by Ian Rankin
‘The flat move’s almost done, though.’
‘Great news – you can put your feet up for a couple of days.’
‘What if I don’t want to put my feet up?’
Sutherland’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Clarke held her hands up in a show of surrender.
‘But be honest with me – how’s it really going?’
‘A clear motive wouldn’t go amiss. And what friends we’ve been able to talk to haven’t exactly been forthcoming.’
‘They’re scared of something?’
Sutherland shrugged and ran a hand down his burgundy tie. He was in his early fifties and not far shy of retirement, but proud that he had kept his figure along with his hair, the latter the subject of unfounded rumours of a weave. ‘We’re getting help from the Met – they’re looking at his London contacts. Seems he wasn’t a great one for going to classes. Nightclubs and racecourses were more his thing.’ He broke off. ‘None of which should be of any interest to you.’ He changed position slightly on his chair. ‘How’s John doing?’
‘He says he can manage. He’d much rather I was at work, being useful and productive.’
‘Is that so?’ Sutherland managed a thin smile. Clarke felt she was losing this particular battle.
‘Will I see you later?’ she enquired.
‘Relegated to the sofa?’
‘I probably couldn’t be that cruel.’
‘Maybe I’ll risk it then.’
‘I bought extra provisions on the off-chance.’
He nodded his thanks. ‘Give me another hour or two?’
‘Careful you don’t burn out, Graham.’
‘If I do, they’ll need a fresh, fully rested replacement. Know anyone who’d fit the bill?
‘I’ll give it some thought, DCI Sutherland … ’
iii
Rebus had to give a slight tug on Brillo’s lead. Having been for their evening walk to the Meadows, the dog had made for the tenement’s main door.
‘We’re both going to have to get used to this,’ Rebus said, pushing open the gate. ‘But trust me, in time you can get used to just about anything.’ He had managed to avoid looking up at the curtainless window of his old living room. When he unlocked the door to his new flat, he caught a slight aroma beneath the smell of fresh paint: the merest trace of the previous occupant. It wasn’t really perfume; it was a blend of who they’d been and the life they had lived. He had a note of Mrs Mackay’s new address in Australia, in case the redirection service failed. He had left something similar in his old flat. He had an inkling it had been bought to be let out to students – no real surprise there. Marchmont had always been student turf, the university just the other side of the Meadows. Rebus had only very occasionally had to complain about a noisy party, and even then not for several years. Were students cut from different cloth these days? Less rowdy; more … well, studious?
Walking into the living room, manoeuvring between boxes, he realised his computer had yet to be unpacked. No rush: they weren’t doing the broadband for another couple of days. At Siobhan’s suggestion he had one night begun composing a list of people he needed to notify of his changed circumstances. It hadn’t even covered half a sheet – and come to think of it, when was the last time he’d seen it? He could hear Brillo in the kitchen, feasting on dry food and fresh water. Rebus hadn’t bothered with dinner; he never seemed particularly hungry these days. There were a few bottles of beer in the kitchen, and several bottles of spirits sitting on the shelf of the alcove adjacent to the window. A couple of nice malts, but he wasn’t really in the mood. Music, though: he should select something special. He remembered moving into the upstairs flat with Rhona half a lifetime ago. He’d had a portable record player then and had put on the second Rolling Stones album, grabbing Rhona and dancing her around the vast-seeming room.
Only later had the walls begun to close in.
When he peered at the spines of his LPs, he saw that they weren’t in anything like the same order as upstairs. Not that there had been any real sense of cataloguing – it was more that he’d known pretty much where he’d find whatever he wanted to hear. Instead of the Stones, he decided on Van Morrison.
‘Aye, you’ll do,’ he said to himself.
Having eased the needle onto the vinyl, he stepped back. The record skipped. He looked down at the floor. Loose floorboard. He placed his foot on it again and the same thing happened. He stabbed a finger at the offender.
‘You’re on my list now, pal,’ he warned it, keeping his footsteps soft as he retreated to his chair.
It wasn’t long before Brillo curled up on the floor next to his feet. Rebus had promised himself that he’d unpack a few more boxes before bedtime, but he realised there was no urgency. When his phone buzzed, he checked the screen before answering: Deborah Quant. He’d asked her a while back if they were courting. She’d replied that they were friends with benefits – which seemed to suit both of them just fine.
‘Hiya, Deb.’
‘Settling in?’
‘Thought you might have popped round to check.’
‘Busy day, mostly thanks to your lot.’
‘I’m long retired, Deb.’ Rebus paused. ‘I’m guessing this is the Saudi student?’
‘Police and Procurator Fiscal don’t seem to trust me to establish cause of death any more.’
‘You reckon pressure’s being applied?’
‘From all sides – government here and in London, plus our friends in the media. Added to which, Muslim burials usually take place within two to three days – embassy are pushing for that to happen.’
‘Handy for whoever killed him, if you can’t keep the body for future examination … ’
‘Which I’ve explained until I’m blue in the face.’
