Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

The A836 started off as a two-lane road, busy with local traffic but few tourists. Heavily laden logging lorries squeezed past Rebus’s car as they headed south. He refilled the fuel tank at the first petrol station he saw, unsure when there might be another. The attendant didn’t seem to know either.

‘Depends which roads you’re taking.’

‘True enough,’ Rebus responded, unable to fault the young man’s logic. Then, realising how much each litre was costing, he requested a receipt. Back in the car, he looked at the map book again. The peaks all had Gaelic names, none of which he’d heard of: Cnoc a Ghiubhais; Meall an Fhuarain; Cnoc an Daimh Mor. There was a whisky called anCnoc, so ‘Cnoc’ had to mean something. Maybe next time he would take the trouble to read the label on the bottle. After the village of Lairg, the road narrowed to a single lane with passing places and the terrain became more desolate. Cloud covered the tops of peaks whose steep slopes were dusted with snow. He passed conifer plantations and the remains of such plantations, stumps like tombstones in a vast cemetery. The sky was leaden, and weathered signs warned of lambs on the road. At Altnaharra, the hotel was open all year round. He saw that a few cars had parked up, walkers and climbers prepping for the rigours ahead. He pulled over and sat for a few minutes with his windows down, overhearing snatches of conversation and watching as they set out for the day. Some had Ordnance Survey maps strung around their necks, protected from the elements by clear plastic pouches. Their backpacks bulged with provisions and waterproofs, and most carried a long pole — and sometimes two — to help take the strain. He waited until the last one had clambered over the stile and had their back to him before he lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the crisp, unpolluted air.

Half an hour later, he was driving into the village of Tongue, where he would join the road west along the coast to Durness. But he had one detour to make. There was a photograph in his jacket pocket. It had been sent to him a few years back, and he used it to find where he was looking for. The village itself was off to the left of the road, but Rebus headed for the causeway across the Kyle of Tongue. The bungalow was next door to a youth hostel. There were no names next to the doorbell. He pressed and waited, then pressed again. The view was breathtaking, but the house had been battered by the elements and would be again. He peered in through the living room window, then walked around to the back. No fence separated the property from the field behind it. The kitchen showed signs that someone had been home earlier: cereal packet next to the table, milk waiting to be returned to the fridge. Rebus went back to the Saab and sat there wondering what to do now. He could hear seabirds and gusts of wind, but nothing else. He tore a page from his notebook and jotted a message, returning to the front door to push it through the letter box.

He drove off again in silence, not in the mood for a CD or whatever radio reception could be mustered. Soon he was entering something calling itself ‘North-West Highland Geopark’. The landscape grew more alien, almost lunar, rocks barely covered by any form of vegetation. But now and then there would be a spectacular cove with pristine white sand and blue sea. Rebus began to wonder if he’d ever been further from a pub in his life. He checked petrol gauge and cigarette packet both. Durness was still some miles off, and he had no idea what he would find there. He skirted Loch Eriboll and headed north again. Durness wasn’t quite at the tip of Scotland — if you reckoned your vehicle up to the task, you could follow a track all the way to Cape Wrath. Rebus had a phone number for one of the locals, but no signal as yet. Durness itself, when he reached it, consisted of a few cottages and larger modern houses, plus a smattering of shops. There were even a couple of venerable petrol pumps. He stopped next to them and crossed the road to the Spar, where he asked the shopkeeper if she knew where Anthony Greenwood lived.

‘He went to Smoo this morning,’ she told him. ‘I’m not sure if he’s back.’

Rebus then showed her the photo.

‘You’re the police?’ she surmised. ‘From Edinburgh? Anthony told us all about it. The spot you’re looking for is just by Keoldale.’

Two minutes later, armed with a fresh pack of cigarettes, he was back in the Saab and driving a further couple of miles, following her precise — almost too precise — instructions. But as he neared the site, he knew it was wrong. Not all wrong; just wrong enough. Gusts snapped at him as he gazed down towards the Kyle of Durness, then up the slope towards the bare hillside beyond a row of embattled trees, some of which looked permanently stooped.

‘No,’ he said. The hillside was too steep.

But then he’d known that all along, and even more so since Edderton. He drove slowly up and down the road, just in case he was missing something, but the shopkeeper in Durness had sent him to the right place.

It just wasn’t the right place.

He consulted his map again. He could go back the way he’d come or keep going. The road made a circuit of sorts before joining the A836 again. Rebus had never been one to retrace his steps, so headed south-west towards Laxford Bridge. The route was still narrow, dotted with passing places, but there was no traffic. Rebus reckoned he’d come a hundred miles or more since leaving Dornoch and not once had he been stuck behind a vehicle of any kind. There was sporadic tourist traffic, along with a few delivery vans. But everyone was very polite, flashing their headlights to let him know they had pulled over and he didn’t need to, or acknowledging him with a wave whenever the roles were reversed. Having crossed to the west coast, he found himself heading inland again, south and east past miles and miles of nothing but scenery and sheep. Twice he had to stop for ewes on the road, and once he caught sight of a large bird of prey gliding over one of the distant summits. There were patches of snow up there, and a huge greasy sky. He passed lochs with wildfowl resting on the glassy surface, and his tyres pressed ancient roadkill further into the tarmac. He had just reached a narrow, dogleg-shaped loch when his phone sounded. He had one missed call. He pulled over and returned it. The signal was fine.

‘Dad?’ It was Samantha’s voice. ‘Where are you? I got back and saw your note. .’

Rebus had got out of the car. The air was clear and sharp as he inhaled. ‘Would you believe I was just passing?’

‘No.’ She was stifling a laugh.

‘Happens to be the truth. There was something I had to check in Durness.’

‘How did you find the right house?’

‘That picture you sent.’ He held it up. Samantha was standing in front of her bungalow, arm around the waist of the tall young man next to her.

‘So where are you now?’ she asked.

‘Nowhere. Quite literally.’ He looked around him, saw the hillside reflected in the still surface of the loch. ‘If I remembered any of my geography classes, I might be able to describe it.’

‘Too far south to turn around?’

‘I’d say so. I think I’m about sixty miles from Tongue.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘Next time, eh?’ he said, rubbing at his forehead with the meat of his thumb. ‘Or maybe if you’re ever in Edinburgh. How are things anyway? It’s a beautiful location. .’

‘You looked in the windows, didn’t you? Place is a right tip.’

‘No worse than mine. How’s Keith doing?’

‘He’s okay. Got some work on the decommissioning project at Dounreay.’

‘Do you check him for radioactivity?’

‘I don’t need a bedside light any more,’ she joked. Then: ‘You should have told me you were coming.’