Standing in another's man grave ir-18

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Bastard,’ he said under his breath. He sank up to his ankles again, almost losing a shoe as he pulled himself up a low bank and into the woods.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Here,’ the dog handler said, shining the small torch again. ‘Can you go fetch a team?’

  ‘They’ve all gone.’ Rebus could see both dog and man. Ruby was seated on the damp ground, tail wagging, tongue lolling. ‘What is it?’ Rebus asked, trying to catch his breath. In answer, the handler directed the torch to a spot just beyond Ruby. The dog turned her head in the same direction, licking her chops. The earth had been disturbed, and Rebus knew what it was he was being shown.

  An all-too-human hand, jutting up from the makeshift grave.

  ‘Christ,’ he hissed.

  ‘Thing is,’ the officer said, playing the torch over the clearing, ‘I don’t think Ruby’s done yet — not by a long chalk.’

  44

  The diesel thrumming of the generators. Half a dozen arc lamps illuminating proceedings. Officers reeling out lengths of crime-scene tape. A mud track led from the lane into the trees. This track was now out of bounds, bordered by the blue-and-white-striped tape. A vehicle must have been used; doubtful the bodies had been dragged or carried all the way.

  ‘Has to be all-wheel drive,’ Rebus had posited to Clarke. ‘Mind you, that probably accounts for three quarters of the cars in these parts.’

  She had nodded, staring at him.

  ‘What?’ he had asked.

  ‘I just can’t believe you were here.’

  To which he had offered only a shrug.

  Page was in consultation with Dempsey. He had done well to borrow boots from somewhere. Rebus’s own shoes needed drying out — either that or chucking away. Clean socks wouldn’t be a bad idea either, and as for his trousers. .

  ‘You bleeding?’ Clarke asked as he checked the damage.

  ‘Just a scratch.’

  ‘Might need a tetanus shot.’

  ‘Tot of whisky’ll do me fine.’

  They were discussing anything but what lay in front of them. Ruby had located three bodies so far, and was now on a break, her handler having fetched a bowl and a bottle of water from the van. The scene-of-crime team had arrived and were busy. A doctor had been found, and a couple of evidence officers were busy with video cameras.

  ‘So how was your day?’ Rebus made show of asking Clarke.

  ‘Oh, you know, just the usual.’ She folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to stay warm.

  ‘Checked into the hotel yet?’

  ‘Seems all right.’ She shuffled her feet. They were standing well away from the three graves, there being not enough overshoes and the like to go round. Trace evidence again; the ‘integrity of the locus’ had to be maintained — Page had used those exact words when explaining to Clarke why she’d have to stay this side of the tape for now. Rebus hadn’t merited any such apology, or even an acknowledgement of his existence.

  Even though he’d been the one to call it in.

  Or maybe because he’d been the one to call it in.

  Dempsey had thanked him, though, Rebus reminding her that it was Ruby’s result more than his.

  ‘Sore point,’ Clarke had said to him afterwards. ‘As I was hearing at HQ, not much love lost between Northern Constabulary and their neighbours in Grampian. .’

  She was looking at her phone now, reciting the time. ‘Ten fifteen.’

  ‘Feels later,’ Rebus offered.

  ‘How long have you been out here?’

  Rebus didn’t like to think. Instead he moved aside to let more SOCOs through. They ducked beneath the tape, dressed in their hooded white overalls and elasticated shoe covers, making a rustling sound as they walked. They carried cases and folded plastic sheets. The mortuary van had yet to arrive. It would bring the body bags. But nothing was being moved just yet.

  Rudimentary tents had been erected over only two of the graves, someone having been dispatched to Inverness for more.

  ‘This is interminable,’ Clarke said, shuffling her feet again.

  ‘We could sit in the car,’ Rebus offered. She dismissed this with a firm shake of the head. ‘If Page needs you, he’ll know where to find you.’

  ‘He’ll find me right here,’ she stated.

