Standing in Another Man's Grave

by Ian Rankin

  ‘You’re mad.’ Magrath looked around him, as if wondering if he’d forgotten anything. He pressed a hand to each of his bulging pockets, then moved towards Rebus. Rebus stepped back, so that Magrath could switch the light off and lock the door again.

  ‘Did you tell Gregor, or did he somehow work it out? Maybe back when you were kids he saw the warning signs.’

  ‘What signs?’

  ‘Pulling the legs off frogs maybe; tying fireworks to the tails of cats and dogs . . .’

  Magrath shook his head. ‘That’s not me – go ask him.’

  ‘Maybe I will. It’s about time he got this off his conscience. Same with your wife.’

  ‘You leave Maggie out of this!’

  ‘Bit late for that.’

  ‘So help me I’ll . . .’ Magrath was just about keeping his rage in check. When he took a deep breath and exhaled, it sounded like a growl. Rebus stood his ground, awaiting the man’s next move. Magrath seemed to consider his options, and ended up turning away, striding towards his parked van.

  ‘Where are you going, Kenny?’

  No answer.

  ‘You were in Pitlochry, weren’t you?’

  Magrath was getting into the van, avoiding eye contact. Rebus walked towards him slowly. The key was turned in the ignition; Magrath commenced a three-point turn. A minibus coming around the corner from the direction of Cromarty had to brake hard to avoid crashing into him. There were a handful of schoolkids in the back. The driver sounded his horn, but Magrath ignored him, the van roaring off in the direction of Fortrose. Rebus lit a breakfast cigarette and decided he’d done what he could. Two minutes later he was parking outside Gregor Magrath’s cottage. The wind had dropped and there were the usual dog-walkers on the beach. Rebus caught a glimpse of something out to sea that could have been a dolphin or a seal. He thumped on Magrath’s door and waited. Magrath came out to the porch and studied Rebus through the window.

  ‘We need to talk about your brother,’ Rebus called out to him.

  The man shook his head slowly.

  ‘Did you move here to stop him? If so, you did a piss-poor job.’

  ‘Go away,’ Magrath said.

  ‘It was all right for the first year or so, but after that . . .’

  ‘Go away!’ Magrath was shouting now.

  ‘It’s all ending, Gregor,’ Rebus persisted. ‘Surely you can see that. Time to call a halt and save what’s left of your reputation.’

  ‘I’m not listening!’

  ‘You’ve got to convince him – easier for all concerned if he turns himself in. Tell him he should think of Maggie, if nobody else . . .’

  Gregor Magrath’s look was full of loathing, but Rebus saw a trace of resignation too. The man turned away and went back indoors. Rebus bided his time and Magrath reappeared in the porch, this time brandishing the wooden truncheon.

  ‘That won’t do it,’ Rebus told him with a shake of the head and the faintest of smiles. ‘Not any longer. I know it’s about protecting family – and maybe protecting your own name while you’re at it. But moving up here hasn’t stopped him. Time for the next step, Gregor.’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  Magrath disappeared inside again, and though Rebus stood there for a further few minutes, giving the door an occasional blow with his fist, he knew the man wasn’t coming back this time. He returned to the Saab and called Siobhan Clarke in Edinburgh.

  ‘Bit early for you,’ she complained.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Not quite.’ He thought he could hear her sit up in bed. Her mouth seemed to be dry and she cleared her throat. ‘So where’s the fire?’

  ‘I’m in Rosemarkie,’ Rebus admitted.

  ‘Doing what exactly?’

  ‘It’s Magrath’s brother, Siobhan, I’d swear to it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Magrath moved north to try to keep a lid on it. The brother travels all over. He was in Glasgow the day Annette McKie was abducted, and he’d have driven up the A9 to get home.’ Rebus rubbed his free hand across the stubble on his cheeks and chin.

  ‘Wait a second.’ He listened as she walked into another room. ‘Can you prove any of this?’

  ‘I told Dempsey, we need forensics on Magrath’s van, plus searches of his home and garage.’

  ‘You told Dempsey?’

  ‘She’s not going to bite unless I can give her something. That’s why I thought of you.’

