Standing in another's man grave ir-18

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I did see that photo of you with Hammell and Hazlitt. .’

  ‘And you thought you’d call me to gloat?’

  ‘What is there to gloat about?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He crushed the butt of his cigarette underfoot and got into the Saab. Would this be the day it refused to start?

  The engine growled into life; none of the dashboard’s warning lights came on.

  ‘So, anyway,’ Esson was saying, ‘I said I’d pass on her number.’

  ‘Sorry, Christine, I missed the start of that. Whose number?’

  ‘The woman who phoned wanting to speak to you about Sally Hazlitt.’

  Rebus rolled his eyes. Another sighting. ‘How much of a crank did she sound?’

  ‘She seemed perfectly sane. Told me to give you her name and get you to call her.’

  Rebus sighed, but reached into his pocket for his notebook and pen. When Esson read the woman’s name out, he stiffened. Then he asked her to repeat it.

  ‘Susie Mercer,’ she obliged, keeping her intonation nice and clear.

  ‘That’s what I thought you said first time,’ Rebus told her.

  53

  Glasgow.

  Rebus had told the woman who called herself Susie Mercer: ‘This has to be in person.’

  She’d asked him why.

  ‘I need to be sure.’

  She was in Glasgow. A9 south, then M80 west. It was lunchtime before Rebus arrived, parking in a multi-storey near the bus station and walking the short distance to Buchanan Street. As arranged, he called her again.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Heading down Buchanan Street.’

  ‘Turn left at Royal Exchange. You’ll see a cafe there called Thompson’s. Sit at the counter by the window.’

  ‘I’m hardly James Bond material.’

  ‘Just do it or I walk.’

  So Rebus did it — ordered a coffee and an orange juice and sat with them, staring out at the passing parade of shoppers. Glasgow wasn’t his patch. It was a sprawl compared to Edinburgh. As long as he stuck to a half-dozen streets, he could navigate his way around; outside that tight circumference, he’d be lost.

  It was a good five minutes before she came in. She eased herself on to the stool next to him.

  ‘Had to be sure you weren’t bringing her,’ she announced.

  Rebus studied her. She’d cropped her hair and bleached it, then plucked her eyebrows till they almost ceased to exist. But the eyes and cheekbones were still those of her mother.

  ‘You’ve gotten good at this down the years,’ Rebus said, staring into the eyes of Sally Hazlitt.

  ‘Not good enough,’ she snapped back.

  ‘That e-fit was a fair likeness, though — no wonder you panicked.’ He paused. ‘So do I call you Sally, or Susie, or have you already fixed on a new name?’

  She stared at him. ‘Nina keeps mentioning you on the news. Then I saw that photo of the two of you. .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she needs to be told to stop.’

  ‘Stop looking for you or stop thinking you’re a murder victim?’

  Her eyes remained fixed on his. ‘Both.’

  ‘Why not tell her yourself?’

  She shook her head. ‘No way,’ she said.

  ‘Then tell me why you did it.’ Rebus lifted the coffee to his mouth.

  ‘First I need you to tell me something — why do you think she’s doing it?’

  ‘She’s your mother. What other reason does she need?’

  But Sally Hazlitt was shaking her head again. ‘Has she told you anything about what our lives were like?’

  Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Your mum and dad were teachers. Lived in London. .’

  ‘That’s as much as you know?’

  ‘Crouch End, she told me — a nicer area than they should have been able to afford. A relative left some sort of legacy.’ He paused. ‘She’s still in the same house, by the way, sharing with your Uncle Alfie at the moment. Your dad liked reading you stories when you were a kid.’ He paused again, maintaining eye contact. ‘You know he’s dead?’

  She nodded. ‘Good riddance.’ And at last Rebus thought he began to see. ‘There’s lots he liked teaching me,’ she went on, meaningfully. ‘Lots and lots.’

  The silence lay between them until he broke it, his voice softening.

  ‘Did you say anything to your mum at the time?’

