by Ian Rankin
‘And you an ex-Boy Scout.’
Rebus considered for a moment. ‘Right,’ he said. Then: ‘No, left.’
‘Sure?’
‘Fairly.’
‘You mean you’re guessing?’
‘Fifty-fifty chance, Siobhan.’
‘I don’t think Magrath would be thrilled by those odds. How about we stick the lights on full beam and drive like hell?’
‘Or go the rest of the way on foot.’
‘On foot?’ Her eyes had widened a little, her brow furrowing.
‘On foot.’
‘Together or separately?’
‘Bloody hell, Siobhan, do I have to make all the decisions?’
69
The bag was removed from Kenny Magrath’s head. He’d been thumped a few times and his eyes stung. He blinked the world back into focus. There was a near-full moon in a hazy sky, and the smell of moss. Magrath was breathing through his nose, his mouth taped shut, hands bound behind him. Three men made a sort of triangle around him. They seemed very tall, until he worked out he was upright in a shallow grave. He tried to scream, a bubble of blood popping from one nostril. When he started scrabbling out of the pit, one of the men took a step forward and raised a shovel. Magrath knew what that meant, and stayed put. The car they’d brought him in stood a dozen or so yards away, lights dipped, illuminating the scene, picking out occasional slow-motion snowflakes.
‘You killed my sister,’ someone said. Magrath looked around, unable to pick out the speaker until Darryl Christie bent a little at the waist, establishing eye contact. He was dressed in a dark polo-neck, denims and trainers. Magrath shook his head, feeling a fresh wave of nausea as his brain throbbed with pain.
‘This grave was dug for someone else,’ Christie went on. ‘Wrong guy that time. You’re the one I’ve been looking for, so don’t try to deny it.’
But Magrath couldn’t help himself, his muffled voice rising in pitch. Christie turned away as if bored by the performance. He stretched a hand out towards the man next to him. The shovel was placed in it. Christie felt it for heft and balance, raised it over his shoulder and swung it a few times for practice. Magrath was reduced to weeping now, eyes screwed shut. His knees gave way and he landed heavily on the dirt, chin resting against the edge of the grave.
‘Ssshhh,’ Christie told him, like a parent to a child. Then he arched his body back, lifting the shovel high and bringing it down so that it connected with the ground directly in front of Magrath. Magrath’s eyes flew open, focused on the implement’s gleaming edge. Christie twisted it free and held the shovel in front of him as he crouched down, directly in front of the tearful, snot-nosed Magrath.
‘You didn’t think it was going to be quick, did you?’ he asked. ‘Plenty of damage to be done before then. All those lives you took. Just for kicks, eh? No real reason. Nothing that can be explained. It’s not a prison they’ll put you in, it’s a nuthouse. Board games and daytime TV, walks in the garden and a friendly psychiatrist. Reckon that’s fair, do you? All those lives you wrecked, the living as well as the dead. Time for some proper payback. Time for you to feel pain. .’ He rose again and lifted the shovel, but only to waist height this time, preparing to swing it at Kenny Magrath’s head.
‘That’s enough!’
Christie swivelled towards the voice. Rebus had his hands bunched by his sides, as if spoiling for a fight.
‘What are you doing here?’ Christie called out.
‘Arresting you,’ Siobhan Clarke said, stepping into the clearing and holding open her ID. Christie’s men looked to their boss for instructions. Christie pointed at Rebus.
‘You’re the one who wanted this in the first place!’ he complained.
Clarke ignored him, telling him he was under arrest. Christie had eyes only for Rebus, and those eyes were burning.
‘Two of you against three of us?’ he announced. ‘Look around — plenty of room for a few more graves.’
‘He might be stupid,’ Clarke interrupted, gesturing towards Rebus, ‘but I’m not. Back-up’s about five minutes away.’
‘What do we do?’ one of Christie’s men was asking his boss. Rebus recognised him: Marcus, doorman and driver. Christie took a moment to weigh up the options.
‘We’re going,’ he said. Then, turning towards Magrath: ‘This isn’t over. You’ll be seeing my face again.’ He swung a kick, connecting with the side of Magrath’s head, before starting to march towards the Mercedes. Clarke looked to Rebus, but Rebus wasn’t moving. The two men began to follow their boss, Marcus forging ahead so he could hold open the car’s passenger door. Christie gave Rebus a final baleful look, tossed the shovel on to the ground, and got in. After the doors had closed, Clarke took a step forward.
‘We’re letting them go?’
‘Did you fancy our chances?’ Rebus asked. He walked over to Magrath, peeling away the tape.
‘They’re getting away!’ Magrath spluttered, flecks of pink saliva flying from his mouth. The engine of the Mercedes had roared into life, the car reversing back the way it had come.
‘Yes,’ Rebus said, starting to loosen the ties around Magrath’s wrists.
‘They were going to kill me.’
‘We noticed.’
Magrath seemed confused. He looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. ‘You’ll catch them, though? The back-up. .’
