Standing in another's man grave ir-18

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Even so. .’ She sounded sceptical. ‘And it’s not as though we owe Frank Hammell anything.’

  ‘It’s not just him, though, is it? Haven’t Annette’s family got enough on their plates?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Well then.’ Rebus watched as a traffic warden approached. The man studied the sign on the Saab’s dashboard and kept walking.

  ‘Thing is, though,’ Clarke was saying, ‘if James finds out I went behind his back. .’

  ‘No reason why he should.’

  ‘What’s to stop Dempsey telling him?’

  ‘You’ll ask her not to. It’s not like she won’t owe you. Think how much of the budget she’d have wasted getting DNA from every bloke up there.’ Rebus listened to her sigh. ‘How’s everything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Whole community around Edderton’s been questioned. No light-bulb moments to report.’

  ‘Hints of anyone protecting a nearest and dearest?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And the search?’

  ‘Hasn’t turned up a damned thing. I get the feeling Dempsey’s going to give James and me our ticket home today.’

  ‘Best talk to her quick, then — in person rather than on the phone.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Edinburgh again.’

  ‘It’s been pining for you, believe me. It’s crying on my shoulder as I speak.’ Rebus arched his face towards the rain. It was only a shower, the sky to the west brightening already.

  ‘So what are you up to today?’ she asked him.

  ‘Clearing my desk in your office, quickly followed by the desk in my office.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Game over, especially if the Complaints have their way.’

  ‘You’ve done so much on this case, John. Someone needs to tell them that.’

  ‘I’m sure my fan club’s queuing up with testimonials.’ He paused. ‘So you’ll talk to Dempsey?’

  ‘She’s bound to ask me how I know.’

  ‘“Information received”.’

  ‘She won’t like that.’

  ‘Not much she can do about it — you’re coming home soon. I’ve ordered balloons and everything.’

  ‘Come to think of it, I’ve got to brief her anyway — serial killers and their disposal sites.’

  ‘Did you dig up anything from the trusty internet?’

  ‘Only that there’s usually a reason — the most basic being that it’s in the vicinity of where they live. Or, to put it another way, their “spatial behaviour” is “empirically modelled”.’

  ‘I preferred your first answer.’

  ‘Thought you might.’

  When they’d finished speaking, he headed upstairs. The office felt a bit like limbo. With Page and Clarke absent, and the case hijacked by Dempsey and her team, no one really had anything to do. Plenty of hard work; no real sense of achievement.

  ‘Glad to see you so idle,’ Rebus said, ‘because I need a hand shifting all these boxes. .’

  In the end, Esson and Ogilvie helped take everything down to the Saab. Esson asked if the files were heading to Inverness. He told her he didn’t know, and she suggested they be kept at Gayfield Square, just in case.

  ‘If I’m not staying here, neither are they,’ Rebus explained to her.

  Afterwards, they celebrated with mugs of tea (and hot water) and the remnants of a packet of Bourbons.

  ‘No new marvels to report from that computer of yours?’ Rebus asked Esson.

  She shook her head, taking tiny nibbles of her biscuit while Ogilvie dunked his in his tea before sucking the life from it.

  ‘Best put your feet up while you can, then,’ Rebus went on. ‘Looks like Page might be back here by day’s end.’

  ‘And you’re headed back to Fettes?’ Ogilvie asked.

  ‘Not for long — SCRU’s been earmarked for closure.’

  ‘So what’ll you do?’ The question had come from Esson. Rebus made show of shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Carpet bowls maybe; Antiques Roadshow reruns. .’

  When she grinned, it made her look younger than ever.

  ‘Been good working with the pair of you, though,’ Rebus conceded, taking a last look around the office and gracing everyone with a wave as he made his exit. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and watched Dave Ormiston climb towards him, reading from a sheaf of papers. Ormiston spotted him and managed a thin smile.

  ‘Is this me getting my desk back?’ he asked.

  Rebus nodded slowly.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’ Ormiston’s hand was out, but Rebus refused to take it and the man stiffened.

