Arnold is one of the good guys.’
Arnold responded by asking if they fancied a drink later. Clarke told him she couldn’t, while Rebus said he’d consider it.
‘Well, you know where to find me, eh?’
‘By the dartboard?’ Rebus guessed.
Arnold nodded and explained that, like every other uniform in a fifty-mile radius, he had been drafted in to work on the inquiry, as a result of which the building was bursting at the seams.
‘This should all be happening at Burnett Road,’ he complained. ‘That’s where CID is.’ He waved a hand around him. ‘This is suits and bean-counters.’
‘So why base the inquiry here?’
‘Because of the suits and bean-counters – means they get to feel important as they walk past the cameras.’
The inquiry room was certainly filled with bodies. Those who had been elsewhere were now gathered to listen to another of Dempsey’s briefings. DNA matches were coming in, and she could now name two of the victims as Amy Mearns and Jemima Salton.
‘The families are on their way here,’ she said, ‘to be told the findings.’ Her voice was hoarse and she paused to take some water from a plastic bottle, clearing her throat afterwards. Her face was pale and exhausted; and somehow, Rebus knew, she had to find strength for these two meetings and the emotions they would bring. ‘Any questions?’ she asked.
‘How long till we have positive IDs on the other victims?’
‘Not long – hopefully tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘That’s still going to be hard to determine. I’ve requested a couple more pathologists from Aberdeen to speed things up.’
‘What steps do we take next?’
‘We continue door-to-door. Maybe some of the farms have CCTV we can look at; same with shops and garages. We need to talk to everyone.’
‘All the evidence collected from the field and the woods . . .?’
‘Is at the lab. Nothing to report so far.’
‘The pubic hair . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘We know it doesn’t belong to Annette McKie.’
Dempsey nodded. ‘Once we get a DNA fingerprint from it, I’ll be asking to take swabs from every male within shouting distance of Edderton.’
The officers in the room exchanged looks, knowing the amount of work this would entail.
‘I know I’m asking a lot,’ she said. ‘But we need to be seen to be doing our utmost.’
Yes, Rebus thought to himself, because if nothing else, it might flush the killer into the open. He remembered the tactic he’d suggested at SCRU, and found himself proposing out loud that Dempsey tell the media there was DNA evidence, ev
en if none existed. She stared him down.
‘Have you considered approaching a criminal profiler, ma’am?’ The question came from Siobhan Clarke, maybe to deflect attention away from Rebus. Dempsey met her gaze.
‘I’m open to any sensible suggestions, DI Clarke.’
‘It’s just that there’s been a lot of research done into what makes serial killers choose their particular disposal sites. The fact is, the victims came from a wide geographical area but ended up in that one spot.’
‘Meaning it has some significance for the perpetrator?’ Dempsey was nodding. ‘I’ve already fielded a few e-mails on the subject. If anyone wants to suggest a friendly profiler who isn’t going to break the bank . . .’ She looked around the room. ‘Or maybe DI Clarke could do an internet search and see what she comes up with?’ Dempsey’s eyes were fixed on Clarke again.
‘Be happy to, ma’am.’
‘Good.’ Dempsey checked her watch. ‘Well, if there are no more questions, I’ve got a couple of grieving families I need to prepare for . . .’
There were sympathetic sounds from around the room. Page was pushing past a few officers in order to get to Siobhan Clarke.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
‘Here and there,’ she answered.
‘I was looking for you earlier.’ He sounded disappointed in her.
‘I was at the end of the phone.’
‘Mine needs charging,’ he muttered. ‘Nobody seems to have the right adaptor. Did you get my text about dinner tonight?’
‘She’s delighted to accept,’ Rebus interrupted, receiving a stern look from Clarke. ‘And though I’d love to be there too, it so happens I have other plans.’
Having said which, he made his exit.
That evening, despite best intentions, Rebus took a cab from the guest house to the pub. He sat in the front and told the driver he never seemed to be able to find a parking space in Inverness.
‘You should see it at weekends,’ he was informed. ‘Multi-storeys, supermarket car parks – full all day.’
‘Place must be booming.’
The driver gave a snort. ‘Wish I could say I was seeing some of the benefits.’
When Rebus walked into the Lochinver, Gavin Arnold was lining up an out-shot. His dart ended up just the wrong side of the wire and he continued to shake his head as he watched his opponent end the game with double seventeen. They exchanged handshakes and pats on the arm. Arnold saw Rebus and waved him towards the bar.
‘What are you having?’
‘An IPA would do the trick.’
‘Two please, Sue,’ Arnold said. Sue Holloway smiled a greeting at Rebus and got to work.
As they watched her pour, Rebus asked Arnold how things were going.
‘I’m on doorstepping duties,’ he replied. ‘Reckon the shocks have gone on my car already, the number of farm tracks I’ve been up and down.’
‘With no result to show for it?’
‘Which DCS Dempsey insists is a result in itself. Narrowing things down, she calls it.’
‘In a way, she’s right.’
‘It just makes for a bloody tedious day, that’s all.’
‘Stop moaning,’ Holloway said. ‘And these are on the house as a way of saying thanks.’
‘For what?’ Rebus asked.
‘Trying to find the twisted bastard and stop him doing it again.’
‘Cheers then,’ Arnold said, clinking his glass against Rebus’s before taking a sip. ‘How about you, John? Any progress?’
‘I seem to be surplus to requirements, Gavin. Spent half the day sightseeing.’
‘Culloden?’ Arnold guessed.
‘Black Isle, actually.’
‘If they widen the search any further, I’ll end up there before long. What did you think of the place?’
‘I saw some dolphins.’
‘Did you go to Culbokie?’ Arnold watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Nice wee pub there with a beer garden looking over the Cromarty Firth.’
