by Ian Rankin
‘I’m the one dragging you out, after all.’
A man had risen from one of the tables. He waited until he had their attention, then nodded towards the barman. ‘He’s too young to know who you are, but I’m not. We don’t want any trouble here.’
Cafferty looked at Rebus. ‘Is he talking to you or to me?’ Then, to the man: ‘Don’t sweat it.’ He stuck out a hand, which the man — presumably the landlord — took, before returning to his table, a relieved look on his face.
‘Didn’t even offer us one on the house,’ Cafferty complained, demolishing his whisky and ordering another. ‘So, is it true about all these poor wee girls?’
‘Is what true?’
‘The count’s up to six now.’
‘Is it?’
‘I can use a computer, same as the next man. Silver surfers, they call us. So Annette McKie’s just the last in a long line?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Maybe that’s the way it’s meant to look.’
Rebus put his glass down. ‘What are you saying?’
‘She’d had an argument with Frank Hammell, hadn’t she?’
‘Who told you that?’
Cafferty just smiled. ‘Could he maybe have followed her, with a view to settling it?’
‘You’d like us to put Hammell in the frame?’
Cafferty laughed away the suggestion. ‘I’m just speculating here.’
‘So how did that photo end up getting sent from Annette’s phone? How could Hammell have known about the others?’
‘Frank has fingers in many pies.’
But Rebus was shaking his head. He lifted the pint again. ‘He just didn’t want her taking the bus. Turns out he was right, too — she probably wouldn’t have got travel-sick on the train.’
‘I still think it’s too convenient,’ Cafferty offered. ‘Hammell’s a player, and she’s the next best thing he has to a daughter of his own. It can’t be down to chance that she was snatched. Have you spoken to Calum MacBride or Stuart Macleod?’
‘Never even heard of them.’
‘They run Aberdeen. There’s been a bit of tension between them and Hammell. .’
‘Same questions, then: why the photograph, and how did they know?’
‘I’m not the detective here.’
‘No, you’re not. What you are, though, is the same conniving bastard you’ve always been. Six missing women and you’re trying to conjure something out of it for your own entertainment.’
Cafferty’s eyes darkened. ‘Careful what you say, Rebus.’
‘I speak as I find.’ Rebus pushed his drink away and headed for the door. The landlord was outside, puffing on a cigarette and with his phone pressed to his face. He recognised Rebus and wished him all the best. As it dawned, however, that Cafferty was staying inside, he began to look a little more anxious. Rebus lit a cigarette of his own and kept walking.
Fox watched him leave. He was slouched in the passenger seat of a Ford Mondeo, parked across the street from the pub, outside a late-opening grocer’s shop. His colleague, Tony Kaye, was inside the shop itself, making it look as though they’d pulled up to buy provisions. Kaye emerged toting a four-pack of beer and munching on a Mars bar. He dumped the cans on the back seat and walked around to the driver’s side.
‘Cafferty’s still in there,’ Fox told him. But only a minute or two later the man emerged. He must have phoned for a taxi, because one drew to a halt and he climbed in. A further figure left the pub straight afterwards and jogged towards the Mondeo.
‘For me?’ he said, climbing into the back and opening one of the beers.
‘Better be worth it,’ Kaye muttered.
Joe Naysmith was the youngest member of Fox’s small team. He swallowed and stifled a burp before making his report.
‘Football on the telly. Helluva din.’
‘Could you make out any of what they were saying?’ Fox demanded.
‘Seemed to be about Frank Hammell. Him and the girl who went missing.’
‘What about them?’
Naysmith offered a shrug. ‘Like I say, it was noisy. If I’d got too close they’d have clocked me.’
‘Useless,’ Tony Kaye growled. He turned towards Fox. ‘All this effort, Malcolm — for what exactly?’
‘For a result.’
‘Some result.’ Kaye paused. ‘Who tipped you off that they’d be meeting?’
‘Text message. Number blocked.’
‘Same as before, then. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’
‘What?’
Kaye gestured in the direction Rebus had taken. ‘If he’s being set up.’
