Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Not even a word of goodbye, eh?’ Hammell shook his head in mock despair. ‘He’s a good kid, though.’

‘How long have you known his mother?’

‘Didn’t you ask me that already?’

‘I don’t recall you answering.’

‘Maybe because it’s still none of your business.’

‘Line of work I’m in, every little detail counts. You knew Darryl’s dad?’

‘Derek was a mate.’ Hammell offered a shrug.

‘Any truth in the rumour you ran him out of town?’

‘Is this coming from your mouth or your pal Cafferty’s?’

‘I’ve told you, he’s not my pal.’

Hammell poured himself another generous shot of vodka. Rebus could smell it. Wasn’t the worst aroma in the world. .

‘Cafferty’s finished anyway. Game over.’ Hammell tipped the glass and drained it.

‘Can you tell me what Annette’s like?’ Rebus asked. ‘Or is that none of my business either?’

‘Annette’s a proper little madam — always needs to get her own way.’

‘I was thinking that,’ Rebus said, nodding his agreement. ‘Her bussing it to Inverness. .’

‘One of my guys would have driven her!’ Hammell growled.

‘You suggested as much?’

‘But she had to do it her way — and see where that got her!’ Hammell made an exasperated sound and started refilling the glass again.

‘You blame her?’

‘If she’d just listened to reason, none of this would be happening.’ He paused, stared down into his glass, swirling its contents. ‘Look, you know me, right? You know who I am. . It annoys me that I can’t do anything to help.’

‘You put up the reward.’

‘And all that’s done is flushed out every nut job and greedy bastard in a four-hundred-mile radius.’

‘I doubt you could be doing anything we’re not. It only gets problematic if you decide to go your own way.’

‘I’ll say it one more time: I don’t know anything about this guy Robertson. But if you need a hand getting him back. .’ Hammell fixed Rebus with a look.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary — or wise.’

Hammell gave a shrug. ‘The offer’s there. And how about that bonus? Bankers can’t be the only ones, eh?’ He had reached into one of the pockets in his jeans and produced a fat wad of what looked like fifty-pound notes.

‘No,’ Rebus said.

‘Aye,’ Hammell stated, reckoning he knew the truth of it. ‘Cafferty already pays you a big enough retainer.’

Rebus decided it was time to go, but Hammell had other ideas.

‘I’d been told you’re like him, and it’s true. You could almost be brothers.’

‘Now I’m feeling insulted.’

Hammell smiled. ‘Don’t be. It’s just that one like Cafferty has always seemed too many.’ He stared into his drink before lifting it to his lips. ‘Shame you didn’t leave well alone in that hospital when you had the chance.’

It was two a.m. when Darryl Christie got back to the house in Lochend. His mother had dozed off in front of one of the TV shopping channels. He roused her and sent her to bed, though she’d demanded a hug first. The hug had been forthcoming, in exchange for a promise to take things easy with the booze and the pills.

Joseph and Cal had tidied the kitchen and washed up after dinner. Darryl checked the fridge — plenty of ready meals and milk. He’d placed a twenty-pound note on the table for groceries, and it was still there. Upstairs his brothers were in their bunk beds, but the small TV was warm to the touch and there were video games strewn across the floor. Some of them looked like they belonged to Annette. Joseph had asked permission to borrow one or two, and Darryl had agreed.

‘I hope you two are asleep,’ he warned them, though they weren’t about to open their eyes and give up the pretence. Closing the door, he slipped into his sister’s room and switched on the light. The walls had been painted black, but then decorated with posters and stickers. There were little stars and planets on the ceiling that glowed in the dark — those had been a Christmas present from Darryl. He sat for a moment on her single bed. He could smell her perfume, reckoned it was coming from the pillow. He lifted it and sniffed. There was no real sense of absence — at any moment she could come bounding in, demanding to know what he was doing there. They’d been competitive when younger, landed a few slaps, kicks and bites. But not recently, having come to inhabit different worlds.

‘Just come home, you silly bitch,’ Darryl said quietly, rising to his feet and heading back downstairs. He lay down fully dressed on his narrow bed, leaving the lights off in the conservatory so he didn’t need to close the blinds. Then he tapped a name into his phone and waited until his father picked up.

‘It’s me,’ he said.

‘Any news?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s been two weeks.’

‘I know.’

‘How’s your mum?’

‘Not great.’

‘I can’t come back, Darryl.’

‘Why not? Hammell wouldn’t dare touch you.’

‘This is my life now.’

Darryl Christie stared at his faint reflection in the glass panels overhead. Light pollution again: no stars visible.

‘We miss you,’ he told his father.

‘ You miss me,’ Derek corrected him. ‘Is Frank still treating you right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Cal and Joe?’

‘They’re okay.’

There was silence for a moment. ‘Is Frank there tonight?’

‘Not since Annette went missing.’

‘His choice or your mum’s?’

‘I’m not sure.’

They spoke for a few more minutes, until Derek Christie reminded his son how much the call was costing.

‘I keep telling you,’ Darryl said, ‘it’s Frank’s tab.’

‘Even so. .’

And that was that — goodbyes and talk of the trip to Australia Darryl would someday make. Afterwards he swung his feet on to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. He had been lying to his father: he did have a phone paid for by Frank Hammell, but this wasn’t it. This belonged to Darryl, which was why he used it to send a text message to Cafferty. He reckoned the old boy would be sound asleep. Maybe it would wake him and maybe it wouldn’t. He punched it in anyway and hit ‘send’.

Your pal Rebus has taken a shine to Hammell. He was at Jo-Jo’s tonight .

Proper spelling and punctuation — only the best for Mr Cafferty. Darryl switched to his other phone to send one final text. Afterwards he might manage a few hours’ sleep. A few hours seemed to be all he ever needed. By six or six thirty he’d be on his laptop, at the start of a new working day. He checked the wording of the message and made sure it was going to the right number, then pressed ‘send’ and lay back on his bed again, eyes open. He reached for the remote and used it to close the blinds around and above him. The system had cost a fortune — more than three times what he’d told his mother — even after Frank Hammell had negotiated a hefty discount. Darryl started to unbutton his shirt. Judging by the illuminated screen, a message had arrived already on one of his phones. .

It was, as Rebus had explained to James Page, a no-brainer.

‘You’ve got the engine here, running beautifully. Me, I’m by way of a spare light bulb in the glove box. I’m the part you can afford to be without.’

And Page had agreed, despite Clarke’s protestations, which was why Rebus had filled his Saab with petrol and hit the road north again. Perth with its roundabouts, then Pitlochry and the roadworks, and on to House of Bruar, where he stopped for lunch. His parking bay was right outside the menswear shop, and he glanced at the window display, deciding that he was still not ready for strawberry-coloured cords. A sign at the Drumochter Summit informed him he was 1,516 feet above sea level. The mountains either side of him looked forbidding, yet hill-walkers had set out for the day — their cars parked in lay-bys — or else were returning to their vehicles, cheeks ruddy, breath visible in the air. At Aviemore, he signalled right, deciding on a detour through the town. There wasn’t much to it, but it was bustling. Loch Garten was signposted. He recalled taking his daughter there thirty years before. The RSPB had built a hide, complete with telescopes and binoculars, but there had been no sign of the famous ospreys — just an empty nest. How old would Sammy have been? Five or six. A family driving holiday. These days he had to call her Samantha, on those rare occasions when he called her at all. She preferred sending her father texts, rather than actually engaging in a conversation. Rebus couldn’t blame her, not when the conversations — his fault — almost always ended up in another petty disagreement. He had told Nina Hazlitt that he couldn’t know what she’d been going through, but more than once he had almost lost Sammy.