by Ian Rankin
When they reached the dual carriageway, the convoy followed the signs to Inverness. Rebus craned his neck to see what was happening past the lorry.
‘They’re leaving it for dead,’ he informed Clarke, so she signalled and moved out to overtake. The Mercedes had passed the van but seemed to want to stay close to it.
‘They could be strangling Magrath right now, you know,’ Clarke commented.
‘They could,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Might have nothing but a corpse on our hands at the other end.’
‘We might at that.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d lose much sleep.’
‘I’m not a monster, Siobhan – but I suppose I’d cope somehow . . .’
Over the Kessock Bridge and into Inverness, staying on the A9 and heading south out of the city.
‘So far so good,’ Clarke said under her breath.
‘You planning to stay on their tail all the way?’
‘Give it another mile or two.’
After which she put her foot down, guiding the Audi into the outside lane and eventually overtaking the van, pulling in between it and the Merc before flooring the accelerator and passing that car, too. The clock said ninety-five as she watched the headlights behind her recede.
‘They’re keeping to a steady sixty-five.’
‘Don’t want to get pulled over, do they?’ Rebus suggested.
A further few miles on, a sign indicated a lay-by. Clarke slowed the Audi to a stop behind an articulated lorry which was parked up for the night. She switched off the headlights and slouched down in her seat, Rebus doing the same as far as he was able. He could feel the sweat on his back, his shirt clinging to him.
‘Here they come,’ Clarke said, eyes on the wing mirror. Not just the Merc and the van, but a few other vehicles in their wake. It was completely dark now, no chance the Audi could have been clocked, not the speed the convoy was going. Clarke switched her lights on again and got back on the road.
‘No shortage of disposal sites between here and there,’ she offered.
‘He’s not got the experience, Siobhan. Something tells me he’ll stick to what he knows, places he’s been shown or told about.’
Twenty minutes later, they passed a sign telling them the Aviemore spur was just ahead.
‘Where it all started,’ Siobhan Clarke said.
‘I suppose,’ Rebus replied, watching as a few flakes of snow began to fall. A couple of cars were signalling to turn left.
‘The Merc?’ Clarke guessed.
‘I’d put money on it – just not necessarily my money.’
But yes, the Merc was turning off, while the van stayed on the A9 and its appointment with a scrapyard or similar.
‘We’re sure Magrath’s not trussed up in the back of his own van?’ Clarke asked.
‘As sure as we can be.’
The Audi followed the Merc, still a couple of other vehicles separating them.
‘I think this is working,’ Clarke offered. ‘Insofar as they haven’t spotted us.’ All too soon, though, the covering vehicles were peeling off into new-build housing developments, leaving only the Merc and the Audi – fifty yards between them.
‘Should I stop and let him get ahead?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebus admitted.
‘We could overtake and block the route – don’t tell me Magrath won’t be scared rigid by now.’
‘Not yet.’
She looked at him again. His eyes were fixed on the Merc, his left hand still gripping the door handle. They were in deepening countryside, heading away from Aviemore into a wilderness of mountain and forest.
‘I could overtake again,’ Clarke suggested, breaking off as she saw that, without signalling, the car in front was turning off the road on to a dirt track. There was a gate, but it had been left open. Clarke drove past and kept driving, while Rebus watched the 4x4’s tail lights until they were swallowed up by trees.
‘We’re safe,’ he said. Clarke stopped the car and did a three-point turn, switching off her lights and crawling towards the open gate.
‘Just like Hammell said,’ she muttered. The Merc had disappeared from view. Clarke slid down her window and listened for its engine. ‘Still on the move.’
‘Then we move, too.’
The Audi began to head cautiously up the track, both front windows lowered. Despite the flurries and the sharp night air, Rebus stuck his head out, watching and listening. The route wound uphill into a pine-scented forest, reminding him of Edderton. When they reached a fork, Clarke stopped the car, turning off the engine as a precaution.
‘Hear anything?’
‘No,’ Rebus told her.
‘No lights either.’
‘You think they’ve stopped?’ He had lowered his voice.
‘Maybe.’
‘Do we go left or right?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Ground’s pretty well frozen – hard to tell if there are tracks there or not.’
‘And you an ex-Boy Scout.’
Rebus considered for a moment. ‘Right,’ he said. Then: ‘No, left.’
‘Sure?’
‘Fairly.’
‘You mean you’re guessing?’
‘Fifty–fifty chance, Siobhan.’
‘I don’t think Magrath would be thrilled by those odds. How about we stick the lights on full beam and drive like hell?’
‘Or go the rest of the way on foot.’
‘On foot?’ Her eyes had widened a little, her brow furrowing.
‘On foot.’
‘Together or separately?’
‘Bloody hell, Siobhan, do I have to make all the decisions?’
