Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Who told you Thomas Robertson was of interest to us?’

‘What?’ Hammell’s eyes narrowed.

‘It’s not common knowledge.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No,’ Clarke stated.

‘Well, his name’s out there.’

‘Yes, but who told you ?’

His eyes met hers. ‘I don’t remember,’ he said, his voice level and emotionless.

And for some reason, Siobhan Clarke knew.

Who else was it going to be, after all?

‘What are you doing here?’

Rebus looked up from his toasted sandwich. ‘It’s a cafe’ he replied. ‘I’m having something to eat.’

‘The usual?’ the guy behind the counter called to Clarke.

‘Just a flat white,’ she told him, sitting down opposite Rebus.

‘Didn’t realise you had a monopoly on this place,’ Rebus commented, glancing through the window towards Leith Walk.

‘I don’t.’

‘But you’re annoyed I’m here.’

‘I’m annoyed at you full stop.’

Rebus put down the sandwich and wiped his fingers on the tissue-thin napkin. ‘What’ve I done now?’

‘You went and talked to Frank Hammell, didn’t you?’

‘Is that what he says?’

‘He didn’t have to say it.’

‘Does Page know?’

He watched her shake her head. The coffee arrived. It was instant, some granules floating on the surface.

‘Are you going to tell him?’

She glanced up at him. ‘This is the sort of thing that would have Fox and his team dancing in the street.’

‘When Thomas Robertson went AWOL, my first thought was that Hammell had nabbed him.’

‘Something you decided to keep to yourself.’

‘I went to see Hammell. He denied it.’

‘So you gave him Robertson’s name?’

‘Half the internet knew we’d lifted someone for questioning. It would have taken him ten minutes to find out what I told him.’

She placed her elbows against the edge of the table and leaned in towards him. ‘You’re not CID, John. This isn’t your job any more.’

‘So people keep reminding me.’ He had prised open the remains of the toastie in order to study its contents: a processed cheese slice and thin, pallid ham. ‘Did your own chat with Hammell shed any light?’

‘He says they argued because he’d given her money for the train.’

‘Did you ask him what he was doing in Aberdeen?’

‘He was looking for Robertson.’

Rebus stared at her. ‘He admitted it?’

She nodded. ‘Meaning he doesn’t have Robertson.’

‘Always supposing you take him at face value.’

‘Which you don’t, I suppose?’

‘Odd that he’d just come out and tell you. If anything does happen to Robertson. .’

‘Hammell’s just put himself forward as chief suspect.’ Clarke was thoughtful. Rebus lifted his beaker of tea, but a cooling scum had gathered on its surface.

‘I need a drink,’ he said.

‘You really don’t.’

‘I think I do, otherwise I’m going to be tasting that ham all afternoon. You coming?’

‘I’ll stick to coffee.’ As he started to get up, she gripped his forearm. ‘If Page smells it on your breath. .’

‘That’s why pubs sell mints, Siobhan.’ And with a wink and a smile, he was gone.

She picked up the coffee and blew on it. Fox was right, of course: John Rebus was the loosest of cannons, and no constabulary had room for those any more. He’d also warned her that Rebus’s mere proximity might damage her chances of further promotion. And hadn’t everything been fine at Gayfield Square until Rebus had barged his way in? A good team, a great boss, and no errors of judgement. Not that Rebus had had anything to do with her missing Hammell on the CCTV: she alone was to blame, and she’d apologised again that morning to James Page. Malcolm Fox’s words were sloshing around in her head: Call me any time you think he’s floundering — floundering or diving to the bottom. .

But that was how Rebus worked: kicking up all the sand and sediment, then studying what effect it had and what was uncovered in the process.

‘It’s too hot?’ the guy behind the counter called over to her. She realised she was still blowing on the coffee, blowing so hard some had sloshed over the side.

‘No, it’s fine,’ she assured him. And to prove it, she took a sip.