  ‘Well, I’m going for a cigarette.’ She nodded and he left her to it, emerging on to the road and lighting up. Looking back, he saw the long shadows of the players as they moved around the clearing. One of the generators was really making a hellish racket, but it was better than silence, better than overhearing snatches of the discussions the SOCOs would be having.

  It was a lonely spot. He couldn’t help wondering if they’d been brought here alive, bound and gagged perhaps, or in a stupor. Or maybe already dead. Trace evidence again — there had to be some of it in the vehicle. Fibres of clothing; strands of hair; maybe even saliva or blood.

  Did they arrive here in daylight or at night? He guessed the latter. But a car left on the lane at night would look suspicious to anyone happening to drive past — another reason to take it into the woods.

  Where it might have left tyre tracks, scrapings of paint against a trunk or branch.

  The forensic team would get busy in the morning; they needed daylight for their work.

  A cordon had been put in place at both ends of the road, diversion signs posted. When a man approached on foot, Rebus tensed. His shoes and trouser bottoms were soaked, meaning he’d got past the guards by crossing the fields.

  Journalist.

  He had his phone out, held in front of him to film what he saw. Rebus covered his face with his hand.

  ‘Put that bloody thing away unless you want a night in the cells,’ he barked. ‘Then turn yourself around and bugger off the way you came.’

  ‘Can I quote you on that, officer?’ He was young, with fair curly hair spilling from the hood of a green Barbour jacket.

  ‘I mean it.’ Rebus checked and saw that the phone had been lowered.

  ‘Big operation,’ the reporter said, rising up on to his tiptoes to peer over Rebus’s shoulder. ‘SOCOs and everything. I’m guessing that means you’ve found something.’

  ‘You’ll know when everybody else does,’ Rebus growled.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Rebus turned in the direction of the voice. DCS Dempsey was striding towards him.

  ‘Pond life,’ Rebus explained, but her eyes were on the young man.

  ‘Might have guessed you’d be first out of the traps, Raymond.’

  ‘Anything you’d care to share, DCS Dempsey?’ He was busy with his mobile’s touch screen, turning it from camera to tape recorder.

  ‘There’ll be a press conference in the morning.’

  ‘Too late for our early edition. Throw me a bone here, will you? The internet’s killing us.’

  Dempsey gave a theatrical sigh. ‘There seem to be human remains, but we don’t know much more than that. Now off you go.’

  When the reporter tried asking a further question, she shooed him away. He gave a lopsided grin. ‘See you at Mum’s on Sunday, then?’

  She nodded, avoiding eye contact with Rebus. The reporter was already on the phone to his newsroom, having turned back the way he’d come.

  ‘Is Raymond his first name or his last?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘First,’ Dempsey confided. ‘And before you say anything, he’s my nephew. Doesn’t mean he gets special treatment.’

  ‘I thought he just did.’ She made no response. ‘Well,’ Rebus went on, ‘I hope he’s got sharp elbows — when word gets out, there’s going to be a media scrum.’ They stood in silence for a moment. ‘How many are we up to?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Five, I think. Four in an advanced state of decay.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet against it being Annette McKie.’

  Rebus watched as Page and Clarke emerged from the woods, Page removing his shoe protectors. Clar
ke was stony-faced as she checked her phone for a signal. Page looked pale and queasy. He turned away and dry-heaved, hand clamped to his mouth to muffle the sound. Rebus offered him what water was left in his bottle. Page accepted it with a nod of thanks. Clarke had got through and was talking to either Esson or Ogilvie, letting them know the game plan had just changed.

  ‘I need to get back to Inverness,’ Dempsey announced. ‘Gee up some pathologists and see what can be done before morning.’ She studied the three Edinburgh detectives. ‘You lot should get your heads down — big day in front of all of us. .’ She started walking towards her car, shoulders slumped. Page was offering Rebus’s water back to him.

  ‘It’s yours now,’ Rebus said. Clarke had ended her call.

  ‘Will the restaurant still be open at the hotel?’ she asked.

  Rebus shook his head. ‘A sandwich in the bar if you’re lucky. Crisps on the side.’

