Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘You, of course,’ she eventually answered.

‘Me?’

‘You’re the first person in such a long while who’s taken me seriously. And when you phoned the other night. .’

‘You decided to drop everything?’

‘I’m self-employed. Wherever I lay my laptop, that’s my office.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Publishing, sort of. I edit people’s books, do proofreading, sometimes research.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

She managed a laugh. ‘You’re not a very convincing liar — but it can be interesting. Last book I did was an encyclopaedia of myth and legend. It covered the whole of the British Isles — quite a lot from Scotland.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Did you know there’s a dragon buried beneath the Royal Mile?’ She did a quick calculation. ‘We might be perched on one of its wings.’

‘No shortage of stories in this city — I’ve heard alibis that were harder to swallow.’

She smiled. ‘I was a teacher for a while, same as Tom, except primary school. Used to love telling my class a folk tale. Once you had their attention, you kept it.’ Her voice trailed off. He knew she was thinking of her daughter again; doubted Sally was ever out of her thoughts for more than a few minutes at a time on any given day. She kept threatening to place her glass on the table, but it hadn’t quite happened yet. It was almost reduced to ice in any case.

‘Get you another?’ Rebus asked.

‘My turn.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, having hardly touched the pint. ‘Got the car outside, and this isn’t my first tonight.’

She decided to have another drink anyway, reaching into her bag for money. Rebus played with a beer mat while he waited for her to return.

‘So, anyway,’ she said, squeezing around the table and sitting down again, ‘you’ve managed to unearth the files on those other poor women?’

‘The records aren’t as complete as I’d like.’ He saw her look. ‘It happens — things get mislaid; notes that should have been written up aren’t. .’

‘Oh.’

‘Not that there were gaps in Sally’s case,’ he sought to reassure her.

‘Is there any possibility that I. .? No, I suppose not.’ She lowered her eyes.

‘I doubt they’d come as any consolation. You might find them a bit. .’

‘Upsetting?’

‘I was going to say “cold”. Nobody working the case knew Sally, you see.’

She nodded her understanding. ‘You’re trying to protect me.’

‘I’m not sure I’d put it like that.’

They focused on their drinks for a minute. Rebus didn’t know what else to say to her. He didn’t like to think of her as being trapped in limbo, but that’s where she was. The past had its grip on her and wasn’t letting go. He worked with the past, too, but he could always put it back in a box and have it delivered to a storeroom or warehouse.

‘Is there a draught?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Thought you were shivering.’

‘It happens sometimes. You know that saying about someone walking over your grave?’

‘Never really understood it, though.’

‘Now you come to mention it, I’m not sure I understand it either. Sure you don’t want another?’

‘Trying to get me arrested for drunk-driving?’

‘Couldn’t you talk your way out of it?’

‘Not these days.’

She grew thoughtful again. ‘Working cold cases, you must meet a lot of families who’ve lost loved ones. .’ She watched him nod. ‘I talk to a lot of them, too. Over the internet mostly. You know that in England and Wales they can’t issue a death certificate, no matter how long the person’s been missing? It’s hell for the families — means they can’t sort out the estate. Up here, you wait seven years and the court gives you a Presumption of Death certificate.’

‘And that’s what happened to you?’

She shook her head. ‘ Presumption ’s not what I want. I need to know what happened to her.’

‘Even after all this time?’

‘Even after all this time,’ she echoed. Then she sighed, finished her drink in two gulps and asked if he would walk her back to the hotel.

‘My pleasure,’ he said.

As they walked back up Victoria Street, he told her he’d not been in the Missoni before.

‘I doubt I’d be able to afford it normally,’ she explained, ‘but I got a late deal.’

The kilted doorman didn’t seem to be around. They stopped at the steps, both lighting cigarettes, standing in companionable silence as the traffic and pedestrians rolled past.

‘The rooms are nice,’ she said eventually. ‘In fact. .’ She looked in her bag. ‘There was something I wanted to give you, but it’s upstairs.’ She looked up at him. ‘Do you want to. .?’ But he was already shaking his head.

‘Then will you wait here while I fetch it?’

‘Sure.’

So she stubbed out her cigarette and headed indoors. Three minutes later she was back, holding a book.

‘Here,’ she said, handing it over.

Rebus read the title aloud: ‘ The British Isles: Myth and Magic . Is this the one you did research for?’

She nodded, watching as he flicked through a few pages.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I mean it. I’ll start it tonight.’

‘Look, about earlier. . I hope you don’t think I was trying to proposition you?’

He shook his head again. ‘Not a problem, Nina. It would have been flattering if you had. Are you heading back in the morning?’

She gestured towards the building across the street. ‘Bit of research I need to do.’

‘The National Library?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this for work?’

She nodded. ‘I was thinking of staying another night. .’

There was an invitation there — or at least an opening — but Rebus ignored it.

‘You know you’ll be the first person I call — supposing I make any progress,’ he said instead.

‘You seem to be my best hope, John. I can’t thank you enough.’ She moved forward to kiss him, but he leaned back a little at the waist, and instead took her hand in his, shaking it. Her grip was almost fierce. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating.

‘Maybe next time we can compare myths and legends,’ he said.

She nodded, averting her eyes, then turned and hurried back into the hotel. Rebus got into his car, turned the key in the ignition and signalled to make a U-turn.

All the way home he was anticipating her call, but it never came.

Lochend at midnight.

Darryl Christie slipped out of the house. He’d been home less than an hour. His mum was dead to the world, having been prescribed sleeping pills. Darryl’s two younger brothers, Joseph and Cal, shared the bedroom next to Annette’s. Darryl’s own room was downstairs, in what had been built as a conservatory. He’d added blackout blinds when he’d taken it over. Several times Frank Hammell had offered to find them a bigger and nicer place, but Darryl’s mum had grown up in Lochend, as had her parents before her. All her friends lived within walking distance of the house — and besides, Darryl and Annette would be moving out before long. Growing up, with their own lives to live.

Darryl had examined every inch of his sister’s bedroom, finding nothing to help explain her disappearance. He’d even contacted a few of her very closest pals, but nobody seemed to have any ideas. It had been Darryl, too, who had broken the news to his father, having reminded Gail that someone needed to do it.

‘You’re the man of the house, Darryl,’ she’d said, reaching for the vodka bottle.

The house had seen more than its fair share of visitors. Faces Darryl hardly knew wanted to offer sympathy, sit with Gail for a while and feed on her grief. Her closest friends had become like bodyguards, fending off curious neighbours and rubberneckers. The landline rang dozens of times a day, and Gail’s mobile was always needing to be recharged.