In truth, the liquid in the beaker was lukewarm at best, but she drank it anyway.

It didn’t help that Rebus was doing a good impression of a man coughing up his lungs when Page encountered him in the corridor outside the CID suite.

‘You all right, John?’

‘Never better,’ Rebus replied, wiping a hand across his eyes. ‘Something stuck in my throat.’

‘The butt of a cigarette, maybe?’ Page made show of sniffing the air. ‘And Polo mints for lunch? Interesting diet you have there.’

‘Works for me.’ Rebus pulled back his shoulders.

‘Well, I wanted a word with you anyway. .’

‘Is this me getting my jotters?’

‘You’ve done good work here, John, but the inquiry seems to be moving in different directions.’

‘While I’m stuck on the hard shoulder trying to thumb a lift?’

‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that. But it’s true that I’m starting to think your time here may be drawing to a close.’

‘In which case, I’ve a favour to ask.’

Page’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Yes?’

‘Don’t tell SCRU just yet. I need a bit of time to shift those boxes.’ Rebus gestured in the vague direction of Clarke’s desk.

‘Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two,’ Page countered. ‘I can get one of the team to help you.’

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Not your best use of resources, James. I’m happy to move them myself. I’ll be out of your hair by this time tomorrow.’ He held out a hand, which Page studied for a moment before extending his own to meet it.

Ten minutes later, Rebus was on Leith Walk again with a takeaway coffee and a box of paracetamol from the local pharmacy. He swallowed two, and browsed the windows of local shops. One of them sold second-hand vinyl, but he knew he didn’t have time for a browse. Having convinced himself that he was fit to drive, he headed to his car, tucking the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign under the passenger seat and turning the ignition. It was approaching three p.m. and he was going to meet the rush hour somewhere on his route, but all the same. .

‘Back in the saddle,’ he told his car, patting its dashboard for luck.

I could drive it blind. . He remembered the van driver’s words as he headed for the M90. Escaping the city centre provided the usual problems: temporary traffic lights; teams digging up the roads. Many a potential rat-run had been blocked off, meaning little was to be gained by diverging from the main route north out of the city. Traffic slowed again on the approach to the Forth Road Bridge, and remained heavy until he had passed the turn-offs to Dunfermline and Kirkcaldy. He stopped at the Kinross services for fuel. The woman behind the till gave a little nod of recognition. Maybe she had a good memory, but it was more likely he had taken on the tics and rhythms of the regular traveller, and she was merely acknowledging him as a member of the tribe.

Perth, with its busy roundabouts, and then the end of the dual carriageway and the sense that time was working against each and every traveller on the road. Turbo-charged BMWs and Audis weaved in and out of the procession, driven by men in shirts and ties, any one of whom could have been the man he’d talked to at the petrol station in Pitlochry, the one with ‘solutions’ to offer.

Pitlochry itself eventually arrived, bringing a welcome stretch of dual carriageway, though this was also when slow lorries decided to overtake other slow lorries, Rebus yelling curses at them as he was forced to brake. He studied the roadworks as he passed them. Men in high-vis jackets and hard hats were still busy with their tools and machines. He couldn’t make out Bill Soames or Stefan Skiladz. When the Michael Chapman CD finished, he swapped it for Spooky Tooth, and reached over to the passenger seat for a slug of water from the bottle he’d bought. Darkening skies and no sign of any hill-walkers today. No stopping at Bruar: on to Glen Truim and past Newtonmore. Aviemore to his right, where he prayed for more lorries to turn off than actually did, then Tomatin and another salute in the direction of its distillery. Evening now, the sky over Inverness illuminated by sodium, feeder roads still busy with the remnants of the homeward rush. It was only as he approached the city that he thought: I could have taken the train. But he liked his car too much, and patted the dashboard again to convey this feeling to it. Ten minutes later, he was in the car park at Whicher’s Hotel, rolling his shoulders and clicking his spine back into place while listening to the Saab’s engine start to cool.