Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘When?’

‘Last night. Warning me off, telling me I should be on his side rather than yours.’ She began to slide the sheets of paper back into the shopping bag, then asked him if he’d seen Nina Hazlitt’s interview.

‘Was it on TV?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘Webcast for some news agency. She thanked us for everything we were doing.’

‘Nice of her.’

‘She handles herself well in front of a camera. No sign of craziness.’

‘She’s not crazy.’ But Rebus was remembering her last phone call, voice verging on the hysterical.

‘She still needs reining in, if at all possible.’

‘And I’m the man for the job? Is this your thinking or Page’s?’ Rebus waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. ‘He told you to come here?’ He walked to the window and peered down on to the street. ‘Is he waiting in his car? What does he drive?’

It was a BMW, double-parked twenty yards up. There was someone in the driver’s seat.

‘Why didn’t you bring him in? Afraid it might have diluted those feminine charms of yours?’

She glowered at him. ‘This was my idea, John. And if I had brought him up, you’d be off the case right now.’ She pointed towards the shopping bags.

‘He wouldn’t have got over the threshold.’

She closed her eyes for a second. A text arrived on her phone.

‘That’ll be him,’ Rebus muttered. ‘Wondering what’s taking so long.’

Clarke read the text and turned towards the door. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said quietly.

‘Is he dropping you at yours, or is it back to his?’

She didn’t rise to it, just walked out of the room. Rebus stayed by the window, watching her exit the tenement and head towards the car. Its lights came on as she approached, picking her out as though she were an actor making her entrance. The passenger-side door opened and closed, the BMW remaining motionless as a dialogue took place. Then it began to crawl down Arden Street’s gentle slope towards the junction, passing Rebus’s building in the process, driver and passenger staring straight ahead. He willed Clarke to look up, but she didn’t.

‘Played that with your usual charm and grace,’ he muttered to himself. Siobhan Clarke was stuck somewhere between Page and Fox and he could see how much it was hurting her.

How much he was hurting her.

Good at her job, ready for the next step up, life on an even keel — and then in walks John Rebus, not even bothering to wipe his shoes, leaving bits of muck everywhere without even noticing.

Aye, nicely played, John.

He lit a cigarette and poured himself a whisky, stopping when the liquid was halfway to the top of the glass. He sat himself at the dining table, eyes focused on the road map. After a while, the glass needed refilling and the ashtray emptying. Without music, he realised how empty the room felt, but he couldn’t find an album to match his mood. He thought of calling Siobhan Clarke, apologising for everything. Or maybe a text — keep it short and sweet. Instead of which he ended up in his armchair with the book Nina Hazlitt had given him. There were no serpents buried beneath Edinburgh, and no monster swimming in Loch Ness. It was all just superstition and the basic human hunger for explanations, answers, reasons.

When his eyelids began to droop, he decided that was fine. Just one more night when he wouldn’t quite make it as far as the bedroom.

The guardian of the front desk at Gayfield Square still showed reluctance to allow Rebus entry. Each morning she printed him a fresh visitor’s pass, and at the end of each day she needed him to return it.

‘Be easier doing me one for a week,’ Rebus suggested, trying to remember her name.

‘You might not be here a week,’ she countered.

‘Think of the environmental damage you’re doing.’

‘I recycle them.’ She handed him that day’s pass. ‘Needs to be worn at all times, remember.’

‘Absolutely.’

As he climbed to the first floor, he unclipped the badge and stuffed it into his jacket. The office had just started work for the day. He nodded towards Ronnie Ogilvie and, passing Christine Esson’s desk, asked her if she had any new wonders to show him.

‘Just these,’ she said.

He took the sheets of paper from her.

‘They’re e-fits,’ she explained. ‘There’s a guy I know on a force down south, he’s a dab hand with the software.’

Rebus stared at the three faces in turn. Sally Hazlitt, Brigid Young and Zoe Beddows had been aged so that each photo showed them as they might look in the present day. Hazlitt was the most changed — not surprising, since she had been missing the longest. A woman of thirty, eyes and cheekbones still much like her mother’s. Beddows and Young were more recognisably the same women who had disappeared. A few lines had been added to Young’s face, her eyes hollower, mouth sagging slightly. Beddows was shown in her late twenties, still sharp-featured but losing some of her spark.

‘What do you think?’ Esson was asking.

‘Pretty good,’ Rebus admitted.

‘He did some others — different hairstyles. .’

Rebus nodded, and she knew what he was thinking.

‘Pretty pointless if they’re dead,’ she commented.

‘I think you should circulate them. But get Page’s permission first.’

‘Mr Trampled Underfoot?’ She gave Rebus a smile. ‘I did my research last night.’

Page’s door opened and he fixed his eyes on Rebus, then gave a little flick of the head by way of summons. Rebus helped himself to a mug of coffee first, then knocked and went in. There was no space for a chair for visitors. Yesterday, with three of them in there, it had been a sweat box. Yet somehow it suited Page, a man who liked his parameters tight, no room for manoeuvre.

‘John,’ he said, sitting down behind his laptop.

‘Yes, James?’

‘Good to see you here so early.’

Rebus just nodded, ready for whatever was coming.

‘Shows motivation, but we need focus also.’

‘Absolutely.’

Page’s words were just filling time while he considered how to broach the real subject. Rebus decided to spare him any more effort.

‘Is it to do with the Complaints?’ he guessed.

‘In a way.’ Meaning: yes, specifically and definitely.

‘Sorry if I seem to be bringing a bit of baggage with me,’ Rebus said. ‘Rest assured it won’t interfere with my work.’

‘Good man. And how’s that work going?’

‘Slower than I’d like.’

‘You appreciate that Annette McKie has to be our priority?’

‘Of course.’

‘And we can’t let your historical cases get in the way.’

‘Nina Hazlitt isn’t going to take a telling from me. She’s been waiting years for this opportunity.’

‘Is she still in Edinburgh?’

‘As far as I know, she went back to London last night.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ He pressed his palms together as if in prayer, resting his mouth against the tips of his fingers.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen Siobhan this morning?’ Rebus asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

Page shook his head and checked his watch. ‘Not like her to be tardy.’

‘Unless she was late to bed.’

Page stared at him. ‘I dropped her home at quarter past nine, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

Rebus pretended to show surprise. ‘No, nothing like that. I just thought-’

He was interrupted by his mobile phone. Siobhan Clarke’s name was on the screen.

‘Talk of the devil,’ he said, pressing the phone to his ear.

‘Where are you?’ Clarke asked.

‘In the office. Why?’

‘I’m parked outside. Better get down here.’