  ‘Can you pair stop talking about food?’ Page requested, angling his head away from them as another wave of nausea struck.

  45

  Almost two a.m.

  Page had retired an hour back, and Esson and Ogilvie soon after. The original plan had been for the pair of them to head to Edinburgh at day’s end, but Clarke hadn’t wanted either of them nodding off at the wheel. Neither had seemed to mind. They had interviewed the parents of the Golspie and Fort Augustus victims, gleaning not very much in the process.

  ‘It was weird seeing Jemima’s bedroom,’ Esson had said. ‘It really is exactly as she left it. Some people just can’t let go, can they?’

  Reception had doled out little toothbrush sets for both Esson and Ogilvie, and found them a couple of rooms at ‘the last-minute rate’. Rebus guessed the place might be busier next day, depending on how many news channels decided to cover the story. He was nursing his fourth whisky of the night.

  ‘You thawed out yet?’ he asked Clarke.

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘I’ve half a mind to head back out there,’ Rebus told her.

  ‘What good would it do?’ She was staring at her phone’s screen, using the hotel wi-fi to scour the internet for mentions of Edderton.

  ‘None,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’d just be in everyone’s way. On the other hand, I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.’

  ‘Four’s not enough any more?’ She gestured towards his whisky glass.

  ‘Never has been. This is just taking the edge off.’

  She picked up a shred of lettuce from the plate in front of her. The sandwiches, crisps and cherry tomatoes had been dispatched, though Rebus had abstained, with the complaint that he’d already eaten his own weight in white bread that day.

  ‘This is just beginning, isn’t it?’ Clarke speculated. ‘Totally different case now.’

  ‘Nothing’s really changed,’ Rebus countered. ‘We’ve got confirmation, that’s all.’

  ‘You always knew it would turn out like this?’

  ‘It was a possibility — we all knew that, whether we said so or not.’

  ‘You’ve worked more of these cases than I have: where do we go from here?’

  ‘Local interviews; crime-scene analysis; appeals for information. .’

  ‘What sort of person are we looking for?’

  ‘Isn’t that a question for one of your profiler chums?’

  ‘I don’t have any profiler chums. And it’s out of my hands anyway.’

  Rebus looked at her. ‘I’m not convinced our pal Page is up to the task. You might need to be at his shoulder.’

  ‘James will be fine. He’s just not been to many murder scenes.’

  ‘He’s an office manager, Siobhan — could be CID or a company selling fitted kitchens. This needs someone a bit different.’

  ‘DCS Dempsey’s at the head of the table.’

  ‘That’s a definite bonus. But even she won’t have covered something like this before.’

  ‘And you have? You’re asking me to get you an invite into the boardroom?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘That might make it a bit crowded — unless you want me left outside?’

  He shook his head. ‘I just need to be there.’

  ‘Won’t always be possible, John.’ She finished her orange juice and checked the time. ‘What’s the breakfast like?’

  ‘Substantial.’

  ‘I forgot to ask when they start serving. .’

  ‘Seven.’

  She gave a tired smile. ‘It’s like sitting with the Michelin guide.’ Then she rose to her feet, bidding him good night.

  He sat for the length of one final drink, adding it to his tab. His phone was on the table in front of him. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. He could call Nina Hazlitt. Or Frank Hammell. Or Darryl Christie. By morning the news would be out there, broken by Dempsey’s nephew. No, he decided eventually — give them one last night of unknowing, one last sleep sprinkled with hope. When he tried getting to his feet, the backs of his legs ached: too much standing around in the cold. There were some books on a shelf in the bar area, and he asked if it was all right to borrow one.

  ‘That’s what they’re there for, sir.’

  The one he picked — for its title more than anything — was Cracking the Code. He took it upstairs to bed with him, the barman’s last words echoing in his head:

  Pleasant dreams. .

  46

  The first news crew arrived at breakfast time.

