Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

He had to wait at the T-junction before he could rejoin the A9, losing count of the number of lorries and vans he was now going to be tailing, some of which he was sure he had overtaken on a stretch of dual carriageway many miles back. He had to remind himself that he was in no rush. He had plenty of CDs with him, and a box of chewing gum purchased at the petrol station. A spare packet of cigarettes and a half-litre bottle of Irn Bru. When he passed a turn-off to the Tomatin distillery, he gave it a little salute, having done the same for Dalwhinnie fifty miles or so back. Despite Inverness being only ten miles away now, and the road mostly dualled, it seemed to take an age to reach its outskirts. Culloden battlefield was nearby — another site they’d visited on that holiday. It had been a bleak place with a small visitors’ centre in a building no bigger than a bothy. Sammy had kept saying how bored and cold she was.

The four p.m. news was on the car radio as Rebus entered Inverness. Traffic here was more congested still, and he made no friends by getting himself into the wrong lane then trying to get out of it again so he wasn’t forced into the city centre. He crossed the Kessock Bridge on to the Black Isle, then another bridge across the Cromarty Firth, where he had to salute another distillery — Glen Ord. He knew this route from the fold-out map, but had bought another map before leaving Edinburgh. There seemed to be four huge construction platforms in the water to the right. Rain was falling, and the windscreen wipers provided a hypnotic rhythm. It took a moment for him to realise what the sound reminded him of: waking up to the stylus still plying its course around an album’s run-out groove. Alness was fourteen miles south of Tain and boasted Dalmore distillery, while Tain itself had Glenmorangie. At the next roundabout he left the A9 for the A836, signposted towards Bonar Bridge, Ardgay and Edderton. He had a phone number for a local farmer and punched it into his mobile.

‘Five or ten minutes,’ he told the man, ending the call.

And five or ten minutes was all it took. The farmer’s name was Jim Mellon, and he was waiting with his venerable Land Rover. He signalled for Rebus to park by the side of the road.

‘We’ll take mine,’ he called out, having decided that the Saab might not be up to the task.

Rebus got out and locked the car, the farmer smiling at what he probably saw as a ‘townie precaution’. He was younger than Rebus had expected — clean-shaven, fair-haired and handsome.

‘I appreciate you doing this,’ Rebus said. ‘And thanks for taking the trouble to get in touch in the first place.’

‘You said on the phone I wasn’t alone?’

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘A few others are of the same mind as you.’

‘Well, let’s see what you think.’ Mellon gestured towards the Land Rover. ‘Not allergic to dogs, are you?’

In the back of the vehicle sat a collie — Rebus guessed a sheep dog. Intelligent eyes, and not about to demean itself by looking for a pat from a stranger. The engine started with a roar and they headed up the narrow muddy road, past a sign warning them that if its lights were flashing, the snow gates ahead were closed.

‘How often do vehicles use this route?’ Rebus asked.

‘A few times a day,’ Mellon speculated. ‘Not much up here.’

‘It’s signposted to Aultnamain.’

‘Not much there either — but we’re not headed that far.’ He was turning on to a single-track road, punctuated by passing places. It was tarmacked, but with grass sprouting through cracks in the surface. Only a minute or two later, he brought them to a juddering stop and pulled on the handbrake. ‘I’d say this is it.’

Rebus opened his door and got out. He produced a copy of the photo from his pocket. The sky was darker now, but not too dark. Mellon was pointing out the direction to him. Rebus gazed, then held up the photo, his eyes moving between the image and the real thing.

‘Could have been taken at any time, mind,’ Mellon cautioned.

Rebus knew what the man meant: there was probably little in this landscape that had changed in a hundred years or more.

‘The thing is,’ Rebus said, ‘this time of day, she couldn’t have been much further north than Pitlochry. By the time she got here, it would have been pitch black.’

‘Then the photo can’t have been taken here, can it?’

But Rebus wasn’t so sure. He got out his own phone and snapped the view. It wasn’t professional quality, but he started sending it to Clarke anyway. His phone, however, had other plans.

‘No signal,’ Rebus commented.

‘It’s usually pretty good. You just have to find the right spot.’

‘So even if the photo was taken here. .’

‘She might have had trouble sending it.’ The farmer nodded his understanding. ‘Do you have other locations that could fit the bill?’

‘One or two.’

‘Any of them near where she was last seen?’

‘They’re not as good a match as this.’ Rebus was looking around. Some would call it a peaceful spot, others a lonely one. The wind was whistling around them. Rebus didn’t quite know what he was looking for, other than a sense of the why and the who: why here, and who had chosen it?

‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything suspicious?’ he asked Mellon. ‘Any strangers stopping for longer than usual?’

The farmer plunged his hands into the pockets of his Barbour. ‘Nothing like that. And I’ve asked around, everybody says the same.’

‘Tyre tracks where there shouldn’t be any?’

The farmer shook his head.

‘And at the top of the road?’

‘Left at the junction brings you back to Alness eventually.’

‘And if you turn right?’

‘You join the road to Bonar Bridge.’

‘What are the chances of a stranger finding this road, Mr Mellon?’

The man shrugged. ‘It’s on the maps. I dare say satnav has it too.’

Rebus was taking a couple more photos, but it was getting too dark for them to be of any use. He just felt he should be doing something .

‘You’ve come a long way,’ the farmer said. ‘There’s tea at the house if you want it.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve got a few miles ahead of me.’

‘And have you seen enough?’

Rebus surveyed the horizon — as much of it as he could make out. ‘I think so.’

‘You reckon the poor lassie’s out here somewhere?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rebus admitted.

Back at the Land Rover, the dog gave him what could have been taken for a sympathetic look.

For some reason — mostly because he had failed to make any other decision — he was back on the A9, but heading further north. Soon though he turned off into Dornoch, passing what he assumed must be its cathedral (though no bigger than a village kirk) and stopping in the near-deserted square. A hotel and a shop seemed to be open, but the streets were empty. He found he could get a signal, and got out of the car to walk up and down a bit while he made the call.

‘Well?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.

‘I’m pretty sure.’

‘But not absolutely certain?’

‘No.’

‘So what now?’

‘I’ve taken a few photos on my phone so you can see what I mean.’

‘Are you heading back?’

‘Not quite yet. I’ve stopped in Dornoch.’

‘At this rate you’ll not be home till midnight.’

Rebus thought of the overnight bag on the Saab’s back seat. ‘Thing is, Siobhan, there’s no way she could have sent that picture on her phone. Not from Edderton, not at the time she did.’

‘Okay.’

‘So how else could it have been sent? All I can come up with is it’s not an actual photo as such.’