Fox stared at his colleague. ‘Am I missing something? Didn’t a retired detective — a current police employee, by the way, with his nose deep in an ongoing case — just have a known gangster turn up at his door? And didn’t the two of them then go out together for a drink and a catch-up?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It means everything, especially when they start discussing the very case Rebus is working on. Throw Frank Hammell’s name into the mix and it gets more interesting still.’
‘I don’t see it,’ Kaye said, shaking his head.
‘I do,’ Fox retorted. ‘And at the end of the day, that’s what really matters.’
‘Want one?’ Joe Naysmith asked, holding out a can towards Kaye.
‘Why the hell not?’ Kaye snatched at it.
‘In which case, I’m driving,’ Fox said, pushing open the passenger-side door.
‘Afraid we’ll be pulled over? Why not take a risk for once?’
‘We’re swapping,’ Fox persisted.
Kaye looked at him and knew the man wouldn’t give up. He sighed and reached for the door handle.
Part Four
I took a jar of pain to the soaking field. .
42
If he’d been putting together a mix tape for the journey, it would have featured plenty of songs about roads. Canned Heat and the Rolling Stones, Manfred Mann and the Doors. He refuelled at Kinross, checked out the roadworks north of Pitlochry, and stopped for tea and a cheese scone at Bruar, where he looked at his phone and found a missed call from Nina Hazlitt — making four in total — and a message from Siobhan Clarke telling him that rooms had been booked for a couple of nights at Whicher’s. He doubted this was coincidence. Maybe it was the only hotel Clarke knew in Inverness. Inverness, however, was not his immediate destination. He stayed on the A9, crossing the Kessock Bridge. Alness, followed by Tain, and finally the turn-off to Edderton. Jim Mellon had been contacted, and he’d made sure the police located the spot. A Portakabin was being unloaded from a flatbed lorry, which would have the devil’s own job reversing back to the main road. The crane arm dropped the Portakabin on to the narrow lane ahead of it. Maybe the fields were too marshy to take its weight. The end result was that diversions would be needed. No traffic was going to be able to pass this way until the police operation had finished. A uniform gestured for Rebus to lower his window. Rebus obliged, holding out his ID. Mellon was in consultation with a woman in a smart two-piece suit, the pair of them pointing towards the hills. The woman held a copy of the photo sent from Annette McKie’s phone. She had come prepared: shoes swapped for green wellies. Rebus wished he’d thought of that.
He manoeuvred the Saab up on to what verge there was.
‘Give me a shout when the lorry needs to get out,’ he told the uniform. The man nodded, adding Rebus’s licence plate to the clipboard he was holding. Mellon had recognised him and was giving him a wave. Rebus walked forward and shook hands. The woman was waiting for an introduction.
‘I’m John Rebus,’ he obliged. ‘Attached to the Edinburgh inquiry.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Mr Mellon was telling me about you. I’m DCS Dempsey.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ They shook hands and sized one another up. She was around forty, buxom and bespectacled and with shoulder-length ash-blonde hair.
‘Where’s DCI Page?’ she
asked.
‘On his way. What do you make of the comparison?’ Rebus gestured towards the photo she was holding.
‘I think it was taken pretty much where we’re standing.’ She paused. ‘Though I’m still not sure what its significance might be.’
‘Whoever sent it, if he’s being really clever, then he’s brought us here to waste our time and effort.’
She stared at him. ‘We’re praying he’s not that clever?’
Rebus nodded.
‘Then let’s hope that’s the case.’ She gestured towards the line of police vans parked on the carriageway past the Portakabin. They would have to head towards Aultnamain and circle back towards home — no way they could squeeze past the obstruction. Officers were being arranged into groups and shown maps, presumably marked with the grid they would be covering. ‘What is it they should be looking for?’
‘Anything out of place,’ Rebus advised. ‘Scraps of clothing, cigarette ends, a discarded bottle or can.’ He paused. ‘How about the interviews?’
‘A team of six,’ she replied. ‘There really aren’t that many habitations for them to visit.’
