Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

He stubbed the cigarette into an ashtray and counted how many were left in the packet. Eight, meaning he’d smoked twelve so far today. That wasn’t bad, was it? Time was, he’d have finished one lot and broken open another. He wasn’t drinking as much either: couple of beers of an evening, with maybe a tot or three of whisky before bed. He had a beer open now — his first of the day. Neither Bliss nor Robison had fancied a drink after work, and he hadn’t been about to ask Cowan. Cowan tended to hang around the office late. They were housed within Police HQ on Fettes Avenue, which gave Cowan the chance to bump into senior officers, people potentially useful to him who would notice how he kept a good shine on his shoes and always addressed them properly.

‘It’s called stalking,’ Rebus had once informed him, having caught him laughing too heartily at an old joke one of the assistant chief constables had been telling in the corridor. ‘And I notice you don’t pull him up when he calls you Dan. .’

In a way, though, Rebus felt sorry for Cowan. There were almost certainly less proficient officers around who had more successfully scaled the heights. Cowan certainly felt that, and it gnawed away at him, so that he was almost hollowed out by it. The team had suffered as a result, which was a pity. Rebus liked many aspects of the job. He felt a small tremor of anticipation whenever he undid the binding from an old case file. There might be boxes and boxes, each one ready to take him on a trip back through time. Yellowed newspapers would contain not only reports of the crime, but also general stories of national and world affairs, plus sport and advertisements. He would get Elaine Robison to guess how much a car or a house had cost in 1974, and would read out the football league tables to Peter Bliss, who had a knack for remembering the names of players and managers. But then, eventually, Rebus would be pulled back to the crime itself, to the details, interviews, evidence and family testimony: somebody thinks they got away with it . . knows they got away with it . He hoped all these killers were out there somewhere, growing more ill at ease with each passing year as they read about advances in detection and technology. Maybe when their grandkids wanted to watch CSI or Waking the Dead , they had to leave the room and sit in the kitchen. Maybe they couldn’t bear the sight of newsprint, or weren’t able to listen in peace to the radio or TV news, for fear of hearing about the reopening of the case.

Rebus had posited the idea to Cowan: get the media to report breakthroughs on a regular basis, real or not, just to put the wind up the culprits.

‘Something might shake loose.’

But Cowan hadn’t been keen: weren’t the media in enough trouble already for fabricating stories?

‘It wouldn’t be them doing it,’ Rebus had persisted, ‘it would be us .’ But Cowan had just kept shaking his head.

The record finished and Rebus lifted the needle from the vinyl. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, far too early to be considering bed. He’d already eaten; already decided there was nothing on TV worth watching. The bottle of beer was empty. He walked over to the window and stared out at the tenement opposite. A couple of children in pyjamas were staring back at him from a first-floor flat. He waved, which sent them scampering away. Now they were circling one another in the middle of their room, bouncing on their toes, not at all sleepy, and he had been dismissed from their universe.

He knew what they’d been telling him, though — there was a whole other world out there. And that could mean only one thing.

‘Pub,’ Rebus said out loud, reaching for his phone and his keys. Switching off the record deck and amp, he noticed the pick again and decided it was coming with him too.

He was the only person in the office when the phone rang. Cowan and Bliss had gone to the canteen, and Robison had a doctor’s appointment. Rebus picked up the receiver. It was the front desk.

‘Lady here wants to talk to DI Magrath.’

‘Then you’ve got the wrong office.’

‘She says different.’

Rebus watched as Bliss came into the room, carrying a soft drink in one hand, a sandwich in the other, and with the edge of a crisp packet clamped between his teeth. ‘Hang on,’ he said into the receiver. Then, to Bliss: ‘Any ideas about a DI called Magrath?’

Bliss placed the sandwich on his desk and removed the bag from his mouth. ‘He started this place,’ he told Rebus.

‘How do you mean?’

‘First boss of SCRU — we’re all his babies, in a manner of speaking.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Fifteen years maybe.’

‘Someone downstairs is looking for him.’

‘Good luck to them.’ Bliss saw Rebus’s look. ‘He’s not dead or anything. Took up his pension six years back. Bought a place up north on the coast.’

‘DI Magrath hasn’t worked here for six years,’ Rebus explained into the mouthpiece.

‘Can somebody else have a word, then?’ he was asked.

‘We’re a bit busy up here — what’s it about?’

‘A missing person.’

‘Not really our department.’

‘She met with DI Magrath apparently. He gave her his card.’

‘Has she got a name?’ Rebus asked.

‘Nina Hazlitt.’

‘Nina Hazlitt?’ Rebus repeated, for Peter Bliss’s benefit. Bliss thought for a moment, then shook his head.

‘What is it she thinks we can do for her?’ Rebus asked the front desk.

‘Wouldn’t it be a lot easier for you to ask her that yourself?’

Rebus considered for a moment. Bliss was seated behind his desk, breaking open the prawn Marie Rose sandwich — same thing he always brought back from the canteen. Cowan would soon appear, his fingers scented by bacon-flavour crisps. Maybe a trip downstairs wasn’t such a bad idea.

‘Five minutes,’ he said into the receiver, ending the call. Then he asked Bliss if the office had ever dealt with missing persons.

‘You don’t think we’ve got enough on our plates?’ Bliss poked a toe against one of half a dozen musty-smelling storage boxes piled next to him.

‘Maybe Magrath worked MisPers before he came here.’

‘Regular CID as far as I recall.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Still do. He calls me at home now and again to check SCRU’s still here. He was the one who signed me up — almost the last thing he did before taking the gold watch. After him came Eddie Tranter, and then it was Cowan’s turn.’

‘Are my ears burning?’ Cowan walked through the doorway. He was stirring a cappuccino with a white plastic spoon. Rebus knew he would proceed to lick that spoon until not a trace of foam was left on it, before depositing it in the bin. Then he would slurp the coffee while checking his computer for e-mails. And the room would fill with the aromas of smoky bacon and vinegary prawn.

‘Cigarette break,’ Rebus said, shrugging his arms into his jacket.

‘Mind you don’t take too long,’ Cowan cautioned.

‘Missing me already?’ Rebus asked, blowing a kiss and making for the door.

The main reception area wasn’t huge, and she was easy to spot, being the only person seated on the single row of chairs. She sprang to her feet as Rebus approached. The bag on her lap fell to the floor, and she crouched down, scrabbling for its contents. Scraps of paper, several pens, lighter, sunglasses and a mobile phone. Rebus decided to let her do it unaided, then get back to her feet, rearrange her clothes and hair, and compose herself.

‘My name’s Nina Hazlitt,’ she told him, shooting out a hand for him to shake.