Standing in Another Man's Grave

by Ian Rankin

  There was silence on the line as Hammell considered this. Rebus listened to him exhale. ‘What’s the question?’

  ‘There may be a follow-up, depending on how you answer.’

  ‘Just ask me the damned question.’

  ‘Okay, then.’ One of the kids opposite had come to the window. They waved at Rebus. He waved back. ‘Where would you bury a body?’ he asked Hammell, as the kid waved again, this time with a huge gap-toothed grin.

  A forest . . .

  Rebus was leaving his tenement building, pulling the door shut behind him, when he saw Siobhan Clarke standing on the pavement.

  ‘Got Page with you?’ he asked, looking to left and right.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  ‘I was a bit worried, that’s all.’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘You’ve fallen off the radar.’

  ‘Maybe it escaped your attention, but I’m not on the books any more.’

  ‘All the same . . .’

  ‘What?’

  She studied him closely. ‘I was right. You’ve got that look in your eyes. Something’s brewing.’

  ‘Nothing’s brewing.’

  ‘And suddenly he gets all defensive . . .’

  He opened his arms in a show of innocence, but he wasn’t fooling her.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ she asked.

  ‘Just out.’

  ‘Mind if I tag along?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not heading to the pub, then.’

  ‘Christ’s sake, Siobhan . . .’ Rebus made an exasperated sound. ‘There’s just something I have to do.’

  ‘Does it happen to involve Kenny Magrath?’

  ‘It might,’ he conceded.

  ‘And naturally you’ll be sticking to the letter of the law?’

  ‘I’m not the police; I’m not even a civvy working for the police.’

  ‘And having a real-life detective along for the ride wouldn’t help at all?’

  He stared at her, then shook his head slowly. ‘You should listen to Fox, Siobhan. To keep rising through the ranks, you need to steer well clear of the likes of me.’ He prodded his chest with his thumb to drive the point home.

  ‘A rise through the ranks that turns me into the likes of James Page or Malcolm Fox?’ She made show of considering this. ‘Somehow your way of doing things is just that bit more fun.’

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head again.

  ‘Yes,’ Clarke countered. ‘Tell me what you’ve got in mind.’

  Rebus rubbed at his jaw. ‘If I do, will you bugger off home and leave me to it?’

  It was her turn to shake her head.

  ‘Thought not,’ he said.

  Frank Hammell was waiting for them in a fast-food restaurant next to a petrol station. The place was brightly lit, showing how much colour Hammell had lost from his face. His hair needed combing, and grey stubble showed on his cheeks. He was nursing a coffee, the burger in front of him not even half eaten, and his eyes darted everywhere, his whole body seeming to tense with each new customer through the door.

  ‘You reckon he’ll come after you?’ Rebus asked, sliding into the cubicle. Clarke was fetching drinks from the counter – orange juice for her and tea for him.

  ‘You didn’t say you’d be bringing anyone,’ Hammell snapped back.

  ‘She’s not here – not officially.’ Rebus slid further over to make room for Clarke, who offered a nod of greeting to Hammell, a greeting he ignored, focusing on a couple of newcomers to the restaurant.

  ‘I reckon the little turd’s capable of anything,’ he muttered eventually, in answer to Rebus’s original question.

  ‘Wouldn’t he have made his move at the club?’

  Hammell shook his head. ‘Too many witnesses.’

  ‘You’ve obviously given it some thought.’

  ‘What else am I going to do? If I so much as pick up the phone to Gail, he says he’ll tell her about Annette and me. He’s even got keys to my house . . .’ Hammell’s eyes were filling with anger. ‘If I can just get him on his own, I’ll throttle the bastard.’

  ‘Duly noted. But how about if we take him instead?’

  Hammell looked at Rebus, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Is this a set-up?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘There’s a result I’m after, and Darryl Christie’s part of it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Best keep it that way.’