  ‘Are you off your head?’

  ‘Everybody seems to think so – but I know it’s him.’

  ‘That’s not the way it works, John.’ She paused, only now registering something he’d said a moment back. ‘What do you need me for?’

  ‘The phone number of that petrol station in Pitlochry. I want to take a look at their CCTV. If Annette hitched a lift in the town, Kenny Magrath must have been in the town.’

  ‘He pulled off the A9 to fill up?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  She gave a lengthy sigh. He imagined her seated on the edge of her sofa, elbow on knee, hand pressed to forehead. Not quite ready to face the day yet, and already landed with this.

  ‘The longer he has, the more chance we’re giving him to dump anything that could be incriminating.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, then,’ she said, getting to her feet. She found the number and gave it to him twice while he jotted it down and checked it.

  ‘Thanks, Siobhan.’

  ‘I suppose Dempsey will have contacted James,’ she commented.

  ‘I dare say I’m in for yet another bollocking.’

  ‘Except that you’re not a cop any more.’ She paused. ‘Which means I shouldn’t even be talking to you, and you shouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘Aren’t I naughty?’ Rebus said with a tired smile. Then: ‘I thought I saw a dolphin earlier.’

  ‘Or maybe a selkie?’

  ‘You implying I see things that aren’t there, DI Clarke?’

  ‘How many lies are you going to tell the petrol station?’

  ‘As few as necessary. I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Always supposing they allow you more than one phone call,’ she said.

  Rebus managed another smile before punching in the number she had given him. But the petrol station’s footage for the day of Annette McKie’s disappearance was not available.

  ‘You’ve already got it,’ he was told.

  ‘It’s at Inverness?’ Rebus nodded his comprehension, ended the call and tried another number.

  ‘John?’ Gavin Arnold answered. ‘What can I do for you this fine, stress-free morning?’

  ‘Raise those stress levels, maybe,’ Rebus suggested.

  ‘By doing what?’

  ‘Bending a few rules,’ Rebus answered, going on to explain his request.

  62

  Fox was usually first into the Complaints office, but not today. Tony Kaye was standing behind Fox’s desk, holding a cardboard beaker of coffee in one hand and using the other to sift through one of the stacks of paperwork relating to John Rebus.

  ‘Early bird,’ Fox said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up.

  ‘Thought I’d maybe have a word before Joe Naysmith arrives.’

  ‘Lost your phone?’

  ‘I thought this was best done face to face.’

  ‘Spit it out, then.’

  Kaye rested a hand on one of the piles of paper. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

  ‘You’re going to tell me we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘The guy’s old-school, Malcolm. It’s amazing any of them still survive.’

  ‘So he’s some kind of endangered species and we should be feeding him bamboo?’

  ‘A good hunter knows when not to pull the trigger.’

  ‘You’ve seen the phone logs, Tony: is there any villain in the city he’s not cosied up to?’

  ‘DI Clarke said it – if Rebus is attached to the McKie case, he’s got plenty of reasons for talking to Frank Hammell.’

  ‘And Caffe
rty?’

  ‘Used to be Hammell’s employer.’

  Fox shook his head slowly. ‘The man’s a liability – and dangerous with it.’

  ‘That’s for the board to decide.’

  ‘With our input. Are you saying I put a halo over Rebus’s head?’

  ‘Just stick to the facts. Don’t let it get personal.’

  ‘Who says it’s personal?’

  ‘It is, though. You worked CID at St Leonard’s, same time he did.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I remember you once telling me, not every good detective fits in at Complaints.’

  ‘Are you saying I couldn’t hack it in CID?’

  It was Kaye’s turn to shake his head. ‘I’m saying Rebus got results the old way, without seeming to earn them. He did that because he got close to some nasty people in a way you couldn’t. This is what you’re good at, Malcolm.’ He tapped the desk. ‘Rebus specialises in something a bit different – doesn’t necessarily make him the enemy.’

  ‘We’ve got to be accountable, Tony. Rebus and his ilk don’t see that. In point of fact, I think he gets his jollies sticking two fingers up to the rest of us.’

