Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

The third bouncer, who looked the most experienced, had kept his counsel thus far, but now he patted his young colleague on the back.

‘Easy there, Marcus. Our friend’s a police officer.’

Rebus stared Marcus down. ‘He’s right, you know. And the reason I’ve got to the age I have is that I never start a fight I can’t win. Little tip for you there. . wee man.’

Rebus turned his attention to the leader of the group.

‘Who is it you want to see?’ the man asked. Shaven head; neat moustache/beard combo peppered with grey. He too was a survivor.

‘Mr Hammell,’ Rebus told him.

‘He knows you’re coming?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Might not want to see you, then.’

‘Maybe if you tell him it’s about Annette.’

The doorman chewed this over, at the same time working the gum in his mouth.

‘Does Mr Hammell know you?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Okay then. Follow me.’

Inside the foyer lay an acre of red carpet. There were tiny twinkling lights set into the ceiling, and the old box office was where you still paid your entrance money. Behind two sets of swing doors, Rebus could hear pounding dance music and a few drunken female whoops. The doorman had stopped long enough at a narrow stairwell in one corner to unhook a red rope. The sign next to it said STAFF ONLY. They climbed to the balcony area, the walls throbbing from the sound system.

‘That Marcus needs a bouncer of his own,’ Rebus commented.

‘It’s turning into a young man’s game, same as everything else.’

Emerging at the top of the stairs, Rebus saw that some of the old cinema seating remained, rows of plush velour awaiting an audience that would never come. A mirror ball was working hard at entertaining the dancers below. Red and blue lights pulsed. The doorman led Rebus past the back row of seats to an office, where he knocked and entered without waiting to be asked, stranding Rebus on the door’s other side. Half a minute later, he was back, leaving the door open this time and signalling for Rebus to go in.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus said. ‘I mean it.’ The doorman nodded, aware that he was now owed a favour, something he could tuck away in his back pocket for the future.

The office surprised Rebus by being large, bright and modern. Pale wooden furniture, ochre-coloured leather sofa. There were framed publicity shots for old films on the walls, including many Rebus had seen in his youth.

‘Found them when we bought the place,’ Frank Hammell explained. ‘Hundreds of them left to rot in the roof space. I think they were supposed to be insulation.’ He had come from behind his desk to shake Rebus’s hand. He held on to it and asked if there was news.

‘Not much,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Mind if we sit?’

Hammell took one end of the sofa and Rebus the other. Tonight Hammell was wearing stonewashed denims with brown brogues. A silver-tipped belt strained in combat with the gut it encircled. White short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. He ran a meaty hand through his hair.

‘Rob’s a gent,’ he told Rebus, nodding towards the door.

‘Certainly seems to have a bit more grey matter than Doorman Donny at the Gimlet.’

‘Brains and brawn don’t always mix. It’s getting harder to find good guys.’ Hammell gave a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Anyway, I leave the hiring and firing to Darryl. So what brings you here, Rebus?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me where Thomas Robertson is.’

‘Mind if I ask you a question first?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Who the hell is Thomas Robertson?’

Rebus tried staring him out, but Hammell seemed to have played the game before. ‘He’s someone we were questioning,’ he eventually decided to explain.

‘Okay.’

‘And now he’s gone missing.’

‘You think he’s the one who took Annette?’

‘No, but I’m pretty sure you think he did.’

Hammell stretched out both arms, palms upwards. ‘Never heard of him till you walked in,’ he protested.

‘He was part of a road crew working north of Pitlochry. Drove into town and that’s the last anyone saw of him.’

‘So he’s a fugitive?’

‘He’s not been charged with anything.’

‘How come he ended up on your radar, then?’

‘He has a bit of previous.’

‘Abduction?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Assault.’

‘And now you’ve questioned him and let him go?’

‘We searched his sleeping quarters. Didn’t find anything linking him to Annette.’

Hammell was thoughtful. ‘How exactly am I supposed to have known about him?’

‘There was some gossip on the internet.’

‘Only net that interests me is the away team’s at Tynecastle.’ He paused. ‘I saw on the news. . photos of those other women. And the picture Annette sent. . Is there anything I can tell Gail, just something to chase the gloom?’

‘We’ve had plenty of suggestions. Tomorrow or the day after, we’ll be checking the shortlist personally.’

‘No sightings of Annette, though? Her picture’s been everywhere. .’

Rebus didn’t say anything to this. Hammell got up and walked behind his desk, opening a drawer and bringing out a bottle of vodka.

‘Want one?’

When Rebus shook his head, Hammell lifted a single glass from the drawer and poured an inch into it.

‘How’s Annette’s mother doing?’ Rebus asked.

‘How do you think?’

There was no knock at the door. It just opened, and a young man Rebus recognised as Darryl Christie was standing there. He saw that Hammell had a visitor and began to mutter an apology.

‘The two of you should meet,’ Hammell said, gesturing for the young man to come in. Rebus reckoned Christie merited standing up for.

‘We spoke on the phone,’ he explained, extending his hand. ‘I’m John Rebus.’

‘Is it to do with Annette?’

‘Just a progress report,’ Hammell reassured him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Christie’s phone buzzed and he checked the message on the screen. He was a handsome enough lad, and his tailored suit looked brand new. A suit was an interesting choice. It belonged to the world of grown-ups, of serious business. Hammell dressed sloppily because he could afford to: no one was going to misjudge him, whatever he chose to wear. Darryl had to work that bit harder. In denims, there was always the chance he would be mistaken for a nobody.

‘What’s this I hear about photographs?’ Christie asked.

‘Your sister sent one,’ Rebus explained. ‘Or at least, one was sent from her phone. Same thing with a missing person from a few years back. Right now, that’s about as much as we have.’

‘Plus a suspect who’s gone AWOL,’ Hammell interrupted. ‘We’ve not got him locked in the cellar, have we, Darryl?’

‘Not last time I looked.’ Christie’s phone buzzed again, alerting him to a new message.

‘Always the fucking texts,’ Hammell complained. ‘Take him to a show or the best restaurants, he hardly looks up from that bloody phone.’

‘It’s how business gets done,’ Christie muttered, his fingertips busy on the touchscreen.

Hammell wrinkled his nose and caught Rebus’s eye. ‘People like you and me, we prefer things face to face. That was all you had in the old days. Tonight you could have phoned me, but you came in person.’ He nodded his approval. ‘Sure you won’t take that drink?’

‘I’m fine,’ Rebus said.

‘You could offer me one,’ Darryl Christie commented.

‘But then I’d have to pour you into a cab at the end of the night.’

Christie ignored this. He waved his phone in his employer’s direction. ‘I have to deal with this,’ he said, turning and exiting the room.