Rebus remembered how he knew the name – Culbokie was where Brigid Young had left her mobile phone the day she’d been abducted.
‘Hey, Gav,’ one of the other darts players called. ‘You seeing this?’
The man meant the TV set above the door. It was tuned to a news channel. On the screen some people were settling themselves around a table. Looked like another bar, this time with menus and napkins. Flashbulbs were going off, and at one point the news camera was jostled.
Rebus recognised Frank Hammell and Nina Hazlitt. They were shaking hands, as if they’d just been introduced to one another. Another couple were there too, not looking comfortable at the amount of attention and the proximity of the cameras.
‘That’s Brigid Young’s sister and her man,’ Arnold explained. Across the bottom of the screen ran the words A9 FAMILIES MEET.
‘Isn’t that the Claymore?’ Sue Holloway said.
‘Looks like,’ Arnold admitted. Then, for Rebus’s benefit: ‘It’s right across the road from here.’
Someone had gone to the door to check. Rebus, Arnold and half a dozen others decided to follow suit. Sure enough: an outside broadcast van with a satellite dish on its roof. And lots of lights moving around inside the Claymore Bar. Rebus crossed the street and peered through the window. He saw the table and the four figures seated at it. A man emerged from the back of the van and started setting up a tripod with a lamp at the top of it. He ran a cable back to the van and plugged it in, further illuminating the interior. Hammell glanced towards the window, his narrowed eyes meeting Rebus’s. Then he turned back towards the microphones and continued with his speech. Rebus could see no sign of Darryl Christie. Nina Hazlitt was handed a drink from a tray. Brigid Young’s sister had her hand clamped around that of the man next to her. As other gawpers closed in around him, Rebus retreated to the Lochinver. Arnold was stationed in front of the TV, watching proceedings. Someone had turned the volume up.
‘Impromptu press conference,’ he stated. ‘Dempsey won’t be happy.’
‘What have they been saying?’ Rebus asked.
‘Mr Hammell’s complaining about a lack of effort; Ms Hazlitt wants to be swabbed for DNA.’
‘And the other two?’
‘Seem not to know what they’ve gotten into. You ready for a top-up?’
‘My shout,’ Rebus said, lifting Arnold’s empty glass from him and making for the bar. When his phone buzzed, he reckoned he knew who it would be, but he turned towards the TV screen to check. Nina Hazlitt was talking. Frank Hammell could be seen next to her, studying the screen of his own phone. Rebus checked the message:
You still here?
He texted back, then paid for the drinks. It was a further half-hour before Hammell walked in. The only surprise was that he had brought Nina Hazlitt with him.
‘This is Nina,’ Hammell said.
‘John knows me,’ Hazlitt said. ‘Though you might not know it from the way he’s been behaving.’
This seemed to come as news to Hammell, who had a twenty-pound note in his hand, ready to attract Holloway’s attention. Rebus looked around the bar. Everyone seemed to have recognised the visitors, while pretending to mind their own business. Arnold was halfway through another game of darts, his glance towards Rebus managing to pose both question and warning.
‘Same again?’ Hammell was asking Hazlitt.
‘Why not?’ she said.
‘What about you, Rebus?’
‘I’m fine as I am.’ Rebus’s eyes were on Hazlitt’s. ‘So how are you doing?’
‘I’ll be better when I get some news.’
‘Tomorrow or the day after, that’s what I’m hearing.’
‘Then you know no more than we do,’ she stated.
When Hammell handed her a glass, Rebus asked him where Darryl Christie was.
‘Back in Edinburgh. Needs to be there for his mum.’
‘Shouldn’t that be your job too?’
Hammell glared at him. ‘What about you?
Boozing it up when there’s a freak out there you should be catching.’
‘I’m sure John’s doing all he can,’ Hazlitt broke in. ‘Might explain why he’s too busy to reply to messages . . .’
‘I saw Thomas Robertson,’ Rebus told Hammell. The man had ordered both a whisky and a pint, sinking an inch of the latter before adding the former to the mix.
‘Remind me,’ he said.
‘The road worker from Pitlochry,’ Rebus obliged.
‘And why bother telling me?’
‘He’d gone ten rounds with a battering ram.’
Hammell shrugged and took out his phone, checking its screen. Rebus turned his attention back to Nina Hazlitt. ‘What was all that in aid of, across the road?’
‘Media awareness,’ she answered.
‘Your idea or his?’ Rebus nodded towards Hammell.
‘Does it matter?’
It was Rebus’s turn to shrug. Arnold was gesturing from the dartboard, where he had just finished his game. Rebus walked over to him.
‘Hell are you doing?’ Arnold hissed.
‘I can’t help it if those two decide to wander in.’
‘So it’s just coincidence?’ Arnold didn’t sound convinced. ‘You sure all the TV people have packed up? If this ever gets back to Dempsey . . .’
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ Rebus gave a wink and returned to the bar. Hammell asked him if he was finally ready for that drink. Rebus shook his head.
‘Better be off. Another early start in the morning.’
‘One more won’t hurt,’ Nina Hazlitt pressed, a certain amount of pleading in her eyes. Rebus couldn’t tell if she wanted his company for its own sake, or was merely reluctant to be stuck alone with Hammell.
‘Hey, guys!’ The bar’s door was wide open, someone standing there with their phone held up in front of them. Rebus, Hazlitt and Hammell couldn’t help turning towards the voice. The young man smiled as he checked the quality of the photo he’d just taken, then offered a thumbs-up as he backed out on to the pavement, the door swinging shut after him.
Rebus had recognised Raymond, Dempsey’s journalist nephew – and so had Gavin Arnold. The two men shared a look.
If this ever gets back . . .
‘Maybe a whisky,’ Rebus told Hammell.