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ Rebus said. ‘All that nosiness of yours on the phone, it got me thinking about Big Ger Cafferty.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘See, Cafferty knew about that CCTV from the bus station when there was no way he should have.’

  ‘It’s an open secret he’s a pal of yours.’

  ‘But you and I know differently, don’t we, Dave? We know he’s got someone in his pocket — someone based right here.’ Rebus leaned in towards Ormiston until their faces were only a couple of inches apart. ‘Time you stopped being so chatty, or I might have to gather up a few brownie points from the Complaints. Ever seen them in action, Dave? They’ll go through your phone and computer. They’ll look at your spending habits. They’ll find stuff. And that’ll be the big cheerie-bye to your pension.’ Rebus paused. ‘Fair warning — walk away from Cafferty, and keep walking.’

  Back at the Saab, Rebus reached across the dashboard and lifted the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign. He started up the steps, readying to hand it back at the front desk. Then he paused. After all, no one had requested it, had they?

  He had only driven fifty or so yards in the direction of Broughton Street when his phone buzzed. It was Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘Problem with Dempsey?’ he guessed, lifting the phone to his ear.

  ‘Are you near a television?’

  ‘No.’ He looked to left and right. Plenty of pubs he could dart into.

  ‘I’ll try for a screen-grab, then. Give me two minutes.’

  The phone went dead. Rebus pulled over, slipped the sign back into place on the dashboard and walked into the nearest watering hole. When the barman asked what he could do for him, Rebus told him he could change channels for a start.

  ‘Sky or BBC News,’ he guessed.

  There were no customers to complain, so the man did as he was told. When the BBC turned out to be focusing on a story about Afghanistan, he switched to Sky, where a reporter was interviewing Jim Mellon, the farmer from Edderton. But they were already cutting back to the studio, and Rebus hadn’t even caught the headline. He got on his phone and told Clarke what he’d seen.

  ‘I’ve sent you a photo,’ she said. ‘№ 3G here, so it might take a while.’

  ‘Has there been a break?’

  ‘A break? No, they’re just talking to the farmer for want of anybody more interesting. Half the news teams have already skedaddled back to wherever they came from. Call me when the picture gets there.’

  ‘Can’t you just tell me?’

  ‘Might be nothing.’ She paused. ‘Probably is.’

  The phone went dead again and Rebus stared at the screen, willing Clarke’s message to arrive. The barman asked if he wanted a drink while he waited.

  ‘Half of IPA, then,’ Rebus obliged. It was poured, presented to him, paid for and demolished before his phone let him know he had one new message. When he opened it, he was looking at the scene from the TV interview — newscaster plus Mellon. They were in the farmyard, and close behind them stood a small white van with a name on the side in thick black capitals.

  MAGRATH.

  Rebus called Clarke back. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Reckon it’s coincidence?’

  ‘Not such an unusual surname.’

  ‘Actually it is — spelled that way. I just checked the local phone book.’

&n
bsp; ‘You think Gregor Magrath runs some sort of business?’

  ‘Google to the rescue — there’s just one “Magrath’s” within about fifty miles. An electrician, based in Rosemarkie.’

  Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Did he act like an electrician to you?’

  ‘Seemed more your typical pensioner. And the van wasn’t there either, was it?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing,’ Rebus told her. Then: ‘Have you had a chance to speak to Dempsey yet?’

  ‘Not quite, but she’s in the building somewhere.’

  ‘And you reckon you’ll be back down here tonight? Want to meet for a drink?’

  ‘Not a session, mind — just a drink?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘I’m happy to bow out if Page makes a counter-offer.’

  ‘Goodbye, John.’

  He smiled at the phone and dropped it back into his pocket. The barman was standing behind the IPA pump, ready to offer a refill, but Rebus shook his head and left the pub.

  At SCRU, Bliss and Robison helped him empty the car, Robison asking the same question Esson had: were the files going to Inverness?

  ‘Quite possibly,’ was all he said in reply.

