Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

Darryl had tried his best to stay out of it, retreating to his room. He could hear the voices in the living room and kitchen, and often they tried offering him tea and beer and a sandwich, tapping on his door and calling out to him. And when everyone had departed for the day, the house felt cold and empty, Joseph and Cal walking on tiptoe so as not to disturb their mother, doing homework without needing reminding, making their own dinner if necessary. When Darryl was required elsewhere, he would tell them: ‘You’re in charge. Anything urgent, phone me.’

Frank Hammell had asked him if he needed time off, but he had shaken his head.

‘Cops are useless, Darryl,’ Hammell had said. ‘But I’ve got feelers out. We’ll get to the bottom of this, one way or the other. .’

Outside the house, Darryl paused to examine the sky overhead. You never saw many stars — too much light pollution. There was the beginning of an overnight frost on the pavement and the car windscreens. Plenty of people still awake — TVs glowing from living room windows; some music from a distant party; a dog barking, desperate to be allowed back indoors. Darryl walked to the corner and shook the hand of the man standing there.

‘I thought we might walk,’ Cafferty said. ‘Not far — just to stop us freezing our backsides off.’

‘Sure,’ Darryl said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

‘We’ve not met before, have we?’ Cafferty asked him.

‘No.’

‘It’s just that sometimes I forget a face, and that looks like a lack of respect next time I see the person.’ He glanced towards the young man. ‘Don’t want that happening between us, Darryl.’

‘Okay, Mr Cafferty.’

‘How long have you been working for Frank?’

‘A while.’

‘ He used to work for me, you know.’

‘Your name’s been mentioned.’

‘Probably not with any great enthusiasm.’ A taxi rumbled past, driver’s-side window down, seeking an address. Cafferty watched it, as did Darryl.

‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’ the older man said with a thin smile. Then: ‘I should have said at the start, I’m sorry about your sister. Anything I can do to help, you only have to ask.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Frank doesn’t need to know — it can be between us. If that’s okay with you, Darryl.’ Cafferty seemed to study the young man. ‘I met your dad a few times, back in the day.’

‘Really?’

‘Just in the pub, you know. He was friends with Frank.’

‘Aye, he was.’

‘But then they say love’s no respecter of friendship.’ Cafferty turned a corner and Darryl realised they were doing a little circuit that would bring them back to his house. ‘I like that you kept your dad’s surname,’ Cafferty was saying. ‘Are you still in touch with him?’

Darryl nodded.

‘Well, tell him I said hello.’

‘I’ll do that. Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are we out for a walk together at the dead of night?’

Cafferty chuckled, then sniffed and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

‘You know a cop called Rebus?’ he asked as he wiped at his nose.

‘I’ve spoken to him.’

‘He mentioned your name to me. I’ve got a lot of friends in this town, people who make sure I’m as well informed as I need to be. You might think Frank has a lot of friends too, but they’re not the sort that can always be trusted. What do you think he would do if it turned out one of them had snatched your sister? What if they were using her as a bargaining tool of some kind?’

‘That’s not what the cops think happened.’

‘And they’re always right, are they? Come on, Darryl, we know better than that. But I’m hearing that you’re a bright one, and that’s why we’re out here together tonight. Frank Hammell’s enemies are going to see you as their enemy, too. Which means a friend like me makes sense. That’s all I’m asking.’ Cafferty stretched out his arms to consolidate the point. ‘Anything you feel able to share, I’ll listen. Later on, it might be that you’re ready to step out from Frank’s shadow. .’

‘And you’ll be there to help?’

‘I’m here for you and your family, Darryl. Any time you feel you need me.’

‘Frank says you’re retired.’

‘Maybe I am.’

‘So why the interest?’

‘Let’s just say there’s a bit of history between us.’

‘A score to be settled?’

‘Maybe. .’

Outside the house, they shook hands again.

‘Still living at home, eh?’ Cafferty commented.

‘For the moment.’

‘I’ve got a few flats I could let you take a look at.’

But Darryl shook his head.

‘You know your own mind — I like that about you too.’ Cafferty patted the young man’s arm and turned, starting to walk away. Darryl watched him disappear slowly into the darkness then angled his head towards the night sky again. There were stars up there, plenty of them. You just had to believe. .

‘I’ve always liked Perth,’ Siobhan Clarke said. ‘Just maybe not this particular bit of it.’

She was standing outside the divisional police HQ with Rebus, keeping him company while he smoked a cigarette. The building itself was a tall concrete lump hacked up from the 1960s or 70s. Tenements across the street and a petrol station next door.

‘When are you ever in Perth?’ Rebus asked.

‘Away games. St Johnstone’s ground is just off the M90.’

‘You go to away games?’ Rebus sounded disbelieving.

Clarke supported Hibernian FC. Time was, she’d taken Rebus to a few home matches, back in the days when you could smoke in the stadium. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a goal, just a succession of nil-nil draws made bearable by nicotine and the half-time pie.

‘There’s a game in Edinburgh this weekend if you fancy it,’ she was saying. ‘Thought not,’ she added, seeing the look on his face. ‘So what did you get up to last night?’

‘I had a quiet one — just a bit of reading.’

‘Those papers Christine got off the internet?’

‘Christ, no.’

‘What then?’

‘Hell are you smiling for? I can read, you know.’

Someone behind them cleared his throat. He stood in the doorway, doing everything but tap his watch.

‘When you’re ready,’ he told them.

He was a uniformed inspector by the name of Peter Lightheart, same cop who had been with Clarke the previous day at Pitlochry. Clarke had introduced Rebus to him on their arrival this morning, Rebus taking the proffered hand briefly before advising that he would need a quick cigarette before they got started.

Lightheart’s demeanour belied his name. Clarke had already warned Rebus that the man lacked patience, wit and cunning: ‘So we need to crowd him out of the interview if we can.’

‘Two ticks,’ Rebus told Lightheart, indicating that he’d almost finished with the cigarette. To deflect the man’s attention, Clarke asked if the search team had been given its orders.

‘Of course,’ Lightheart replied. ‘Probably been at it for the past hour.’

‘How many officers?’

‘A dozen.’

‘Search warrant for the sleeping quarters?’

Lightheart nodded, looking annoyed that she would think it necessary to check.

‘Why here?’ Rebus asked, getting rid of his cigarette butt.

‘Sorry?’ Lightheart enquired.

‘Doesn’t Pitlochry have a perfectly usable cop shop? We could have talked to him there.’

‘No proper interview room,’ Clarke explained. ‘And no technology.’

Meaning: video camera and audio equipment. A uniformed officer was checking both as Lightheart, Clarke and Rebus filed into the ground-floor room. There was nothing on the cream-coloured walls except a No Smoking sign and some attempts at scratchwork graffiti. The camera was high up in a corner, pointing towards the table and three chairs. Thomas Robertson was seated, hands gripping the edge of the table, one knee bouncing nervously. He would be thinking to himself: this is all looking serious. Which was the whole point, of course.