  Hammell studied Rebus intently, then switched to Clarke and back to Rebus again. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Remember that question I asked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rebus reached into his pocket and took out the road map of Scotland.

  ‘Just show me,’ he said.

  Afterwards, they walked Hammell back to the car park. He had yet to get rid of the Range Rover.

  ‘Bit conspicuous,’ Rebus warned him.

  ‘Garage that sold me it offered fifteen to take it back,’ Hammell complained. ‘It’s worth three times that.’

  ‘All the same . . .’

  Hammell gestured towards Rebus’s Saab. ‘Want to swap? Fifteen plus yours?’

  ‘I can’t do that, Frank.’

  Hammell got into his own car, started the engine and headed at speed towards the main road. Rebus unlocked the Saab, Clarke sliding into the passenger seat.

  ‘That would have been a good trade,’ she said.

  ‘The things me and this old beast have been through . . .’ Rebus patted the steering wheel. ‘Money doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘So what now?’ she asked as she did up her seat belt.

  ‘Now,’ Rebus answered, ‘we start planning.’

  ‘Planning what, exactly?’

  ‘How to give Kenny Magrath the fright of his life . . .’

  67

  He made the call Sunday lunchtime, using the number on the card Darryl Christie had given him. Whoever it was who answered, Rebus didn’t recognise the voice.

  ‘I need to speak to your boss,’ he explained.

  ‘What boss might that be?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, son. Give Darryl the name John Rebus and tell him to phone me back.’

  Then he hung up and waited. Not quite three minutes had passed when his mobile trilled.

  ‘I’m listening,’ Darryl Christie said. No niceties; no small talk. Everything changed. Well, that was fine with Rebus.

  ‘The guy you’re looking for is Kenny Magrath. He lives with his wife in a house in Rosemarkie. I can give you the address.’

  ‘I know about him,’ Christie interrupted. ‘It was all over the net – he’s been checked out by Dempsey’s lot and let go.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Rebus said. ‘But hear what I’ve got to say, then decide for yourself.’

  ‘You’ve got two minutes.’

  It took Rebus a bit longer than that to lay out his reasoning: the van at the petrol station; the retirement of Gregor Magrath; the way Kenny Magrath had acted when confronted. There was silence on the line when he finished. Then Darryl Christie’s voice:

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘Because I can’t get to him – he’s made too good a job of covering his tracks.’

  ‘Are you taping this?’

  ‘If I am, I’m about to sign my own arrest warrant. He has to disappear, Darryl. And it has to look like he’s done a runner, otherwise the pair of us might come under the magnifying glass. Can’t have his body being found.’

  ‘Bodies have a habit of turning up, though, don’t they?’

  ‘Depends where they’re left.’

  ‘Are you inviting yourself to the party?’

  ‘No,’ Rebus assured him. ‘The less you tell me, the better. Magrath has a workshop he uses – a garage, across from the pub at the far end of the village. Goes there first thing in the morning, and when he knocks off in the evening. I’d say evening
would be best – it’s nice and dark by five o’clock. His van can’t be left behind, not if he’s supposed to have scarpered in it.’

  ‘You’ve given this some thought.’

  ‘I’ve not had much else to do – you said it yourself, Dempsey proved less than useless when I went to her.’

  ‘You know what I’ll do to you if this is a stitch-up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This isn’t some trick Cafferty’s come up with?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what’s stopping me from going straight to this bastard’s house and kicking his door down?’

  ‘For one thing, he has neighbours. For another, you’d have to do something about his wife. My way’s better. You take him to woods somewhere – plenty of forests up north. I can suggest a few if you like . . .’ Rebus’s voice trailed off as he waited to see what Christie would say.

  ‘Not necessary,’ was the answer.

  Which was good news: it meant he already had a spot in mind.

  ‘I reckon he’s a creature of habit,’ Rebus went on, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Likes his dinner ready when he comes home. That means his wife will start to worry sooner rather than later. If he’s half an hour behind schedule and not answering his phone, she’s going to go out looking, and it won’t be long after that before she calls it in.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘There’s a place you can take the van?’