‘Would it be cheeky of me to ask them to check cafes and petrol stations too?’
‘Within what sort of radius?’ She had narrowed her eyes a little, as if reappraising him.
‘Dornoch, Bonar Bridge, Tain — for starters, anyway.’
This merited the thinnest of smiles. ‘You know this part of the world?’
‘A bit.’
‘What’s your thinking?’
‘A traveller — might not be someone who lives locally. But they must know the area.’
‘We’ll see what we can do.’ She had been about to add his rank until realising she didn’t know it.
‘I rose to the giddy heights of detective inspector,’ Rebus informed her.
‘Past tense?’
He nodded again. There was an incoming text on his phone.
‘Lucky you,’ Dempsey said. ‘I’m getting no signal.’
‘Half a bar,’ Rebus said. ‘And as Mr Mellon will tell you, a gust of wind the wrong way and I’ll lose it.’
The message was from Clarke, letting him know they’d reached HQ in Inverness and were about to go into a meeting with ‘the brass’. But Rebus knew that the only ‘brass’ worth dealing with was right there with him. When he looked up, Dempsey was on her way over to one of the search teams. They carried thin sticks and evidence bags and seemed enthusiastic about the task ahead of them. When Dempsey started giving them what Rebus guessed must be a pep talk, they paid close attention.
‘A fine woman,’ Mellon said in an undertone. ‘You’d be proud coming home to that of an evening.’
The uniform with the clipboard was standing by Rebus’s shoulder.
‘Time to move your car, sir,’ he said, as the air brakes on the flatbed gave a loud hiss. ‘If you want it kept in one piece. .’
43
Mid afternoon. Neither Page nor Clarke had put in an appearance. From her texts, it seemed to Rebus that this was not Clarke’s favoured strategy, but Page had lined up a series of meetings, presumably so he could listen to his own voice, and Clarke had felt obliged to stick with him.
Sandwiches and bottles of water had appeared from somewhere. They filled the back of a patrol car, its doors wide open so people could help themselves. No hot drinks, though Mellon had offered to see what he could do. The Portakabin contained little more than a table and a couple of chairs. There was an Ordnance Survey map of the area on the table, the whole scene reminding Rebus of that first trip to the roadworks outside Pitlochry. A generator was on its way, so that the structure could have both lighting and heat. Another half-hour or so and the search would be called off for the day. Light was fading — at least thirty minutes earlier than in Edinburgh. Rebus was sipping water when the van arrived. It parked at the rear of the line of vehicles. There was no sign of the officer on clipboard duty. A uniform emerged from the driver’s seat and nodded a greeting towards Rebus. Rebus got a bit closer so he could read the writing on the van’s side.
Grampian Police Canine Unit.
The back had been opened and a cage unlocked. A dappled springer spaniel emerged and began a keen examination of the road surface.
‘Long way from home,’ Rebus commented.
‘Northern doesn’t have anyone like Ruby,’ the officer explained.
‘You’ve driven here from Aberdeen?’
The man nodded, his attention focused on the dog.
‘Left it a bit late.’ Rebus studied the sky.
‘Ruby’s not using her eyes, though. Means she can work that bit longer. You in charge?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘DCS Dempsey’s the one you need, but she’s had to head back to Inverness.’
‘Maybe I’ll just get started, then.’ The dog handler looked like he came from farming stock: plenty of girth and a ruddy face, black hair swept back from his forehead. The gate to the field stood open, and Ruby was itching to explore, but she wasn’t going anywhere until given permission.
‘Don’t you need. .?’
‘What?’
‘A bit of cloth or something belonging to the MisPer?’
‘That’s not Ruby’s speciality,’ the officer said.
‘So what is?’
‘She’s a cadaver dog.’ He gave a signal to the spaniel and she bounded across the field in front of him. One of the search teams was arriving back from the hunt, meagre gatherings in their evidence bags. They headed for the Portakabin, so they could record what they’d found and leave the bags on the table. When they went over to the food car, Rebus took a look at their haul. A rusty bottle top, crisp bags and chocolate wrappers, an old paint can, half a brick. .