  At the very moment they deposited the last box on the floor, and stood up to wipe the sweat from their eyes and get their breathing back to normal, Daniel Cowan walked in from some meeting or other, looking both more dapper and more generally pleased with himself than ever.

  ‘I’m not one to criticise,’ he told them, ‘but isn’t our strategy to empty this office rather than fill it?’

  ‘The A9 case,’ Rebus informed him. Cowan looked suddenly interested, and even ran a finger along the edge of the topmost box. The A9 was a real investigation, current, live and in the news. There was a momentary longing in Cowan’s eyes: he wanted it and could not have it. Moreover, if he took on a role at the Crown Office Cold Case Unit, he might never work a contemporary inquiry again.

  ‘I was just going to treat the troops to a Kit Kat in the canteen,’ Rebus said.

  ‘I’m not invited?’ Cowan asked.

  ‘I thought you’d want to stay put and make the phone call.’

  Cowan looked at him. ‘What phone call?’

  ‘To Inverness — letting them know the files are here when they want them.’

  Cowan’s eyes brightened. ‘Yes, I suppose it should be me that does that, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘We’ll see you later, then,’ Rebus said, leading Bliss and Robison from the room.

  Once they were settled at a table, Rebus asked Bliss about Gregor Magrath’s electrical skills.

  ‘He could change a light bulb,’ Bliss said. ‘Not sure I’d trust him to wire a plug.’

  Rebus explained about the van. ‘Has he got any relatives up there?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘He’d have said, wouldn’t he? I mean, the two of you have kept in touch — you’ve been to his house. .’

  ‘On the other hand, it might explain why he headed north rather than retiring somewhere with a bit of sun.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  Robison bit into her apple, having turned down Rebus’s offer of biscuits or crisps. ‘Could just be someone with the same surname,’ she offered between chews.

  ‘Could be,’ Rebus agreed.

  ‘Meantime,’ she went on, ‘while the three of us are here, maybe we could decide where we want to go for our night out. .’

  58

  That evening, Rebus met Siobhan Clarke at the Oxford Bar. They took a table in the back room and Rebus asked her if there was any more news from Inverness.

  ‘The wheels are grinding,’ she told him. ‘More conscripts have been drafted in. Dempsey’s widening the search area — locals are queuing up to help, along with a full complement of hunky fire-fighters.’

  Rebus thought back to the original MisPer cases — lots of legwork, most of it so there could be no accusation of slacking.

  ‘Thing is,’ he cautioned, ‘one of those locals could be hiding something.’

  ‘She knows that. Every team of civvies has one of our lot attached, with orders to watch out for anyone acting nervous or odd.’

  ‘And all this in the hope of finding clothes and belongings?’

  ‘They have to be somewhere.’

  Rebus nodded slowly and asked her if she’d spoken to Dempsey. Clarke nodded back, lifting her drink.

  ‘I could see she wanted to ask me why I hadn’t taken it to my boss.’

  ‘But she didn’t?’

  ‘Just said she’d arrange for Hammell to be swabbed.’

  ‘How did she react when you told her Annette and Hammell had been lovers?’

  ‘A slight raising of the eyebrows.’

  ‘And your source. .?’

  ‘Remains confidential.’ Clarke paused. ‘There’s always a chance the hair won’t belong to Hammell.’

  ‘In which case, it becomes useful again,’ Rebus agreed.

  She took another sip of her drink. ‘By the way, I phoned that electrician’s — no answer. Still reckon it’s a coincidence?’

  ‘Peter Bliss has stayed in touch with Gregor Magrath. Doesn’t see him as a sparky and isn’t aware of any relatives in the area.’ He thought for a moment, then reached for his phone.

  ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘Jim Mellon — just remembered I’ve got his number here.’

  It was Mellon’s wife who answered. Her husband was in one of the barns and wouldn’t be back for a while. Rebus gave her his number and asked if Mellon could phone him back.

  ‘Nothing I can help you with, then?’ she enquired.

  ‘Actually, maybe you can. It’s just that Mr Mellon was on TV earlier. .’