‘So it’s the full tourniquet, eh?’ He paused again. ‘I take it you didn’t find anything out of the ordinary?’
‘Thin-bladed knife, maybe four to six inches long.’
‘Did they know what they were doing?’
‘They went for his neck rather than chest, abdomen or stomach. I’m not a hundred per cent sure what that tells us, but then that’s not my job. Angle of incision suggests someone of similar height and probably right-handed. Can I assume you’ve been discussing it with Siobhan?’
‘She’s champing at the bit.’
‘But she’s a loyal friend, too.’
‘I’ve told her I’ll be fine from here in.’
‘So where are you right now?’
‘Chair in the living room, Brillo at my feet.’
‘And you’ve got the hi-fi set up, so all’s well with the world.’
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘You work too hard.’ He listened to her laughter.
‘It was the right move to make – you do know that, don’t you?’
‘For the sake of my lungs, maybe.’
‘Try spending a day without them, John. Give Brillo a scratch behind the ears from me. We’ll catch up soon.’
‘Night, Deb.’
And then she was gone. She lived less than a mile away, in a modern block where minimalism ruled. Her possessions were few because there was nowhere to keep them – no Edinburgh press or understairs cupboard, no nooks and crannies. Just clean lines that repelled the very notion of clutter. Her office at the mortuary was the same – no files were allowed to linger long on her desk.
Rebus thought again of the books he’d decided he couldn’t live without, even if he would never read them; the albums he played maybe once or twice a decade but still clung to; the boxes of case files that seemed a veritable part of him, like an extra limb. Why would he part with them when he had a spare bedroom no overnight guest ever graced? His only family consisted of his daughter and granddaughter, and they never opted to stay. That wa
s why he had ditched the old bed and replaced it with a two-seater sofa, leaving space for more bookshelves, the suitcase he doubted he would ever use, and his second-best record player, the same one he’d had when dancing with Rhona that first night. It no longer worked but he reckoned he could find someone to fix it. He would put it on his list.
When he went into the kitchen to make a mug of tea, he examined the central heating timer. Mrs Mackay had left the instruction manual but it looked straightforward enough.
‘Heating bills are quite reasonable,’ she’d told him. But then she had always opted for another layer of wool rather than an extra degree on the thermostat. He wondered if her various cardigans, pullovers and shawls had accompanied her to Australia. He wouldn’t bet against it.
While the kettle boiled, he walked into the main bedroom. With the double bed, plus his old wardrobe and chest of drawers, floor space was limited. Siobhan had helped him make up the bed, only having to shift Brillo half a dozen times in the process.
‘Tell me he doesn’t sleep next to you,’ she’d said.
‘Of course not,’ Rebus had lied.
The dog was watching now from the hallway. Rebus checked his watch. ‘Soon enough,’ he said. ‘Just one more mug of tea and maybe another record, eh?’
He wondered how many times he would wake up in the night and not know the new route to the bathroom. Maybe he’d leave the hall light on.
‘Or stop drinking bloody tea,’ he muttered to himself, heading back into the kitchen.
iv
But it wasn’t his need to pee that woke him at 5 a.m. It was a call. He fumbled for both his phone and the bedside lamp, waking Brillo in the process. He couldn’t quite focus on the screen but pressed the phone to his ear anyway.
‘Dad?’ His daughter Samantha’s urgent voice.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, sitting up, growing more awake by the second.
‘Your landline – it’s been cut off.’
‘I meant to tell you about that … ’
‘About what?’
‘My landline’s not the reason you’re calling at this hour. Is it Carrie?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘What then? Are you all right?’
‘It’s Keith.’
Her partner; Carrie’s father. Rebus swallowed. ‘What’s happened?’ He listened as Samantha began to sob quietly. Her voice cracked when she spoke.
‘He’s gone.’
‘The bastard … ’
‘Not like that … I don’t think so anyway.’ She sniffed. ‘I mean, I don’t really know. He’s disappeared. It’s been two days.’
‘And things were all right at home?’
‘No worse than usual.’
‘But you don’t think he’s just – I don’t know – maybe gone on a bender somewhere?’
‘He’s not like that.’
‘You’ve reported him missing?’
‘They’re sending someone to talk to me.’
‘They probably told you two days isn’t long?’
‘Yes. But his phone just goes to voicemail.’
‘And he didn’t pack a bag or anything?’
‘No. We’ve got a joint bank account – I looked online and he’s not bought anything or taken money out. His car was left in the lay-by near the church.’
Rebus knew where she meant – a five-minute walk from their home. He had parked there himself once to take in the view. Samantha lived on the edge of the village of Naver, on the wild north coast eight miles east of Tongue. The wind had rocked Rebus’s car as he’d sat in it.
‘Problems at work?’ he asked. ‘Money troubles?’
‘He knew I’d been seeing someone,’ she blurted out.
‘Right,’ Rebus said.
‘But that’s over and done with. It’s not why he left – I’m sure it’s not. He’d have taken his things. The key was still in the ignition … Parked so close to the house … it doesn’t make any sense. Does it make sense to you? I’m just … I’ve been awake all night going over it again and again, and I’m scared the police will think I had something to do with it.’
