Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘You work nights?’ Clarke asked.

‘Twelve-hour shifts,’ Soames confirmed. ‘The night crew are in there.’ He pointed to a Portakabin they were just passing. ‘Six beds, one shower, plus a kitchen best avoided.’ There was a row of three portable toilets, then another Portakabin, its windows covered with protective grilles. Soames opened its door and ushered them inside. He switched on a light and an electric heater. ‘I could probably rustle up some tea. .’

‘Thanks, but this shouldn’t take long.’ There were plans of the roadworks on the room’s only table. Soames rolled them up, making space.

‘Sit yourselves down,’ he said.

‘So the crew are Polish?’ Rebus asked. Soames gave a questioning look, and Rebus nodded towards the dictionary on the worktop. English-Polish/Polish-English.

‘Not all of them,’ Soames answered. ‘But some, yes. And their English sometimes falls a bit short.’

‘So what’s the Polish for tarmacadam?’

Soames smiled. ‘Stefan acts as their foreman. He’s got better English than I have.’

‘They sleep on site?’

‘Long way to travel home every day.’

‘And cook meals here? Basically live by the side of the road?’

Soames nodded. ‘That’s how it is.’

‘What about yourself, Mr Soames?’ Clarke asked.

‘I’m over near Dundee. It’s a slog but I make it home most nights.’

‘There must be a night-shift supervisor?’

Soames nodded and checked his watch. ‘He’ll be here in an hour and a half. I’d rather he didn’t catch me having a chinwag when I’m supposed to be out there.’

‘Point taken,’ Clarke said, without making it sound like an apology. ‘So you’ve heard about Annette McKie?’

‘Of course.’

‘Has anyone talked to you?’

‘You mean police?’ Soames shook his head. ‘You’re the first.’

‘She was probably hitching north out of Pitlochry. That means she would have had to pass right by here.’

‘If she was on foot, someone would have noticed.’

‘That’s what we were thinking.’

‘Well, she didn’t. I asked the men.’

‘All of them?’

‘All of them,’ Soames confirmed. ‘Time she was in the area, it would have been the day crew.’

‘The night crew’s Portakabin has windows, though,’ Rebus countered. ‘Did you ask them too?’

‘No,’ Soames admitted. ‘But I will, if you like. Give me a number and I’ll get back to you.’

‘Be easier if you did it just now.’

‘Some might still be asleep.’

‘Wake them up.’ Rebus paused. ‘Please.’

Soames thought for a moment before making his decision. He pressed his palms against the tabletop and started rising to his feet.

‘And while we’re waiting,’ Rebus added, ‘maybe we could have a word with Stefan. .’

When Soames had closed the door, Clarke moved closer to the heater, warming her hands.

‘Can you imagine it? Working all hours and in all weathers?’

Rebus was doing a circuit of the room, examining health and safety notices pinned to a corkboard, letters and forms piled high next to the dictionary. There was a phone charger but no phone. The calendar showed a photo of a blonde model atop a bright red motorbike.

‘It’s a job,’ he commented. ‘These days, that’s something.’

‘So what’s your thinking?’

‘There’s no way she could walk past here without being spotted.’

Clarke nodded. ‘Maybe she took a detour across the field at the back.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘To avoid the wolf-whistles.’ She looked at him. ‘It still happens.’

‘You’d know better than me.’

‘Yes, I would.’ She looked around the room. ‘What do you think they do here between shifts?’

‘I’m guessing booze, card games and porn.’

‘You’d know better than me,’ Clarke was echoing as the metal door shuddered open. A grizzled man in his early forties stood there, eyes hooded and with a week’s worth of stubble on his chin and cheeks. His gaze met that of Rebus.

‘Hiya, Stefan,’ Rebus said to him. ‘Keeping your nose clean, I hope?’

Stefan Skiladz had lived in Scotland for more than half his life, spending three of those years in prison for a serious assault after a day’s heavy drinking at a friend’s flat in Tollcross. Rebus had been CID at the time and had given evidence in court, Skiladz having pleaded not guilty despite the blood on his clothing and his fingerprints on the kitchen knife.

Clarke listened to Rebus explain all of this as the three of them sat around the table. When he had finished, Skiladz broke the silence with a question:

‘What the hell is this all about?’

Clarke responded by pushing the photo of Annette McKie across the table towards him.

‘She’s gone missing. Last seen in Pitlochry getting ready to hitchhike north.’

‘So what?’ Skiladz had picked the photo up, his face showing no emotion whatsoever.

‘Your guys must go into Pitlochry,’ Rebus answered. ‘Someone has to do the tobacco-and-vodka run.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘So maybe they took pity on her.’

‘And dropped her here? Better to wait for someone to take her further.’ Skiladz looked up from the photograph. ‘No?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Could you keep the photo, show it around?’ Clarke suggested.

‘Sure.’ He took another look. ‘Pretty girl. I have a daughter, not so very different.’

‘Has that helped keep you out of trouble?’

Skiladz stared at Rebus. ‘I stopped with the drink. I got my head together.’ He tapped a blackened finger to his brow. ‘And I stopped getting into arguments.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Any of the other lads got form?’

‘Trouble with the law, you mean? Why would I tell you?’

‘Because then we wouldn’t have to come back here with immigration officers and maybe the tax man too. And while we checked every person’s ID and history, we’d make sure your name was mentioned in dispatches. .’

Skiladz’s eyes drilled into Rebus. ‘You were a bastard back then, too. Just not so fat and old.’

‘Hard to disagree.’

‘So what’s your answer?’ Clarke added.

Skiladz turned his attention towards her. ‘One or two,’ he said eventually.

‘One or two what?’

‘Have had some trouble in the past.’

She got up and found a pad of lined paper, placing it in front of him, making sure not to obscure the photograph lying there.

‘Write them down,’ she said.

‘This is crazy.’

She held out a pen and made him take it from her. When she retrieved the pad a minute later, it contained three names.

‘Day shift?’ she asked.

‘Only the first.’

‘Thomas Robertson,’ she read out. ‘Doesn’t sound very Polish.’

‘He’s Scottish.’

The door opened again. Bill Soames was standing there. He watched as Clarke tore the sheet from the pad, folded it in half and slipped it into her pocket.

‘Nothing,’ he said, turning to close the door. ‘No one saw her.’ Then, laying a hand on Skiladz’s shoulder: ‘Everything all right, Stefan?’

‘Can I go now?’ Skiladz asked Rebus.

‘Ask her, not me.’ Rebus indicated Clarke. She nodded at Skiladz and he got up to leave.

‘What’s been going on?’ Soames asked.

Rebus waited until Skiladz was outside. ‘Mr Skiladz has been helping us with our inquiries,’ he told Soames. ‘Necessitating another visit.’ He rose and held out his hand for Soames to take.

Soames looked as though he had questions, but Rebus was already opening the door. Clarke shook Soames’s hand and asked a final question of her own.

‘How far do we have to drive before we can start heading south again?’