Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Thanks, Mum,’ he told her.

‘Did you see it?’

He nodded. ‘No sound, though — did Page get round to mentioning the photos from the phones?’

‘Seemed to slip his mind when the mother did a runner.’ She unwrapped her own chocolate bar and bit into it.

‘Who was the guy standing behind her?’ Rebus asked.

‘Family friend.’

‘Is he the one putting up the reward?’

Clarke looked at him. ‘Okay, spit it out.’

‘I’ve not started eating it yet.’ When this failed to raise a smile, he relented. ‘His name’s Frank Hammell. Owns a couple of pubs and at least one club.’

‘You know him?’

‘I know his pubs.’

‘But not the club?’

‘It’s somewhere out in bandit country.’

‘Meaning?’

‘West Lothian.’ Rebus nodded towards the monitor. ‘Pretty touchy-feely, I thought. .’

‘Not that sort of guy?’

‘Not unless you’re really close.’

Clarke’s chewing slowed. She thought for a moment. ‘And what does any of this add?’

‘A note of caution?’ Rebus answered eventually. ‘If he’s the mum’s “friend” and she’s upset, you can bet he’s upset too.’

‘Hence the reward?’

‘It’s not the reward we know about that worries me — it’s the one he might be putting out on the quiet.’

Clarke glanced towards Page’s door. ‘You think we should tell him?’

‘Your call, Siobhan.’ While she considered this, Rebus had another question. ‘Remind me what happened to Annette’s father?’

‘Did a runner to Australia.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Derek something. . Derek Christie.’

‘Not McKie?’

‘That’s the mother — Gail McKie.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘And the lad at the conference. .?’

‘Darryl.’

‘Still at school, is he?’

Clarke called across to Ronnie Ogilvie. ‘What does Darryl McKie do?’

‘I think he said he was a bar manager,’ Ogilvie replied. ‘And he calls himself Christie rather than McKie.’

Clarke looked at Rebus. ‘Eighteen is a bit young for a manager,’ she commented.

Rebus gave a twitch of his mouth. ‘Depends whose bar it is,’ he said, rising to give her back her chair.

‘Just like old times, eh?’ Rebus said. ‘And at last I’m seeing a bit of Scotland.’

They were in Clarke’s car, a new-smelling Audi. The trip had been Rebus’s idea — take a look at the spot where Annette McKie had last been seen; check for possible matches to the photo. They had left Edinburgh, heading north across the Forth Road Bridge into Fife, crawling through what seemed like miles of roadworks with a 40 mph limit, then skirting Kinross on the way to Perth, where they connected with the A9. It wasn’t dualled, and they seemed to have hit the mid-afternoon rush. Rebus took a CD from his pocket and swapped it for the Kate Bush album Clarke had been playing.

‘Who said you could do that?’ she complained.

Rebus shushed her and turned up the volume on track three. ‘Just listen,’ he said. Then, after a few minutes: ‘So what’s he singing about, then?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘In the chorus.’

‘Something about standing in another man’s rain.’

‘You sure?’

‘Am I hearing it wrong?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s just that I thought he was. . Ach, never mind.’ He made to eject the CD, but she told him to leave it. She signalled and pulled out to overtake. The Audi had a bit of heft. Even so, she just made it, an oncoming vehicle flashing its lights in protest.

‘Trying to prove something?’ Rebus asked.

‘I just want us arriving in Pitlochry much the same time she did. Isn’t that the whole point?’ She turned towards him. ‘And aren’t you supposed to be looking for where that photo might’ve been taken?’

‘Nowhere around here,’ he muttered. But he began to scan the overcast countryside anyway. They passed a sign to Birnam and a Beatrix Potter exhibition. Clarke overtook another lorry, then had to brake hard when she spotted a speed camera, causing the lorry to brake too, accompanied by a blast of its horn and an angry flash of headlights. The Jackie Leven CD had ended and Rebus asked if she wanted Kate Bush back on, but she shook her head.

‘Where the hell are they all going?’ Rebus was peering at the traffic ahead of them. ‘Not exactly tourist season.’

‘Not exactly,’ she agreed. Then, too casually: ‘How’s Cafferty, by the way?’

Rebus stared at her. ‘What makes you think I’d know?’

She seemed to take a moment deciding how to answer. ‘I was talking to someone from the Complaints. .’

The Complaints: meaning Internal Affairs. ‘Fox?’ Rebus guessed. ‘I see him sliming his way around HQ.’

‘The word is out, John — you and Cafferty, your little drinking sessions.’

Rebus digested this. ‘Is Fox coming after me? You don’t want to hang around with those scumbags, Siobhan. Might be contagious.’

‘They’re not scumbags, as you well know. And to answer your question: you’re not a serving officer, meaning at the moment I doubt Fox could touch you even if he wanted to.’ She paused, keeping her eyes firmly on the road ahead. ‘On the other hand, you go back a long way with Cafferty.’

‘So?’

‘So, is there anything for the Complaints to find if they do come looking?’

‘You know how I feel about Cafferty,’ Rebus stated coldly.

‘Doesn’t mean favours haven’t been swapped somewhere down the line.’

Rebus drank from a plastic bottle of water, bought when they’d stopped for petrol at Kinross.

‘Fox wants you to grass me up, is that it?’

‘He was just asking if I saw much of you these days.’

‘And then he happens to drop Cafferty’s name into the mix?’ Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘So what did you tell him?’

‘He was right, though, wasn’t he — about you seeing Cafferty?’

‘The guy thinks he owes me for what I did at the hospital.’

‘You’re on free drinks for life?’

‘I pay my way.’

She overtook a Tesco delivery van. There were three articulated lorries at the very front of the queue, slowing inexorably as the road hit an incline. A sign they’d just passed suggested that sluggish vehicles should pull over to allow overtaking, but that wasn’t happening.

‘There’s some dual carriageway coming up,’ Clarke said.

‘We’re almost at Pitlochry anyway,’ Rebus countered. Then, lowering his voice a little, ‘And thanks for the warning.’

She nodded, staring straight ahead, hands tensed against the steering wheel. ‘Just make sure there’s no ammo Fox can use, eh?’

‘From the look of him, I’d say he’s got a history of firing blanks. Any chance of another cigarette break?’

‘You said it yourself: we’re nearly there.’

‘Aye, but they don’t let you smoke in petrol stations.’ Which was why he’d headed for the car park at Kinross, while Clarke filled the fuel tank and bought drinks at the shop.

‘Five more minutes,’ she told him. ‘Just five more minutes. .’

Ten minutes later — not that Rebus was counting — they turned off the A9 and took the slip road into Pitlochry, passing the petrol station where Annette McKie’s bus had stopped to drop her off. Clarke drove through the town. There was just the one main street, with signs leading off to the Festival Theatre, the hydroelectric dam, and Edradour and Bell’s distilleries.

‘I went to the dam once when I was a kid,’ Clarke commented. ‘Supposedly to see the salmon leap.’

‘No salmon?’ Rebus guessed.

‘No salmon.’

‘On the other hand, you have to love a town with two distilleries. .’