69
The bag was removed from Kenny Magrath’s head. He’d been thumped a few times and his eyes stung. He blinked the world back into focus. There was a near-full moon in a hazy sky, and the smell of moss. Magrath was breathing through his nose, his mouth taped shut, hands bound behind him. Three men made a sort of triangle around him. They seemed very tall, until he worked out he was upright in a shallow grave. He tried to scream, a bubble of blood popping from one nostril. When he started scrabbling out of the pit, one of the men took a step forward and raised a shovel. Magrath knew what that meant, and stayed put. The car they’d brought him in stood a dozen or so yards away, lights dipped, illuminating the scene, picking out occasional slow-motion snowflakes.
‘You killed my sister,’ someone said. Magrath looked around, unable to pick out the speaker until Darryl Christie bent a little at the waist, establishing eye contact. He was dressed in a dark polo-neck, denims and trainers. Magrath shook his head, feeling a fresh wave of nausea as his brain throbbed with pain.
‘This grave was dug for someone else,’ Christie went on. ‘Wrong guy that time. You’re the one I’ve been looking for, so don’t try to deny it.’
But Magrath couldn’t help himself, his muffled voice rising in pitch. Christie turned away as if bored by the performance. He stretched a hand out towards the man next to him. The shovel was placed in it. Christie felt it for heft and balance, raised it over his shoulder and swung it a few times for practice. Magrath was reduced to weeping now, eyes screwed shut. His knees gave way and he landed heavily on the dirt, chin resting against the edge of the grave.
‘Ssshhh,’ Christie told him, like a parent to a child. Then he arched his body back, lifting the shovel high and bringing it down so that it connected with the ground directly in front of Magrath. Magrath’s eyes flew open, focused on the implement’s gleaming edge. Christie twisted it free and held the shovel in front of him as he crouched down, directly in front of the tearful, snot-nosed Magrath.
‘You didn’t think it was going to be quick, did you?’ he asked. ‘Plenty of damage to be done before then. All those lives you took. Just for kicks, eh? No real reason. Nothing that can be explained. It’s not a prison they’ll put you in, it’s a nuthouse. Board games and daytime TV, walks in the garden and a friendly psychiatrist. Reckon that’
s fair, do you? All those lives you wrecked, the living as well as the dead. Time for some proper payback. Time for you to feel pain . . .’ He rose again and lifted the shovel, but only to waist height this time, preparing to swing it at Kenny Magrath’s head.
‘That’s enough!’
Christie swivelled towards the voice. Rebus had his hands bunched by his sides, as if spoiling for a fight.
‘What are you doing here?’ Christie called out.
‘Arresting you,’ Siobhan Clarke said, stepping into the clearing and holding open her ID. Christie’s men looked to their boss for instructions. Christie pointed at Rebus.
‘You’re the one who wanted this in the first place!’ he complained.
Clarke ignored him, telling him he was under arrest. Christie had eyes only for Rebus, and those eyes were burning.
‘Two of you against three of us?’ he announced. ‘Look around – plenty of room for a few more graves.’
‘He might be stupid,’ Clarke interrupted, gesturing towards Rebus, ‘but I’m not. Back-up’s about five minutes away.’
‘What do we do?’ one of Christie’s men was asking his boss. Rebus recognised him: Marcus, doorman and driver. Christie took a moment to weigh up the options.
‘We’re going,’ he said. Then, turning towards Magrath: ‘This isn’t over. You’ll be seeing my face again.’ He swung a kick, connecting with the side of Magrath’s head, before starting to march towards the Mercedes. Clarke looked to Rebus, but Rebus wasn’t moving. The two men began to follow their boss, Marcus forging ahead so he could hold open the car’s passenger door. Christie gave Rebus a final baleful look, tossed the shovel on to the ground, and got in. After the doors had closed, Clarke took a step forward.
‘We’re letting them go?’
‘Did you fancy our chances?’ Rebus asked. He walked over to Magrath, peeling away the tape.
‘They’re getting away!’ Magrath spluttered, flecks of pink saliva flying from his mouth. The engine of the Mercedes had roared into life, the car reversing back the way it had come.
‘Yes,’ Rebus said, starting to loosen the ties around Magrath’s wrists.
‘They were going to kill me.’
‘We noticed.’
Magrath seemed confused. He looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. ‘You’ll catch them, though? The back-up . . .’
‘No back-up,’ Rebus informed him. ‘That was just DI Clarke saving our skins.’
‘They were going to kill me,’ Magrath repeated, more to himself than anyone else.
‘A word of thanks wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ Rebus grabbed Magrath by the arm, coaxing him out of the shallow grave.
‘They took my van.’
‘You won’t be seeing it again.’
‘They were going to—’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘Probably in shock,’ Clarke explained.
Magrath realised he was being led from the clearing. ‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re giving you a lift home – car’s this way.’
‘But they’re this way too!’
‘Best if we get a move on, then, before it dawns on them there’s no cavalry in the vicinity.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Magrath said. ‘Did you say a lift home?’
‘Where else?’
Magrath stopped moving. ‘I can’t go home. They know where I live . . . where Maggie lives . . .’
‘They might leave her alone. It’s you they’re after.’