  ‘Want me to tell you?’

  ‘I just want to make sure this is done right – for both our sakes.’

  ‘No qualms?’

  ‘Not a one.’

  ‘We’re not going to speak again, you and me.’

  ‘As long as I can close the file, I’m happy. Call it a little retirement present I’m giving myself.’

  ‘If this works out, I might chip in a clock for your mantelpiece. On the other hand, if it doesn’t . . .’

  Darryl Christie ended the call without bothering to finish the threat. Rebus stared at his phone until the screen went blank.

  ‘Well?’ Siobhan Clarke said. She was standing in the living room, hands cupped around a mug of coffee. Rebus rose from his chair and poured himself a drink, then thought better of it and pushed it aside. Instead he lit a cigarette, heading to the sash window and pulling it open so Clarke couldn’t complain.

  ‘Promising,’ he decided, blowing smoke through the gap. ‘No more than that.’

  ‘Did he mention which forest?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘But he knows about the one his old boss used from time to time. And it’s perfect – not much more than forty-five minutes from the Black Isle. He won’t want to be riding around roads he doesn’t know with someone he’s just abducted – not when there’s a wife at home readying to call the police.’

  ‘And the van?’

  ‘I’m guessing dumped in a loch or sent for scrap.’

  ‘Why not make it look like an accident? Van goes off the road with Magrath at the wheel?’

  ‘Too much can go wrong – any half-decent scene-of-crime unit would smell something.’

  Clarke lowered herself on to the sofa. Rebus’s map was there, a circle drawn around a wooded area just outside Aviemore. ‘He won’t go rushing up there tonight?’

  ‘Darryl’s the careful sort – he’s going to spend time mulling it over.’

  ‘Meaning he might still get cold feet?’

  ‘Always a possibility.’

  ‘But you don’t think so?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you don’t think he’ll touch Mrs Magrath?’

  ‘He’s not the type. He’ll look for the flaws in the plan, maybe try to work out if there’s any other way.’

  ‘How many men will he take?’

  ‘Two or three – one of them to drive away the van.’

  ‘Do we need reinforcements? I could ask Christine or Ronnie . . .’

  Rebus was shaking his head. ‘I feel bad enough letting you get involved.’

  ‘As if you had a choice.’ She was smiling at him above the rim of the coffee mug.

  ‘Remember: you’re the only cop here. If Fox and his crew ever get wind of this . . .’

  ‘I’d be scuppering my chances of joining the Complaints.’

  ‘You want to work for Fox?’

  ‘He told me I’d be good at it – I think he meant it in a kind way.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Do you fancy it?’

  ‘I’d have to take a vow of silence, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘About me, you mean?’ Rebus blew another stream of smoke out of the window.

  ‘The stuff I could tell them . . .’

  ‘True enough,’ he said, stubbing out the cigarette on the ledge before flicking it into the void.

  68

  On Monday, they were in position by three thirty, parked on Rosemarkie’s narrow main street, Clarke’s Audi tucked in between two other vehicles, pointing south. Rebus’s reasoning: after grabbing Magrath, this was the way they would come – unless they wanted to end up in Cromarty.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Clarke had replied. The shop windows were illuminated, and locals walked past carrying bags of groceries. Rebus and Clarke had checked out Magrath’s workshop, but there was nowhere to park that wasn’t conspicuous. Rebus was passing the time explaining to Clarke that it was Darryl Christie who had abducted Thomas Robertson.

  ‘Darryl’s the one who’s always surfing the web – that’s how he’d have learned we’d lifted someone from the road crew at Pitlochry. Easy enough to find him, have him followed to the Tummel Arms and then snatch him.’

  ‘And smack him about?’

  ‘To get him to talk. But then comes news that it can’t have been him after all, so they dump him in Aberdeen.’

