Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

It took only a couple of minutes for them to reach the far end of Pitlochry. She did a three-point turn and headed back the way they’d come. There was a small police station on the main road, but not continuously manned. For protocol’s sake, Clarke had phoned Tayside’s Divisional HQ in Perth before setting out, alerting a local inspector to their trip. She had stressed that a welcoming party would not be necessary.

‘It’s really just a recce.’

She was signalling now to enter the petrol station’s forecourt. As soon as the car stopped, Rebus undid his seat belt and got out, making for the pavement, cigarette and lighter at the ready. He watched as Clarke went into the shop. There was a middle-aged woman behind the till, and Clarke showed her her warrant card, followed by two photos, one of Annette McKie and one a copy of the picture Annette had sent to Thomas Redfern. Directly across from the petrol station was the Bell’s distillery, and behind it the vast turrets of what Rebus guessed was a hotel. Another car had pulled into the forecourt. The man who got out looked like a salesman: white shirt, pale yellow tie. His jacket had been hanging from a hook inside the car, and he slipped back into it, warding off the cold air. He unlocked the car’s petrol cap, but then glanced towards the pavement and saw someone smoking there. Readjusting his priorities, he headed in Rebus’s direction, offering a nod of kinship before lighting up.

‘There’ll be frost tonight,’ he offered.

‘Just so long as there’s not snow,’ Rebus responded.

‘Last thing I need is them shutting the Drumochter Pass.’

‘Snow gates?’ Rebus guessed.

‘That’s the ones. Last winter was a nightmare.’

‘You going to Inverness?’

The man nodded. ‘How about you?’

‘Heading back to Edinburgh.’

‘Civilisation, eh?’

‘This seems civilised enough.’ Rebus looked in the direction of town.

‘Wouldn’t know — I only ever stop to fill up.’

‘You travel a lot?’

‘Part and parcel, isn’t it? Five, six hundred miles a week, sometimes more.’ He gestured towards his vehicle. Behind it, Rebus could see the woman at the till shaking her head in reply to another of Clarke’s questions. ‘Car’s not even two years old and it’s on its last legs,’ the salesman was saying. ‘How’s the Audi?’

‘Seems okay.’ Rebus finished his cigarette. ‘What is it you sell exactly?’

‘How long have you got?’

‘Let’s say fifteen seconds.’

‘Then I’ll give you two words: “logistics” and “solutions”.’

‘I feel duly enlightened.’ Rebus watched as Clarke made her way back to the Audi. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘No problem.’ The man took out his phone and was checking for messages as Rebus headed across the forecourt.

‘Anything?’ he asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

‘She wasn’t working that day,’ Clarke obliged. ‘The staff who were have all been questioned. One remembered Annette coming in and asking to use the loo. She bought a bottle of water and headed off again into town.’

‘Nice of the bus not to wait for her.’

‘Actually, the driver’s mortified. But he was obeying company rules.’

Rebus peered out through the windscreen in search of CCTV.

‘Cameras caught her,’ Clarke confirmed. ‘Busy on her phone.’

‘Could she have had a rendezvous?’

‘No family or friends in Pitlochry.’ Clarke thought for a moment. ‘There’s another camera on the main drag but it failed to pick her out, and none of the shopkeepers remember seeing her.’

‘So she’d maybe found a lift straight off. .’

‘Maybe.’

‘Could she have started walking across country?’

‘She was a city girl, John. Why would she do that?’

All Rebus could offer to this was a shrug. Clarke checked her watch. ‘It’s half an hour later now than it was when she set off. She could have passed through town without anyone noticing, maybe not started thumbing till she reached the other end.’ She started the ignition and put the car into gear. As they left the forecourt, the salesman gave Rebus a wave.

‘He sells solutions,’ Rebus explained to Clarke.

‘He should be in here with us, then.’

Once they had passed through Pitlochry again, there wasn’t much to do but rejoin the A9. They had the option: south towards Perth or north towards Inverness. Clarke hesitated.

‘Let’s give it a few more miles,’ Rebus said. ‘Scenery’s changing; might get more like the photo.’

‘We’re not going as far as Aviemore, mind.’

‘My skiing days are behind me.’

‘You don’t think it would impress Nina Hazlitt?’

‘What? Me going skiing?’

‘You being able to tell her you visited Aviemore as part of your mission.’

‘Everything in its time.’

‘After twelve years, though? You seriously think there’s anything to find there?’

‘No,’ Rebus was forced to admit, turning the Kate Bush CD back on. She seemed to be singing about her love for a snowman.

The moment they rejoined the A9, they hit roadworks, traffic down to a single lane and moving at a crawl. A barrier separated their northbound lane from the ones heading south, meaning no opportunity for a U-turn.

‘We’re stuck,’ Clarke commented.

‘Major resurfacing,’ Rebus explained, reading one of the signs. ‘Expect delays for four weeks.’

‘We might still be here in four weeks.’

‘Just as well we enjoy each other’s company.’

She gave a snort at this. ‘At least they are working.’

This was true. In the lane that had been blocked off, men in yellow reflective jackets were carrying tools or operating diggers. The sky was filled with a pulsing orange glow from the warning lights atop the various vehicles. The speed limit had been reduced to thirty.

‘Thirty would be luxury,’ Clarke complained. ‘Speedo says twenty.’

‘Slow and steady wins the day,’ Rebus recited.

‘That’s always been your motto, has it?’ She managed a thin smile. Rebus was studying the workmen.

‘How about pulling over?’ he suggested.

‘What?’

‘If she hitched along here, no way they wouldn’t have noticed.’

A line of cones separated inside and outside lanes, but they were well spaced and it was easy to negotiate the Audi between two of them. Clarke pulled the handbrake on.

‘Not the worst idea I’ve ever had, then?’ Rebus pretended to guess.

As they got out of the car, a man strode towards them. Clarke had her warrant card ready. The man stiffened.

‘What’s happened?’

He was in his mid fifties, curls of grey hair escaping from the rim of his hard hat. Rebus got the feeling there were many layers of clothing beneath the high-visibility jacket and the fluorescent orange work trousers.

‘Did you hear about the girl who’s gone missing?’ Clarke asked.

The man looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again, then nodded.

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Rebus added.

‘Bill Soames.’

‘You’re in charge of the crew, Mr Soames?’ Rebus looked over Soames’s shoulder towards the workmen. They had stopped what they were doing.

‘They’re probably worried you’re Revenue or Immigration,’ Soames explained.

‘And why would either of those be a problem?’ Clarke asked.

‘They wouldn’t,’ Soames stated, meeting her eyes. He half turned and gestured to the men that they should continue with their work. ‘Best if we talk in the office, though. .’

He led them past the Audi, along a carriageway stripped of its tarmac, chunks of which were piled up next to the verge. Temporary overhead lights, powered by diesel generators, had been switched on, adding to the noise and fumes.