  ‘Doesn’t make him the enemy,’ Kaye repeated quietly.

  Fox’s phone vibrated, letting him know he had a message. He looked at the screen, then at his colleague.

  ‘Have you mentioned any of this to the Chief?’

  Kaye shook his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wants a word.’ Fox’s eyes scanned the mass of paperwork. There were boxes of it on the floor next to his desk. Thousands of pages detailing dozens of infractions. But dozens of arrests, too. And no smoking gun. Same with the notes at Fox’s house – all of it circumstantial; easy to read into it anything you liked.

  ‘You think it’s about Rebus?’ Tony Kaye was asking.

  ‘What else?’ Fox said, making for the door.

  ‘They could bounce me down the stairs for this,’ Arnold complained, meeting Rebus outside Northern Constabulary HQ.

  Rebus held out a brown paper bag, which Arnold took and opened, pulling out a croissant and biting into it. Then he gestured for Rebus to follow him into the building, where he was signed in as a visitor and handed a pass, ‘to be worn at all times’.

  Arnold was still chewing as they reached the inquiry room. He made another gesture – letting Rebus know he should wait there – before disappearing through the door. When he came out again, he was holding a clear plastic envelope containing several CD-sized silver disks.

  ‘Laptop?’ he asked.

  Rebus shook his head.

  Arnold gave a twitch of the mouth as if to indicate that he’d expected this. He led Rebus along the corridor until he found a room with an unused desk. He gave the mouse a nudge, activating the monitor, then entered his password.

  ‘CaleyThis?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘Short for Caledonian Thistle.’ Arnold pulled out the chair and nodded for Rebus to sit down. The disk drive was on the floor beneath the desk, and he crouched in front of it, sliding home the first of the disks.

  ‘Eight hours’ worth,’ he warned Rebus.

  ‘Won’t take me nearly that long.’

  ‘Anybody asks, you tell them whatever story you like.’

  ‘Keeping your name out of it?’ Rebus guessed. Then he held out his hand. ‘Thanks, Gavin.’

  The two men shook, and Arnold left him to it.

  Rebus reckoned he could focus on a specific hour of comings and goings on the petrol station’s forecourt – thirty minutes either side of Annette McKie’s arrival in Pitlochry. The first disk he tried was no help, being too early in the day. Ditto the second and third. When he got to the fourth, he fast-forwarded, keeping an eye on the clock in the corner of the screen. Eventually, when he was happy, he leaned forwards and watched intently.

  Dempsey couldn’t place him at first. When she did, her face tightened. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’

  Rebus had hidden the visitor’s badge in his pocket. ‘Not a crime, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually, it probably is.’

  He had found her in one of the meeting rooms. She had been seated but was now standing. The other officer was wondering what was going on. Dempsey dismissed the man with a wave and an announcement that they would finish their discussion later. Once she was alone with Rebus, she folded her arms and waited.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ was all Rebus said. She saw that he was holding a small silver object in one hand.

  Both Magrath brothers, along with Kenny’s wife Maggie, were brought in for questioning that same afternoon. Search warrants had been applied for, and Dempsey seemed to think they wouldn’t be long arriving. Meantime, preliminary questions were being asked of neighbours in Rosemarkie.

  The media had reacted quickly to the news. The ranks of reporters had swollen outside HQ, and a radio car was in position, a satellite dish on its roof. No TV as yet, or none that Rebus could see from the windows of the inquiry room. He had asked to be present at the interviews, but Dempsey had put the kibosh on it. He wasn’t even a serving police officer – a lawyer could make ‘potentially devastating’ use of that.

  ‘In fact,’ she’d told him, ‘best thing would be if you went back to Edinburgh. And remind me, how did you get in here in the first place?’

  She’d said she would call him with news – she didn’t want him to think she was ungrateful. But as yet it was all just supposition mixed with what might turn out to be coincidence.

  And that was it: Rebus was dismissed.