Rebus was quiet for a moment. ‘Why would they think that, Samantha?’
‘Because everyone here knows we were going through a rough patch. And they know about me and Jess.’
‘He’s the guy you were seeing? Did Keith ever square up to him?’
‘I don’t know. But this can’t have anything to do with Jess. It really can’t.’
‘Most likely outcome is that Keith will turn up – I’m speaking from experience here.’
‘I’ve got such a bad feeling, Dad.’
‘I can be there before lunchtime. What time are they coming to talk to you?’
‘They didn’t say.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got to get Carrie to school, I told them that.’
‘It’s going to be okay, Sammy, I promise.’ Sammy: his name for her until she’d decided she was too grown-up for it. For once, she didn’t correct him.
‘Thank you,’ she said instead, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it.
Day One
1
Siobhan Clarke woke to a text from Rebus. She decided it could wait until she’d made coffee. It was just gone seven and Graham Sutherland had already gone. She wondered if she should be unnerved by his ninja-like ability to dress and depart without her noticing.
‘Could have made me a drink, though … ’
She tramped back to her bedroom, still in her pyjamas, mug cupped in both hands. Placed it on the bedside table and lifted her phone, swiping it awake.
Big favour. Look after Brillo today. Key under half-brick next to front door. Talk later.
‘The hell?’ Clarke seated herself on the edge of the still-warm bed and made the call.
‘I’m driving,’ Rebus warned her. ‘Don’t want to get a ticket.’ His old Saab had no hands-free option. She could hear the engine churning.
‘Where’s the fire?’
‘Samantha. Her partner’s gone AWOL.’
‘You’re driving to Tongue?’
‘Not quite – they moved to the next village along a couple of years back.’
‘And you reckon your rust bucket’s up to the job?’
‘I almost asked to borrow yours.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘It was five o’clock. I wasn’t sure you’d have thanked me.’
‘I’d also have held you back with a few questions.’
‘That too. Brillo doesn’t need much looking after – a bit of a walk and you can leave him to his own devices while you go beg for a place on the MIT.’
‘You don’t want me unpacking for you?’
‘It’s all done.’
‘Liar.’
‘Don’t you go rummaging through my stuff without my say-so.’
‘You reckon you’ll only be away for the day?’
‘Mispers, Shiv – they almost always turn up eventually.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Just south of Pitlochry.’
‘On the dreaded A9?’ She paused. ‘Is Samantha all right?’
‘Would you be?’
‘How long’s he been gone?’
‘Two days, one night.’
‘Suicide risk?’
‘Not overly.’
‘Oh?’ Clarke tipped the mug to her mouth.
‘Samantha says she was seeing someone else.’
‘Ah.’
‘He didn’t pack a bag; car left near the house; hasn’t used his debit card.’
‘Maybe trying to give her a fright?’
‘In which case he’ll be getting a slap.’
‘From her or from you?’
‘Let’s catch up later. You know where Brillo’s stuff
is.’
‘I did until you rearranged the kitchen.’
‘Always good to have a challenge, Shiv.’
In the time she took to shape her reply, Rebus had ended the call.
It was just after ten by the time she reached the MIT office. The room was buzzing with activity, Graham Sutherland leaning over Christine Esson’s desk as she explained to him whatever was on her computer screen. When he spotted Clarke, Sutherland broke off the conversation and sauntered in her direction.
‘Can’t seem to keep you away, DI Clarke,’ he said, folding his arms as he planted himself in front of her.
She gave a shrug and what she hoped was an endearing smile. ‘John’s headed out of town. I’ve literally got nothing else to do.’
‘But like I said, I’ve a full complement here.’ He gestured to the desks. Clarke recognised everyone: Esson and Ogilvie; DSs Tess Leighton and George Gamble, another DC called Phil Yeats. She’d worked with them before as part of Sutherland’s team. They all knew about her and the boss. Only Gamble ever gave her any stick.
‘No DI that I can see,’ she commented.
‘That would be me.’
She turned towards the doorway. Malcolm Fox had just entered, carrying a sheaf of paperwork.
‘You get around, Malcolm,’ Clarke said.
‘Major Crime Division are taking an interest,’ Sutherland explained, not sounding exactly thrilled about it. ‘They’ve loaned us DI Fox for the duration.’
‘Making daily reports to our elders and betters, I dare say.’
‘Above all else, I’m a team player, Siobhan – you know that.’
Clarke couldn’t help glancing in Tess Leighton’s direction. The look Leighton gave her signalled that the relationship she’d had with Fox hadn’t lasted.
‘I can be useful, sir,’ Clarke said, turning her attention back to Sutherland. ‘You know I can.’
Sutherland took his time considering. ‘It would mean sharing a desk with Malcolm.’
‘As long as he promises not to copy my classwork.’ Clarke knew what Sutherland was thinking – just as Fox would be keeping an eye on them and reporting back to his bosses, so she’d have an eye on him, keeping Sutherland in the loop.