  ‘I didn’t need to — she knew. That’s the whole reason she wants to know if I’m still around. Because if I am, I might spill the beans.’ She was looking down at the floor, eyes glistening.

  ‘Why wait till Aviemore to make your move?’

  It took her a moment to gather herself again. ‘I knew I didn’t want to study English at university — that had always been his idea. And the more we all sat around the chalet in Aviemore talking about the future, the more I knew I couldn’t tell him to his face.’

  Rebus nodded his understanding.

  ‘He’d. . stopped by that time. Stopped when I was fourteen.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Sounds crazy, but I thought back then it must be my fault, and that made it worse somehow. I’d spent the years since thinking how to punish him, and that night, December 31st, I had just enough Dutch courage in me — or gin at any rate. The whole thing felt so much easier, being in a strange place, hundreds of miles away from them.’

  ‘But once you found out he was dead. .?’

  ‘Too late by then. I knew I wasn’t going back.’

  ‘It can’t be much fun, always living in fear of being recognised.’

  ‘That’s why you need to tell her to stop. I’m alive and I’m fine and I never want to see her or talk to her again.’

  ‘It’d be a lot easier if you told her yourself.’

  ‘Not for me it wouldn’t.’ She slid from the stool and stood in front of him. ‘So will you do it?’

  Rebus puffed out his cheeks. ‘You’re sure this is the life you want?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve got.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Plenty of others out there worse off than me. You should know that.’

  Rebus thought for a moment, then nodded his agreement.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, managing a sliver of a smile. Rebus tried to think what else to say, but she was already at the door. Once outside, however, she hesitated, then came back in.

  ‘Something else you’ve got wrong — I don’t have an Uncle Alfie. Or an Uncle Anything, come to that.’ She pulled open the door and left the cafe again, striding away with her bag slung over her shoulder, head held high, until the ranks of pedestrians swallowed her up and she was gone. Rebus took out his phone, adding her mobile number to his contacts list. She would probably change it, just as she would slip into a new identity, gifting herself a different past. He couldn’t help but see it as a waste of a life — but then the life was hers to waste. With her number safely stowed, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and ran his hands down his cheeks as he replayed the meeting.

  There’s lots he liked teaching me. .

  I might still spill the beans. .

  I don’t have an Uncle Alfie. Or an Uncle Anything, come to that. .

  ‘So who the hell is Alfie?’ Rebus asked himself, staring at his reflection in the window.

  Part Five

  Smell of blood is everywhere -

  Even in stone. .

  54

  Rebus walked into the SCRU office at Fettes HQ and saw that the packing crates had arrived. Peter Bliss and Elaine Robison were busy with labels and inventories.

  ‘Come to give us a hand?’ Robison pleaded.

  ‘This lot going to the Crown Office?’ he asked, prodding one of the boxes with his toe.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bliss said. ‘And it’ll all be in a damned sight better order than when it first arrived.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Robison added, ‘we’ve left one or two for you. Didn’t want you to feel you were missing out.’

  ‘Where
’s Danny Boy?’

  ‘Another meeting with the bigwigs.’

  ‘He’s going to get the job, isn’t he?’

  ‘Looks like,’ Bliss conceded.

  ‘He’ll be insufferable,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘Won’t be our problem, though, will it? We’ll be reduced to daytime TV and cold callers.’

  ‘In place of cold cases,’ Robison added with a smile. ‘Though I might manage a wee holiday back to Australia first.’ She picked up the photo of the Sydney Harbour Bridge from her desk and kissed it. Then, to Rebus: ‘We were thinking next Friday for a meal and a drink.’

  Rebus moved one of the empty crates from his chair and sat down at his desk. ‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ he said.

  ‘How was Inverness? TV made it look like a bit of a circus.’

  ‘Nothing the media likes more than a new Sawney Bean to scare us with.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Cannibal — probably mythical.’

  ‘Did you call in on Gregor Magrath?’ Bliss asked.

  Rebus nodded. ‘And I passed along the news.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘Philosophically.’

  ‘Picked a nice spot for himself up there, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Might be all right on a calm day. .’

  Bliss chuckled. ‘Aye, before he retired, Gregor was always chasing the sun. Him and Margaret used to come back from Tenerife brown as berries.’

  ‘Margaret was his wife?’ Rebus guessed, remembering the photos on the bookcase. ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Couple of years before he took retirement. Bloody shame — he used to bring cruise brochures in, tell everyone where he and Margaret were going to go when he got the gold watch. How’s he keeping?’

  ‘Seems fine. You didn’t work here when Nina Hazlitt met him, did you?’

  ‘Don’t think so. He’d have mentioned her.’

  ‘It would have been 2004.’

  ‘Just before my time, then.’

  ‘He never discussed her with you?’

  Bliss shook his head.

  Someone rapped their knuckles against the open door. Rebus looked up and saw Malcolm Fox standing there.

  ‘Can we have a word?’ Fox asked.

  ‘If you must,’ Rebus responded.

  ‘Maybe along the corridor. .’

  Rebus followed him to the Complaints’ lair. Fox punched in the code for the lock, making sure to shield the combination from the visitor. The room was much the same size as SCRU, with an almost identical layout: desks and laptops and a window with a view on to Fettes Avenue. There was another suit waiting for them. He was Fox’s age, but wirier, with ancient acne scars on one cheek. Rebus got the feeling this man would happily play bad cop to Fox’s good — or vice versa. Fox introduced him as Tony Kaye, then asked Rebus to take a seat.

  ‘I’m fine standing.’

  Fox gave a shrug, then eased his backside on to the corner of Tony Kaye’s desk.

  ‘Thought you might still have been up north,’ Fox said. ‘That’s why I phoned Inverness first, only to be told you’d been given the heave-ho.’ His eyes drilled into Rebus’s. ‘Mind telling me why?’

  ‘I was showing them up as amateurs. You know how prickly other forces get when that happens.’

  ‘So it had nothing to do with Frank Hammell, then?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘That photo of you and him enjoying a friendly drink,’ Tony Kaye suggested.

  ‘Just a coincidence.’

  ‘Don’t take us for mugs.’

  Rebus switched his attention to Fox, waiting for the man to speak.

  ‘Morris Gerald Cafferty,’ Fox obliged, ‘and now Francis Hammell. You don’t half pick your friends, Rebus.’

  ‘They’re as much my friends as you are.’

  ‘Funny, that,’ said Kaye, ‘because we’ve not been to any pubs with you, while you’ve been spotted drinking with both of them.’

  Rebus kept his eyes on Fox. ‘We’re wasting each other’s time here.’

  ‘SCRU’s being wound up, I hear. That’s you off the force again.’ Fox paused. ‘Unless you’re serious about reapplying.’

  ‘Being a civilian suddenly has its merits,’ Rebus said, turning and heading for the door. ‘Means I don’t have to listen to you and your shit.’

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your life, Rebus,’ Kaye called out to him. ‘What’s left of it, that is. .’

  When he got home that evening, a note had been pushed under his door. He unfolded it. It was from MGC — Morris Gerald Cafferty — and it was just to let Rebus know how disappointed Cafferty was in him for ‘consorting with scum like Frank Hammell’, the word ‘scum’ underlined three times for emphasis. Rebus scooped up the rest of the mail and went into the living room. It felt stuffy, so he prised open one of the sash windows, then turned up the radiator to compensate. The hi-fi’s turntable had been left switched on, rotating lazily. Rebus added a Bert Jansch album and lowered the stylus on to the vinyl. Then he started charging his phone before heading to the bedroom and emptying his overnight bag, filling a couple of polythene carriers with laundry. It would be another hour before the nearest launderette closed, so he decided to drop the stuff off — and collect some food on the way home. Leaving his phone behind and lifting the tone-arm from the record, he locked the flat and walked down the two flights of stairs.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he apologised to the Saab as he approached it. He’d just tossed the laundry on to the back seat when he heard someone call his name. Tensing, he turned and saw Darryl Christie getting out of a black Mercedes M-Class. The driver stayed behind the steering wheel, but lowered his window the better to keep a close eye on proceedings. Rebus recognised him as the lippy doorman from Jo-Jo Binkie’s — Marcus or something like that.

