Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Want to come with me while I tell James the news?’ Clarke asked.

‘Not really.’

‘I suppose I should have asked you what you’ve been up to.’

‘Me? Not much.’ Rebus paused. ‘Apart from dropping you in it with the Complaints. So I should probably say sorry for that. .’

Clarke stared at him. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

That evening, Rebus barely had time to open the day’s post and stick an album on the deck before his phone rang. He checked the number: not recognised.

‘Hello?’ he said. He was in the kitchen, staring at the meagre contents of the fridge.

‘Rebus?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Frank Hammell.’

‘Darryl gave you my number?’

‘Get your arse down to the Gimlet. Let’s do some talking.’

‘Before I can agree to that, I’ve got a question.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Does the Gimlet do food this time of night?’

Takeaway pizza was the answer. It was waiting in a box for him, still warm, at a corner table. There was no one else in the place, just Donny on the door. No TV or sound system, no one serving behind the bar.

‘Right little Mary Celeste ,’ Rebus commented, lifting a slice of pizza from the box and heading towards the bar. Hammell stood behind it, arms stretched along the polished surface. He was around five ten, with a look that mixed entrepreneur with scrapper. He wore a dark blue shirt, open at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was well groomed. Close up, Rebus could make out scarring leading from his top lip to his nose. One eyebrow had a permanent nick in it. Here was a man who tended not to back down when things got heated.

‘I’ll have a malt, if you’re asking.’

Hammell turned and reached for a bottle of Glenlivet, the stopper squeaking as it was removed. He didn’t bother measuring, just poured freely. ‘I’m guessing no water,’ he said, placing the drink in front of Rebus. Then, palm extended: ‘That’ll be five on the nose.’

Rebus stared at him, then smiled and handed over the money. Hammell didn’t ring it up; just stuffed it into his pocket. There had been no sign of surveillance outside, and Rebus had to wonder what it would do to Malcolm Fox’s head if he ever learned of this meeting.

‘So you’re John Rebus,’ Hammell said. His voice was a deep gargle; sounded as if his throat needed clearing. Rebus had known a con once who’d sounded like that because someone had tried to strangle him with a towel in his cell.

‘I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘Just like you’re Frank Hammell.’

‘I used to hear about you. You know I worked with Cafferty?’

‘Way he tells it, you worked for him rather than with him.’

‘Back in the day, he hated you with a vengeance. Should have heard the things he was prepared to do to you and yours. .’ Hammell gave this time to sink in. He walked to the corner table and retrieved the pizza, placing it on the bar top and helping himself to a slice.

‘It’s not bad,’ Rebus informed him.

‘Better not be. I told them what I’d do to them if the cheese was too stringy.’ He took a bite. ‘I can’t abide stringy cheese.’

‘You should write restaurant reviews.’

There was silence for a moment as the two men ate. ‘Know what I think?’ Hammell said eventually. ‘I think they left the cheese out altogether.’

‘One solution to the problem,’ Rebus stated.

‘So you and Cafferty,’ Hammell went on, dabbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘best of pals these days, eh?’

‘News gets around.’

‘Ever wondered what his game is?’

‘All the time.’

‘Bastard says he’s retired — as if carpet bowls and a pair of slippers were ever his style.’

Rebus took out his handkerchief to deal with the grease on his fingers. One slice of the pizza was enough.

‘You don’t like it?’ Hammell asked.

‘Not as hungry as I thought.’ Rebus lifted the whisky to his lips.

‘Darryl tells me you’re working cold cases. So how come you’re suddenly interested in Annette?’

Rebus considered how to answer. ‘There may be a pattern.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Other young women have vanished down the years. Three that we know of, the first in 1999. All of them were on the A9 or near it at the time.’

‘First I’ve heard.’

‘I wanted you to know.’

Hammell stared at Rebus, narrowing his eyes a little. ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re probably drawing up a list of enemies, thinking one of them might have her.’

‘What makes you think I’ve got enemies?’

‘Business you’re in, I’d say it’s an occupational hazard.’

‘You think I’ll go after your old pal Cafferty? Is that what this is about — you covering his arse?’

‘If you want Cafferty, be my guest, but I think you’d be making a mistake.’ Rebus put down the half-empty glass. ‘How’s Annette’s mum doing?’

‘How do you think? It’s ripping her to shreds. You really reckon there’s some sick bastard out there who’s done this before? How come he’s kept himself under the radar?’

‘As of now, it’s only a theory. .’

‘But you believe it?’

‘It’s a theory,’ Rebus repeated. ‘But one you need to be aware of, if things aren’t to get ugly.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘How long has Darryl been working for you?’

‘Since before he left school.’

‘I notice he kept his dad’s surname.’

Hammell glowered at Rebus. ‘Kid can do what he likes — free country last time I looked.’

‘I assume the dad knows about Annette?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’ve known the family a while.’

‘What business is that of yours?’

Rebus offered a shrug and watched Hammell do some thinking.

‘Anything I can do to help?’ the man asked eventually. Rebus shook his head. ‘A bit of cash, maybe? Case of hooch?’

Rebus pretended to consider this. ‘Maybe just don’t charge me for the pizza.’

‘What makes you think I paid for it in the first place?’ Frank Hammell answered with a snort.

Siobhan Clarke lived in a high-ceilinged first-floor flat that was part of a Georgian terrace just off Broughton Street. A five-minute walk took her to work each morning, and she liked the area’s mix of bars and restaurants. There was a cinema complex at the top of the hill, a concert venue nearby, and every kind of shop you could ever wish for on Leith Walk. The flat shared a drying green at the back of the building and she’d got to meet most of her neighbours down the years. Edinburgh had a reputation for being cold and distant, but she’d never found that. Some residents were shy or quiet, just wanting to get on with their lives without fuss or incident. Her neighbours knew her as a police officer, but had yet to ask for help or a favour. When one of the ground-floor flats had been broken into, everyone had gone out of their way to let Clarke know they didn’t blame her for the eventual lack of a result.

She had been thinking about an evening visit to her gym, and had even changed in readiness before slumping on the sofa and checking the TV schedules instead. When her phone let her know she had a message, she decided to ignore it. Then her door buzzer sounded. She went into the hall and pushed the button next to the intercom.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘DI Clarke? It’s Malcolm Fox.’

Clarke sucked air in between her teeth. ‘How do you know where I live, or is that a stupid question?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘I’m expecting someone.’