Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

Rebus reckoned it had been a conscious decision on somebody’s part to leave speculation out of the case. Which was problematic for anyone opening the files from cold: the whole story wasn’t there. He thought about phoning Ken Lochrin again, but decided it could be done later. He called Clarke instead. She answered with a question.

‘What?’

‘I was just thinking,’ Rebus said. ‘The stuff at my flat, it’s been sorted into piles and pinned up on the wall — wouldn’t it be easier for us to work from here?’

‘This is a police inquiry, John, not a hobby. It needs to be brought to the station.’

‘Understood.’ A caller was waiting. Rebus glanced at the display. ‘I’ll see you in an hour,’ he told Clarke. Then, to Daniel Cowan: ‘Rebus speaking.’

‘I don’t like this, John, not one little bit.’

‘I take it DCI Page has been on the blower?’

‘If it’s a cold case, it should be run from SCRU. You should be here .’

‘Believe me, sir, if it were up to me. .’

‘Your patter’s pish, John. Is this your way of sucking up to the big boys?’

‘I’m a team player, sir — ask Bliss and Robison, they’ll vouch for me.’

‘It’s not them you need to win over. Don’t forget what I said: without my approval, you’re staying retired.’

‘But your approval’s all I’ve ever really craved, Danny. .’

Cowan’s voice was rising to something just short of a yell when Rebus ended the call.

‘You can’t just wander in, you know.’

It was the next morning, and the uniform behind the desk at Gayfield Square police station didn’t like the look of Rebus. Rebus had some sympathy: his eyes were probably bloodshot, he had failed to locate a clean shirt, and his razor definitely needed a new blade. He had shown her his ID and waited to be buzzed through the locked door leading to the stairs.

‘Who’s your appointment with?’

‘I’m on secondment to CID.’

‘That’s not what your card says.’

Rebus leaned forward until his face was almost touching the Plexiglas partition. ‘Are we going to have this every morning?’

‘He’s with me, Juliet,’ Siobhan Clarke said, coming in from outside. ‘Might as well get used to his ugly mug.’

‘He needs to sign as a visitor. Then I can give him a badge.’

Clarke stared at the woman. ‘Really? I mean, really , Juliet? He’s attached to the McKie inquiry until further notice.’

‘Then I should have been told.’

‘So someone cocked up — there had to be a first time, eh?’

‘I’m right here, by the way,’ Rebus interrupted, feeling left out.

The officer’s face broke into an eventual smile — aimed at Clarke rather than Rebus. ‘Some proper identification by the end of the day. .’

‘Girl Guide’s honour.’

‘I thought you said you’d never been a Girl Guide.’ The smile was broadening as she pressed the button to let them through.

Clarke led Rebus into the heart of the building. ‘You’ll require a passport photo,’ she told him. ‘Got one handy?’

‘Never felt the need.’

She looked at him. ‘No passport?’

‘Didn’t bother renewing it. I’m perfectly happy where I am.’

She looked at him again. ‘When was the last time you actually left the city — for pleasure, I mean?’

He gave a casual shrug as she continued to study him, this time taking in his clothes.

‘James likes the officers under him to be presentable.’

‘You might be under him from time to time — but not me.’

‘Is this what I have to look forward to?’ She gave him a stern look and asked where the files were.

‘At home.’ He saw that she was ready to remonstrate, so held up a hand. ‘I’m not being obstructive. It’s just that I was awake till three going through them again. Slept late and didn’t have time to pack them away.’

‘Making you the resident expert until someone else gets a look-in?’

‘You might almost call me indispensable.’

‘Not even close, John.’ They were outside the CID suite. The door, as usual, was wide open, a couple of detectives already seated at their desks. Walking in, Rebus caught the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The pot rested on top of a filing cabinet. Clarke poured for both of them.

‘Anybody get milk?’ she asked. There were shakes of the head.

‘That must make me the cavalry,’ James Page said, striding into the office. He carried a litre carton in one hand, brown leather satchel in the other.

‘Hello again,’ he said to Rebus.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘First names around here, John.’ Page handed the milk to Clarke but kept his eyes on Rebus. ‘Any news from those files of yours?’

‘Only that they’re far from complete. Zoe Beddows had been seeing a married man — that’s who she sent her photo to. But I only found that out by speaking to him. File just names him as one of her friends.’

‘And the photo itself?’

‘He didn’t keep it. From the description: hills, sky and a track.’

‘Similar enough to the one Annette McKie sent,’ Clarke commented.

Rebus felt compelled to qualify the statement. ‘ If she sent it.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ Page countered. ‘What about Aviemore and Strathpeffer?’

‘I did a bit of digging on the internet,’ Clarke said. ‘You couldn’t readily send a picture from one phone to another until 2005 or 2006.’

‘Really?’ Page’s brow furrowed. ‘As recently as that?’

‘Might be worth showing the photo we do have to Zoe Beddows’s lover,’ Rebus suggested. ‘Even if they’re unlikely to be the same spot.’ He paused. ‘And if I can add something else. .’ He was aware that Siobhan Clarke was holding her breath, waiting for him to say the wrong thing.

‘Yes?’ Page prompted.

‘We also need to get the new photo circulated. It has to ring bells with somebody.’

‘There’s a press conference at twelve,’ Page said, studying his watch.

‘There is?’ Clarke sounded annoyed at just finding out.

‘The mother’s putting up a reward. Ten thousand pounds, I think.’

‘A fair bit of cash,’ Rebus stated. ‘For someone who lives in Lochend.’

‘Do you want me at the press conference, James?’ Clarke was asking.

‘We’ll all be there — need to let people know we’re motivated.’ Page broke off, noticing Rebus’s shirt and stubble. ‘Maybe not quite all of us, eh, John?’

‘If you say so, James.’

‘Public perception and suchlike. .’ Page gave a thin smile and turned away, heading for his own inner office. He had to put his coffee down and take a key from his pocket to unlock the door.

‘I’m sure that was a cupboard when I used to work here,’ Rebus said to Clarke, keeping his voice down.

‘It was,’ she confirmed. ‘But James seems to like it.’

The door closed again, with Page behind it. The room had to be near airless, and with no natural light that Rebus could recall. Yet James Page appeared to flourish there.

‘Did I pass inspection?’ he asked Clarke.

‘Just about.’

‘It’s only day one, remember — plenty of time for me to start letting the side down.’

‘How about not doing that, eh? Just for once in your life.’

The school’s rector had offered them his office, but Clarke had declined. As she waited with Rebus in the corridor outside, she explained her reasoning.

‘Too intimidating. When you’re in that room, it’s because you’re in trouble. We want him a bit more relaxed and talkative.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. He was looking out of a window towards the playground. The window was double-glazed, but condensation had found its way between the panes. The wooden frame was spongy.