  ‘Why Aberdeen?’

  Rebus watched as a car drove past – no one he knew inside. ‘Maybe because Frank Hammell has friends there, meaning we’d go on thinking it was him behind it and not his spotty wee lieutenant.’

  Clarke nodded her understanding.

  ‘Something I wanted to ask you,’ Rebus went on.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fox told me he was easing off for the time being – you didn’t have a word with him, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Says he wants me back in CID so he can nab me good and proper.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Have you signed the forms?’

  ‘There’s still a good chance I’ll fail the physical.’

  ‘Hard to disagree.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  Another car: driven by a young woman.

  ‘Will Magrath pass by here?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Depends where he’s been working.’

  ‘Assuming he’s started back to work in the first place.’

  ‘I didn’t say the plan was perfect.’ Rebus checked the time. Daylight was fading fast. When he looked up again, he saw the black Mercedes M-Class.

  ‘Clickety-click,’ he told Clarke, turning away so his face wouldn’t be visible to anyone in the approaching vehicle. Clarke had her own head angled forward, as if fussing with the Audi’s stereo.

  ‘Four of them, I think,’ she said as she straightened up again, peering into the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Darryl in the passenger seat,’ Rebus confirmed.

  ‘Not a bad start.’ She exhaled, releasing some of the tension. ‘They’re even a bit early.’

  ‘They need time to scope the place out.’

  ‘If Christie’s the cautious sort, he’ll be looking for traps.’ She was starting the ignition.

  ‘What’s your thinking?’

  ‘Move the car a bit further along, maybe tuck ourselves down a side road. We know what we’re on the lookout for – a huge black Merc heading south.’

  ‘You’re worried they’ll come back and spot us?’

  ‘Yes.’


  Rebus nodded his agreement. It didn’t take long to find what they needed. They parked again, facing the main drag, and Clarke switched the engine off, before changing her mind and switching it on again.

  ‘A bit of warmth,’ she explained, turning the heater up.

  ‘Good idea.’ The dashboard gave the outside temperature as five degrees. There would be a frost later – the skies were clear, a couple of stars already visible. Rebus held his hands in front of the air vent, rubbing them together.

  Twenty minutes later, they both spotted Magrath’s van, the name prominent on its side.

  ‘Headed for the lock-up,’ Rebus stated.

  ‘There’s still time for a change of strategy,’ Clarke argued. ‘Confront them then and there.’

  Rebus was shaking his head. ‘We need him scared, remember.’

  ‘My way’s less risky.’

  ‘Just don’t lose them.’

  ‘Are you saying my driving’s not up to it?’

  Rebus gave her a look, then focused on the road. A couple of minutes for Kenny Magrath to reach the lock-up . . . bundled into the car . . . They’d want to be quick. But what if someone from the pub had stepped out for a cigarette? Or a bus full of inquisitive locals was passing? Rebus had seldom known time to creep so slowly. And just as he was about to open his mouth and say something to that effect . . .

  ‘Van!’ Clarke called out. Heading back the way it had come, MAGRATH on its side. The shape behind the steering wheel was not Kenny Magrath – too short, too wiry. The black Merc was only a few seconds behind, its occupants hard to discern. Clarke began to follow, keeping her distance. When a delivery lorry came up behind her, she slowed to let it overtake. She’d studied the road map, knew there were few options for the Merc. There were manoeuvres the driver could make to check he wasn’t being followed – slowing to a near stop; pulling over and biding his time; doubling back and finding a different route. But right now the Audi was hidden from view by the delivery lorry.

  The first real decision came at Munlochy; the Merc stayed on the A832.

  ‘Next it’ll be the Tore roundabout,’ Rebus said. ‘Then the A9 south.’

  ‘If your hunch is right,’ Clarke cautioned.

  ‘So little faith.’ Rebus managed the beginnings of a smile, but Clarke knew he was nervous – it wasn’t her driving that was making him grip the passenger-side door handle.