Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘A bit over half a mile, if you don’t mind doing a U-turn on a dangerous bend.’

‘I don’t mind that in the slightest.’ Clarke gave him a smile as she made to follow Rebus.

Back in the car, she asked him for his thoughts.

‘We can’t just barge in and interview them,’ he obliged. ‘Tayside Constabulary need to be told.’

‘Agreed.’

‘So you talk to Tayside in the morning and come back later in the day. That way everything’s above board.’

‘You don’t want to be involved?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I’m just the hired help.’

‘Earning your keep so far.’

‘Maybe let Communication Breakdown know that.’

Clarke smiled. ‘What about Stefan Skiladz?’

‘Worth doing a background check, but I doubt anything will come up.’

She nodded to herself and started the car. ‘I might have to buy you a pint when we get back to Edinburgh.’

‘What makes you think I don’t have plans?’

‘You’re not the type,’ she answered, signalling to pull out, always supposing a gap would eventually emerge in what looked like a solid convoy of lorries.

Rebus let her buy him two drinks in the end. Afterwards, he walked her back to her car and turned down the offer of a lift home.

‘It’s hardly on your route,’ he explained.

‘So you’re either going to take a taxi or keep on drinking.’

‘Flexing those sleuthing muscles of yours, eh?’

‘Today went pretty well. But if you start coming into Gayfield Square with the sweat of the previous night’s ale on you. .’

‘Understood.’ He gave her a mock salute, then watched until the Audi disappeared from view. The town was quiet, with plenty of cabs plying for the largely non-existent trade. Rebus held up a hand and waited. Twenty minutes later he was paying the driver his money, adding a quid as a tip, and stepping on to the pavement outside a pub called the Gimlet. It was situated next to a busy roundabout off Calder Road, one of the main routes into the city from the west. The area was a mix of commercial and residential — car showrooms, low-rise industrial units; but also two-storey terraces with the usual array of satellite dishes pointing up at the sky.

The Gimlet dated back to the 1960s. It was a squat, free-standing box of a place, with a sandwich board outside advertising quiz and karaoke nights and a cheap all-day breakfast. Rebus hadn’t been there in years. He wondered if it still operated as a glorified bazaar for shoplifters and housebreakers.

‘Only one way to find out,’ he told himself.

There was music blaring from loudspeakers, and a glamorous blonde on the TV reading out the sports news. Half a dozen sullen drinkers examined Rebus as he made for the taps. He studied the available beers, then checked the glass-fronted chiller.

‘Bottle of IPA,’ he decided. The barmaid was young, with tattooed arms and an array of facial piercings. Rebus reckoned she had chosen the soundtrack, whether the punters liked it or not. As she poured his beer, he asked if Frank was coming in.

‘Frank who?’

‘Hammell — this is still his place, isn’t it?’

‘No idea.’ She threw the empty bottle into a bucket with more force than was strictly necessary. Rebus handed her a twenty-pound note, which she checked beneath an ultraviolet scanner, prior to opening the till.

‘How about Darryl?’ Rebus tried again.

‘Are you from the papers?’ She placed his change on the bar top rather than handing it to him. It comprised a few coins, plus three of the ropiest-looking fivers Rebus had seen in quite some time.

‘Guess again,’ he said.

‘He’s a cop,’ one of the drinkers called out. Rebus turned to face the man. He was in his sixties and nursing a glass of dark rum. There were three empties in front of him.

‘Do I know you?’ Rebus asked.

The man shook his head. ‘I’m right, though.’

Rebus took a mouthful of beer. It was too cold, and a bit flat. A door to the left of him was rattling open. A sign explained that it led to the beer garden as well as the toilets. The man who walked in was coughing as he pocketed his pack of cigarettes. He was well over six feet tall, shaven-headed, and wearing a black three-quarter-length coat over dark trousers and polo-neck.

Stood to reason the Gimlet would have someone manning the premises. Rebus’s arrival had coincided with a break, that was all. The man stared hard at him, knowing him for a stranger and sensing the atmosphere in the room.

‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘Cop,’ the barmaid answered.

The doorman stopped a foot or so from Rebus and studied him from top to toe. ‘Too old,’ he offered.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. I was hoping to talk to Frank or Darryl.’

‘Is it to do with Annette?’ one of the other drinkers asked. The doorman warned him off with a look before turning his attention back to Rebus.

‘There are official channels,’ he said, ‘and you’re not following them.’

‘I didn’t realise I was speaking to one of Frank’s legal team.’ Rebus took another sip of beer and put the glass down, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. Without saying any more, he headed for the door, letting it swing shut after him. As he had guessed, the beer garden was a rectangle of cracked concrete with weeds growing through. No tables or chairs, just empty aluminium kegs and beer crates. The walled enclosure was topped with plenty of razor wire, stray ribbons of polythene snagged in it. Rebus lit his cigarette and walked in a circle. There was a high-rise block in the distance, a couple staging a shouting match on one of its balconies. The traffic at the roundabout would be oblivious. Just another small scene in a world full of them. Rebus was wondering if the door behind him would open. Someone might want a quiet word or a boxing match. He looked at his watch and his phone, just passing the time. With the cigarette reduced to little more than butt, he flicked it on to the concrete, where it joined dozens of others. Then he opened the door and went back inside.

There was no sign of the golem. Presumably he was back at his post. The barmaid was eating a bag of crisps. Rebus saw that his beer was no longer where he had left it.

‘Thought you’d finished,’ she took pleasure in explaining.

‘Can I buy you one?’ he asked.

She didn’t manage to conceal her surprise, but eventually shook her head.

‘Pity,’ Rebus said, nodding towards her piercings. ‘I wanted to see if you leak when you drink.’

Out front, the doorman was busy speaking into his phone. ‘He’s right here,’ he said when he spotted Rebus. He handed the phone to him.

‘Hello?’

‘Donny’s not convinced you’re a cop.’

‘Officially, I’m not. But I’m on secondment to the team investigating Annette’s disappearance.’

‘Any way you can prove that?’

‘Talk to DI Clarke. Either her or DCI Page. Who am I speaking to, by the way?’

‘Darryl Christie.’

Rebus remembered him from the press conference: spiky-haired and whey-faced. ‘Sorry about your sister, Darryl.’

‘Thanks. So what’s your name, then?’

‘Rebus. I was CID but now I work cold cases.’

‘So how come Page and his lot need you?’

‘That’s something you’d have to ask them.’ Rebus paused. ‘You don’t sound enamoured. .’

‘I would be if Page spent as much time grafting as he does on his skincare regime.’

‘I’d probably be wise to offer no comment.’

Darryl Christie made a snorting noise. He didn’t sound like an eighteen-year-old. Or rather, he sounded like an eighteen-year-old who had grown up fast and self-confident.

‘Does Frank Hammell share your concerns about the investigation?’ Rebus enquired.