‘Then why did you let them go?’
‘Know what they’ll say if questioned? They’ll say they were just giving you a fright. That’s if they say anything at all.’
‘But you saw them!’
Rebus gave a shrug and fixed his eyes on Clarke. ‘Seems that saving his hide isn’t quite enough.’
‘We’ve done what we can,’ Clarke replied.
‘You could always make a run for it,’ Rebus suggested to the man in front of him. ‘Get yourself a new identity. It would have to be a long way from here, though – Darryl Christie’s got a lot of friends.’
‘What about Maggie? And Gregor?’
‘They’ve done what they can. Time for you to make a few decisions.’
Magrath looked around him, his mind reeling. He was trembling, and not just from the cold.
‘I can’t . . . I don’t . . .’
‘Your decision,’ Rebus repeated, sliding his hands into his pockets. Magrath’s eyes seemed to clear. He met Rebus’s gaze.
‘What do I do?’ he asked. ‘Tell me.’
‘You’re asking my advice?’
Magrath nodded and another tremor ran through him. Rebus gave a glance in Clarke’s direction before seeming to think for a moment.
‘I’ll give it, then,’ he said, ‘but on one condition . . .’
Magrath blinked a couple of times. ‘Yes?’
‘You leave us out of it.’
Magrath’s eyelids fluttered again. ‘Out of what?’
‘Your confession,’ Rebus told him.
They dropped him outside the police station on Burnett Road. Rebus had called ahead and Gavin Arnold was waiting. Rebus and Clarke stayed in the car and watched as Arnold led Kenny Magrath inside. Rebus had his window down so he could smoke a cigarette. His hand was shaking, but only a little.
‘He might change his mind, you know,’ Clarke said quietly.
‘He might,’ Rebus agreed. ‘On the other hand, a secure unit’s about as safe from Darryl Christie as he’s likely to get.’
‘You definitely got that across to him.’ She paused. ‘Speaking of which . . .’
Rebus turned to face her. ‘Christie?’ He watched as she nodded. ‘Depends what Kenny Magrath says in his statement. If he leaves out the forest . . .’
‘Christie was going to kill him.’
‘Entrapment, they’d call it in court.’ Rebus peered out through the windscreen towards the darkness. ‘I led him into it, after all.’ Then: ‘We should get going before Dempsey arrives.’
‘You’re really planning to let Darryl Christie off the hook?’
‘I’m not the cop here, Siobhan.’ He turned in her direction again. ‘Your call rather than mine.’
Clarke focused her attention on the door to the police station and the illuminated POLICE sign above it. ‘They’ll know someone got to him. Pretty good chance your name will crop up.’
‘Just so long as yours doesn’t. Besides, I’m a civilian, remember – I was watching his workshop for want of anything better to do, saw him being abducted and decided to follow, then ended up saving his skin. That’s if he opts to throw my name into the pot.’
There was silence in the car for a moment, until Clarke broke it.
‘We didn’t ask him why he did it.’
‘The killings or the photos?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
‘I doubt he knows the answer to that himself.’
More silence. Clarke was still facing away from Rebus when she spoke. ‘For a moment there, when Christie raised that shovel, it flashed through my mind that you were going to let it happen.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Magrath dead and Christie on a murder charge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that would have been a result too, I suppose.’
‘And it’s results that matter rather than how you get them.’
‘Used to be the way.’
‘Not now, though?’
‘Maybe not so much.’ He leaned back in his seat. ‘That grave wasn’t meant for Magrath, you know.’
‘No?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘It was Thomas Robertson’s. When I saw him in the hospital, I happened to mention a shallow grave. It spooked him, and now we know why – he’d been taken there and shown it. Scared him stupid . . .’
‘But Christie let him go.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Darryl’s no
t a killer, Siobhan. Maybe one of his boys would have taken care of Magrath, but whacking the ground with that shovel was as close as Darryl was going to get.’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘You know what this means, though?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It means I was right all along about that bloody song.’
He flicked the cigarette away as Clarke turned the key in the ignition.
‘What song?’ she was asking as Rebus began to wind the window up.
Also by Ian Rankin
The Inspector Malcolm Fox Series
The Complaints
The Impossible Dead
The Detective Inspector Rebus Series
Knots & Crosses
Hide & Seek
Tooth & Nail
(previously published as Wolfman)
Strip Jack
The Black Book
Mortal Causes
Let it Bleed
Black & Blue
The Hanging Garden
Death is Not the End (a novella)
Dead Souls
Set in Darkness
The Falls
Resurrection Men
A Question of Blood
Fleshmarket Close
The Naming of the Dead
Exit Music
Other Novels
The Flood
Watchman
Westwind
Doors Open
Writing as Jack Harvey
Witch Hunt
Bleeding Hearts
Blood Hunt
Short Stories
A Good Hanging and Other Stories
Beggars Banquet
Copyright
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Orion Books.
This ebook first published in 2012 by Orion Books.
Copyright © 2012 John Rebus Ltd.
The right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