  ‘Hello, Darryl,’ Rebus said, resting his back against the Saab. ‘Is it worth me asking how you come to know where I live?’

  ‘This is the information age, if you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘How’s your mum doing? And the rest of the family?’

  ‘There’s a funeral needs planning.’

  ‘There’s also a friend of your mother’s who needs calming down.’

  ‘You think I’m bothered about him?’

  ‘I think you’ve got a head on your shoulders. In a lot of ways, you’re smarter than Frank Hammell. Someone needs to bring him back from Inverness.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Christie stated. He was dressed in the same dark suit, with a fresh white shirt but no tie. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and studied Rebus. ‘Frank says you might be okay.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Despite being Cafferty’s man.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Frank’s wondering if you might keep your ears open, on behalf of the family.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Any names that come into the frame — all we’d need is a head start.’

  ‘Frank wants his hands on them before they can be brought into custody?’

  Christie nodded slowly. ‘But I don’t want that to happen.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Things could get messy afterwards, and I don’t want my mum being more upset than she already is.’

  ‘Frank Hammell has a pretty good track record, Darryl. If he gets hold of someone, there’s not going to be a trace of them afterwards — not for a long time.’

  ‘This is different. I’ve not seen him lose it the way he’s been doing.’

  It was Rebus’s turn to study the young man in front of him. ‘You really are smarter, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m just a bit more rational at this point in time. Plus it’ll put my job on the line if he does something stupid.’

  ‘It’s more than that, though. I’d say you’re canny by nature. My bet is, you kept your head down in school, did well in exams. But always watchful, learning how things are and what makes people tick.’

  Darryl Christie offered a shrug
of the shoulders. When he removed his hands from his pockets, he was holding a card in one. ‘I’ve got lots of phones,’ he said. ‘If you ring this number, I’ll know it’s you.’

  ‘You really think I’m going to hand over whoever did this?’

  ‘A name and an address; that’s all.’ He looked through the windows of the Saab at the carrier bags on the rear seat. ‘You never know — there might be the price of a washing machine in it. .’

  Rebus watched him turn and head back to the Merc. No swagger to the walk, just an easy confidence. The driver’s eyes were on Rebus, as if daring him to go against Christie’s wishes, whatever those wishes might be. Rebus managed a wink as the window began to slide up, then got into the front seat of the Saab and started the engine. By the time he’d reversed out of his parking space and reached the junction at the foot of Arden Street, the Merc was nowhere to be seen.

  The guy in the launderette told him it might be a couple of days. Rebus remonstrated that he didn’t have a couple of days, to which the owner responded by waving his arms in the direction of the backlog of service washes.

  ‘Way things are,’ he said, ‘I’d almost pay you to load the machine yourself.’

  On the way back to the flat, it was a three-way contest between fish and chips, Indian and Chinese. Indian won, and Rebus stopped at Pataka’s, ordering a rogan josh and saying he would wait. He was offered a lager but turned it down. The place was doing good business, the booths filled with couples sharing platters of food and bottles of chilled wine. There were three or four pubs within a two-minute walk, but Rebus flicked through that day’s Evening News instead. By the time he’d finished, his food was ready. He drove back to Arden Street with Maggie Bell playing on the radio. He wondered if she was still going strong. .

  His kitchen filled with aromas as he opened the containers, scooping out the meat, sauce and rice on to a plate. There were beers in the cupboard, so he opened one and added it to the tray, which he carried through to the dining table. The living room felt a bit better, so he closed the window again and put the Bert Jansch album back on. His phone sounded, letting him know he had a message. He decided it could wait. A couple of minutes later, it issued another reminder and this time he got up to check the screen. One missed call; one voicemail.