‘No back-up,’ Rebus informed him. ‘That was just DI Clarke saving our skins.’
‘They were going to kill me,’ Magrath repeated, more to himself than anyone else.
‘A word of thanks wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ Rebus grabbed Magrath by the arm, coaxing him out of the shallow grave.
‘They took my van.’
‘You won’t be seeing it again.’
‘They were going to-’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘Probably in shock,’ Clarke explained.
Magrath realised he was being led from the clearing. ‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re giving you a lift home — car’s this way.’
‘But they’re this way too!’
‘Best if we get a move on, then, before it dawns on them there’s no cavalry in the vicinity.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Magrath said. ‘Did you say a lift home?’
‘Where else?’
Magrath stopped moving. ‘I can’t go home. They know where I live. . where Maggie lives. .’
‘They might leave her alone. It’s you they’re after.’
‘Then why did you let them go?’
‘Know what they’ll say if questioned? They’ll say they were just giving you a fright. That’s if they say anything at all.’
‘But you saw them!’
Rebus gave a shrug and fixed his eyes on Clarke. ‘Seems that saving his hide isn’t quite enough.’
‘We’ve done what we can,’ Clarke replied.
‘You could always make a run for it,’ Rebus suggested to the man in front of him. ‘Get yourself a new identity. It would have to be a long way from here, though — Darryl Christie’s got a lot of friends.’
‘What about Maggie? And Gregor?’
‘They’ve done what they can. Time for you to make a few decisions.’
Magrath looked around him, his mind reeling. He was trembling, and not just from the cold.
‘I can’t. . I don’t. .’
‘Your decision,’ Rebus repeated, sliding his hands into his pockets. Magrath’s eyes seemed to clear. He met Rebus’s gaze.
‘What do I do?’ he asked. ‘Tell me.’
‘You’re asking my advice?’
Magrath nodded and another tremor ran through him. Rebus gave a glance in Clarke’s direction before seeming to think for a moment.
‘I’ll give it, then,’ he said, ‘but on one condition. .’
Magrath blinked a couple of times. ‘Yes?’
‘You leave us out of it.’
Magrath’s
eyelids fluttered again. ‘Out of what?’
‘Your confession,’ Rebus told him.
They dropped him outside the police station on Burnett Road. Rebus had called ahead and Gavin Arnold was waiting. Rebus and Clarke stayed in the car and watched as Arnold led Kenny Magrath inside. Rebus had his window down so he could smoke a cigarette. His hand was shaking, but only a little.
‘He might change his mind, you know,’ Clarke said quietly.
‘He might,’ Rebus agreed. ‘On the other hand, a secure unit’s about as safe from Darryl Christie as he’s likely to get.’
‘You definitely got that across to him.’ She paused. ‘Speaking of which. .’
Rebus turned to face her. ‘Christie?’ He watched as she nodded. ‘Depends what Kenny Magrath says in his statement. If he leaves out the forest. .’
‘Christie was going to kill him.’
‘Entrapment, they’d call it in court.’ Rebus peered out through the windscreen towards the darkness. ‘I led him into it, after all.’ Then: ‘We should get going before Dempsey arrives.’
‘You’re really planning to let Darryl Christie off the hook?’
‘I’m not the cop here, Siobhan.’ He turned in her direction again. ‘Your call rather than mine.’
Clarke focused her attention on the door to the police station and the illuminated POLICE sign above it. ‘They’ll know someone got to him. Pretty good chance your name will crop up.’
‘Just so long as yours doesn’t. Besides, I’m a civilian, remember — I was watching his workshop for want of anything better to do, saw him being abducted and decided to follow, then ended up saving his skin. That’s if he opts to throw my name into the pot.’
There was silence in the car for a moment, until Clarke broke it.
‘We didn’t ask him why he did it.’
‘The killings or the photos?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
‘I doubt he knows the answer to that himself.’
More silence. Clarke was still facing away from Rebus when she spoke. ‘For a moment there, when Christie raised that shovel, it flashed through my mind that you were going to let it happen.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Magrath dead and Christie on a murder charge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that would have been a result too, I suppose.’
‘And it’s results that matter rather than how you get them.’
‘Used to be the way.’
‘Not now, though?’
‘Maybe not so much.’ He leaned back in his seat. ‘That grave wasn’t meant for Magrath, you know.’
‘No?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘It was Thomas Robertson’s. When I saw him in the hospital, I happened to mention a shallow grave. It spooked him, and now we know why — he’d been taken there and shown it. Scared him stupid. .’
‘But Christie let him go.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Darryl’s not a killer, Siobhan. Maybe one of his boys would have taken care of Magrath, but whacking the ground with that shovel was as close as Darryl was going to get.’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘You know what this means, though?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It means I was right all along about that bloody song.’
He flicked the cigarette away as Clarke turned the key in the ignition.
‘What song?’ she was asking as Rebus began to wind the window up.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-9eccfc-f0d1-d648-40b6-0c2f-2752-6bc07d
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 15.11.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.5, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Ian Rankin
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