  He texted a brief thank you to Gavin Arnold, not being able to track him down in the flesh, and headed outdoors. Raymond, Dempsey’s nephew, nodded a greeting and asked if he had any comment. The other journalists frowned and twitched, not knowing who Rebus was. They quickly gathered round Raymond, keen to be included. Rebus took his time getting a cigarette lit before he spoke.

  ‘Persons of interest are currently being interviewed by DCS Dempsey and her team,’ he obliged.

  ‘Any names?’

  Rebus kept his eyes on Raymond. The young man was pointing his phone, using it as a mic.

  ‘The persons of interest are local,’ Rebus went on. ‘I don’t doubt tongues are wagging . . .’

  Then he got into his car and started the engine.

  Was he heading home? He wasn’t sure. First he drove to Rosemarkie and cruised past the lock-up. Kenny Magrath’s van was parked in front, and Rebus stopped, getting out to peer through its windows again. It looked exactly the same as before, except for a Tupperware box and a Thermos – lunch prepared by Maggie, at a guess. A leftover sandwich was visible through the plastic. The lock-up itself still boasted its padlock. Rebus walked around the vehicle. It was small, with thin tyres, their tread reduced through use. Could a van like this have been driven into the woods at Edderton without getting stuck? Rebus checked for damage but didn’t find any, just a bit of mud. The van was only a year or so old, judging by the number plate. He was walking around it again, checking more closely for non-existent scrapes and scuffs, when the forensics team arrived. There were four of them – two in a Ford Transit and two in a Vauxhall Astra. One of them recognised Rebus from the Portakabin at Edderton. He jutted out his chin and gave a twitch of the head, as much acknowledgement as Rebus was going to get.

  Before anyone else could ask who he was or demand ID, Rebus garnered all the authority he could muster and explained that they would find the lock-up well organised and with few obvious hiding places.

  ‘You might want to check the perimeter,’ he added. ‘If he’s kept any trophies, I doubt they’re going to be under your noses.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ he was asked.

  ‘I was here with him earlier. He seemed perfectly relaxed about a search of the place.’

  The questioner nodded his understanding.

  ‘Have all the warrants been signed?’ Rebus enquired, receiving another nod for his efforts. ‘Both brothers’ homes?’

  �
�That’s right.’

  ‘I think you might want to add the green Land Rover sitting outside Gregor Magrath’s place. Not sure who it belongs to, but strikes me it should be checked. More of an all-terrain vehicle than this.’ Rebus gestured towards the van.

  ‘Why don’t you arrange that, then?’ the team leader asked.

  ‘Not my job,’ Rebus explained, retreating to the Saab.

  63

  He was back at Whicher’s. Now that the initial fuss about the bodies had died down, they had rooms available, but Rebus wasn’t sure he would be staying. Instead, he sat in the lounge, plugged in his phone for a recharge, and ordered a helping of steak pie and chips, along with a pot of tea.

  During a trip to the toilets, he had a wash and studied himself in the mirror. He looked like a man who had slept in his car. At reception, they handed him a pack containing toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and shaving cream, and he returned to the toilets for a patch-up job.

  With his belly full and another pot of tea on its way, he felt more human. There were plenty of papers to help him bide his time, plus the hotel’s copy of Cracking the Code. He’d asked for the TV to be tuned to a news channel, but with the sound muted.

  ‘No trouble at all, sir,’ he’d been told by the waiter in the tartan waistcoat.

  A couple of hours passed with no word from Dempsey. Rebus checked that his phone was still getting a healthy signal. When it did eventually ring, caller ID told him it was Siobhan Clarke on the line. Rebus answered.

  ‘Dempsey’s just been having a word with James Page,’ she told him. ‘She’s wondering if you’re back in Edinburgh yet.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And James spoke to DS Cowan at SCRU, but he hasn’t seen you either.’

  ‘Funny, that.’

  ‘You’re still in Inverness?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ He told her about the CCTV – Kenny Magrath stopping to refuel at the petrol station no more than five minutes after Annette McKie had left it on foot – then about Kenny and Gregor Magrath being taken in for questioning. ‘Did Dempsey tell Page whether the interviews had finished?’

  ‘No idea,’ Clarke confessed.

  ‘You and him not best buddies?’