  Rebus was out front, smoking a cigarette. Rain had arrived in heavy gusts, and he was sheltering next to the hotel’s entrance. The crew chatted among themselves as they sprinted past him. They didn’t have reservations, but were hopeful; an early check-in would be a bonus; quick shower and something to eat, then they could get on the road to Edderton. English accents; unshaven; bleary-eyed: Rebus got the idea they’d driven through the night to get there. He flicked away his cigarette and headed for the breakfast room. Page was busy on his phone, while Clarke started on the second pot of coffee.

  ‘Slight problem,’ Rebus told her, nodding towards the open doorway. Clarke had a clear view of the reception desk. One of the arrivals held a full-sized news camera at his side. Page saw it too, and told the person he was speaking to that he would call back.

  ‘If they’re staying, we’re not,’ he commented.

  ‘Agreed,’ Clarke said. Then: ‘Any news from Dempsey?’

  Page nodded slowly. ‘First autopsy will start in an hour. Pathologist reckons it’ll take a couple of days to get through them. Meantime, forensics are busy at the locus.’

  ‘Weather won’t be helping,’ Rebus interrupted.

  ‘They’ve covered what they can with plastic sheeting,’ Page informed him.

  ‘I need to buy some wellies,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Me too.’ Rebus lifted one foot so she could see his rudimentary attempt at shoe-cleaning. ‘And trousers, while I’m at it.’ The reception desk had provided a needle and thread, but his repair wasn’t going to hold.

  ‘How about the tetanus?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘What are the symptoms?’

  ‘Headache, dry mouth. .’ She examined his sewing. ‘Lack of hand/eye coordination.’

  Page was busy checking messages. ‘Are Christine and Ronnie on the road home?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Clarke confirmed.

  ‘Dempsey’s going to want the families brought to Inverness,’ Page said. ‘It’s a murder investigation now.’

  ‘That reminds me, we should buy Ruby a nice juicy bone,’ Rebus said.

  All three of them watched as the news crew entered the dining room, grabbing a table before heading for the buffet. There was a swagger to them, as though they suddenly owned the place.

  ‘I think that’s our cue to make an exit,’ Page said, getting to his feet.

  They decided not to check out — not until they knew there was somewhere else for them to go. There wasn’t much leg room in the back of Clarke’s Audi, but that was where Rebus ended up. On the way to
Northern Constabulary HQ, Page decided to entertain them with a pep talk about protocol and how they were ‘representatives’ of Lothian and Borders Police so should ‘showcase’ their talents and not make ‘waves’ — or any foul-ups. Rebus got the feeling the speech was aimed squarely at him. He met Clarke’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but she wasn’t giving anything away.

  The building they were looking for was next to a roundabout and across the road from a twenty-four-hour Tesco. The police HQ was a modern three-storey construction of pink stone and smoked glass. There were journalists waiting on the roadway and pavement in front of it, setting up cameras or busy on their phones. A uniformed constable checked Page’s warrant card before nodding the Audi in the direction of a parking space. Rebus spotted a sign next to the entrance with the motto Protect and Serve on it, written in Gaelic as well as English. Bit late for the ‘protect’ part; all that was left was the ‘serve’. .

  Once indoors, they learned that Detective Chief Superintendent Dempsey had already left for the first autopsy. It was being held at nearby Raigmore Hospital. Rebus couldn’t help thinking: same place as Sammy’s IVF. Page was asking for directions when a text arrived on his phone.

  ‘Dempsey,’ he explained to Clarke and Rebus. ‘Resident pathologist’s apparently annoyed by the number of bodies — live rather than dead — and wouldn’t welcome us adding to the total.’ He gnawed at his bottom lip. Rebus knew what he’d be thinking. They were here as guests of Northern Constabulary. It wasn’t really their case — not until Annette McKie was formally identified. Even then, common sense dictated that the McKie inquiry would be bundled with the others. With Edderton as the locus, it was Northern’s case, no contest. If Page complained or made a fuss, they could be sent packing at a moment’s notice. On the other hand, what use were they to anyone just hanging around, waiting to be told what had already happened in their absence?