Bits of twine. .
A few shredded remains of a carrier bag. .
A mouse skeleton. .
Some feathers. .
It was desperate stuff. If the team had looked full of energy at the start, they were now a lot more sombre, pessimism setting in. Rebus had lost sight of the dog handler, but he found him again: already halfway across the field, heading for the line of trees beyond. He was passing another of the search teams as it headed back. One of the officers bent down as if to stroke Ruby, but then straightened up — warned off, Rebus reckoned. Ruby had been trained for work, not play.
There were mutterings at the food car. Phones were being checked for messages, held high in the air as a signal was sought.
‘Better luck tomorrow,’ someone commented.
‘As long as the weather holds.’
Rebus asked about the forecast.
‘Grim,’ he was told.
‘Maybe sleet,’ another voice added. Then: ‘Are you from Edinburgh?’
Rebus nodded.
‘I hate that place,’ the cop said. ‘Cannot bloody stand it.’
‘I’m guessing you’re from Inverness.’
The man scowled at Rebus. ‘Hate that place, too. Dingwall’s good enough for me.’
‘Isn’t it time for your meds, Bobby?’ someone else enquired, causing a few tired smiles.
Half an hour later, the message came through from HQ: call it a day. Dempsey would not be coming back. Someone was given the task of locking the Portakabin.
‘We’re leaving the evidence here overnight?’ Rebus asked.
‘If you can call it evidence. The Chief will take a look at it in the morning and decide what to do.’
‘How much more ground still to cover?’
‘Plenty.’
Rebus watched the teams prepare their escape. There were mutterings from those whose vehicles were stuck the wrong side of the Portakabin — long detours lay ahead of them. Cars had to be manoeuvred past other cars. One got stuck, muddy tyres spinning, and had to be pushed off the verge. As the last patrol car reversed down the lane, the four officers inside gave Rebus a little wave. They were talking about him, breaking into grins. Rebus didn’t bother waving back. The dog-handling van was still ther
e, about twenty yards separating it from Rebus’s Saab. These were the only two vehicles left. Dusk had descended, and Rebus could see about two thirds of the field. There was no sign of Ruby and her colleague. He leaned against his car and smoked a cigarette, stubbing it out afterwards into the Saab’s ashtray — didn’t want to leave anything behind that could be misread as a clue. Not that this seemed to have occurred to the search teams. Crusts of bread and bits of sweetcorn were scattered on the roadway next to where the food car had been. There was even a discarded plastic water bottle in the ditch. Rebus picked it up and threw it on to his passenger seat.
A waste of time, maybe, but all the same. .
Another fifteen minutes or so and it would be pitch black — no street light of any kind out here. He could already pick out a few stars in the sky, and the temperature was dropping. He sounded his horn three times, in the hope that the dog handler would get the message. When he heard a whistle, he reckoned it was in response, but it came again, and again after that — more urgently. It wasn’t the sort of sound you made when you were communicating with your dog, and it was followed by a shout from somewhere the other side of the field. Rebus couldn’t see anything. He knew from the search team’s footwear that the field was far from dry. No torch in his Saab, meaning he’d only have the light from his phone’s screen if he happened to get lost.
Another cry.
‘Bollocks,’ Rebus said to himself, setting out through the gate.
The field contained dips and shallow hollows, and this was where it was most treacherous. Rebus felt himself sink up to his ankles. He cursed again but kept moving, breathing heavily. A fence separated the field from the trees beyond. It was the best part of four feet in height, topped with a strand of barbed wire. Rebus peered beyond it.
‘You there?’ he called out.
‘Here,’ the dog handler said.
‘Where?’
A thin beam of light appeared. The woods were deeper than Rebus had expected. Ruby and her master were somewhere within. Rebus looked at the fence, then to left and right, seeking a stile or another gate. Seeing neither, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the barbed wire, easing one leg over the fence, then the other. His trousers snagged on something and he heard them tear. One jagged tine had pierced coat and trouser leg both.