  ‘He’s getting too much of a taste for it, if you ask me.’

  ‘I was wondering about a van I saw parked in the farmyard behind him. It had the name Magrath on the side. I think it belongs to an electrician. .?’

  ‘Kenny Magrath,’ she stated.

  ‘Kenny Magrath,’ Rebus repeated for Clarke’s benefit. ‘Lives in Rosemarkie, does he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It’s just that I know another Magrath in Rosemarkie, name of Gregor.’

  ‘Might be the brother.’

  ‘The brother?’ Rebus’s eyes were on Clarke as he spoke.

  ‘I’m sure Kenny’s mentioned a brother.’

  ‘That must be it,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Do you still want Jim to phone you?’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary. You’ve been a great help, Mrs Mellon.’

  Rebus ended the call, eyes still fixed on Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘So?’ she said.

  ‘So Gregor Magrath retires and buys a place up north — despite the fact that he and his wife were always after holidays in the sun. .’

  ‘Making the Black Isle an odd choice.’

  ‘Unless he has family there — which he does. But how come he never mentions as much to Peter Bliss? Even when Bliss visited, the brother never cropped up.’

  ‘Maybe they’d had a falling-out somewhere down the line. It’s not unknown in families.’

  ‘But there were photos on the wall unit — a mum and dad with a couple of young kids, plus the same kids after they’d grown a bit. That has to have been the brother and his family.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘I’ve always loved that positive attitude of yours.’

  ‘That used to be my line.’ She paused, then asked him what he reckoned it all meant.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Worth another word in Dempsey’s ear?’

  He gave a shrug and concentrated on his beer. Clarke checked the time on her phone.

  ‘A quick one?’ Rebus suggested.

  ‘Got a home life waiting for me,’ she said with a shake of the head.

  ‘Meaning. .?’

  ‘Post to open, bills to pay, washing to do.’

 
He nodded his understanding and glanced at his watch: he’d left it too late to collect his own laundry. ‘We’ll catch up again soon,’ he said.

  She had risen to her feet and extended her right hand towards him. Rebus took it and they shook, though it felt wrong, too formal. Was it her way of saying that their time together was done? Before he could ask, she was gone.

  ‘Just you and me, eh?’ he said to his pint glass. ‘Same as it ever was.’ Then he leaned back and focused his attention on the wall opposite, thinking some more about Gregor Magrath, and families, and secrets.

  It was mid evening at Jo-Jo Binkie’s. Frank Hammell had gone to see his dentist earlier for some repair work. Nobody had dared to ask him about the cuts on his face. He was watching from the balcony as the DJ twitched and danced behind his decks. Not that the man played records — it was all CDs, MP3s and laptops. The music wasn’t to Hammell’s taste, but Darryl was after a younger crowd, a crowd less careful with its money. The place was hipper these days, and people came from all over — sometimes in coaches from out west or Fife or the borders. A few dozen dancers gyrated below; Hammell checked out the talent. There was one skinny blonde, he could almost see down the front of her short, low-cut dress.

  Almost.

  A couple of staffers patrolled the periphery, on the lookout for trouble. Hammell didn’t know their names. They were new. Almost everybody was new. Darryl had explained — people not turning up on time; people bad-mouthing Hammell behind his back: they had to be replaced. People too old to handle the job; people who didn’t pull their weight. Tonight, as Hammell had walked into his own club, he hadn’t recognised a single person working the door. Even Rob the Reliable had gone AWOL. It was the same with the staff at his pubs: out with the old and in with the new. Darryl called it ‘refreshing the brand’. Still, there was money coming in — no mean feat in a recession, as Darryl himself had suggested — and thanks to some creative accounting, not all of it went out again.

  Hammell ran his tongue over the replacement filling. It didn’t seem quite smooth, but he liked the coarseness. He felt movement next to him and turned to see Darryl himself standing there. Hammell patted the young man’s upper arm in greeting.

  ‘Not a bad crowd for a week night,’ he said over the music.