Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

He paused long enough for a cigarette, taking in his surroundings. There was a new-looking shopping mall within walking distance, plus business units, some of them not yet leased. This was an area of the city for sales reps rather than tourists. When he eventually headed indoors to reception, he noted that the carpet was tartan and there was a stag’s head on the wall. Plenty of wood panelling and piped music. A man in a pinstripe suit was checking in.

‘Your usual room, Mr Frazer,’ the receptionist was assuring him.

The receptionist was young — early twenties, maybe even late teens. Curly blonde hair and lashings of aquamarine eyeshadow. Behind her, a man much the same age was busy with paperwork. When Rebus’s time came, she had the same smile as for Mr Frazer. It faltered only when he showed her his ID and the e-fit of Sally Hazlitt.

‘Recognise her?’ Rebus asked.

‘Looks a bit like Susie,’ the receptionist said. ‘What do you think, Roddy?’

The young man turned from his work long enough to give a crisp nod. Rebus noted that he was wearing a waistcoat of the same tartan as the carpet.

‘Susie works here?’ Rebus asked. The receptionist’s badge identified her only as Amanda.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know if anyone showed her this photo? It’s been on the news.’

‘She’s a different shift from me.’ She was growing wary now.

‘When was she last seen?’

She had picked up the phone next to her. ‘You need to speak to the duty manager. ..’

The duty manager’s name was Dora Causley and she sat with Rebus in the lounge as a pot of tea was fetched. She held the e-fit and studied it carefully.

‘It’s very like her,’ she admitted.

‘Susie?’

‘Susie Mercer. She’s been with us nearly nine months.’

‘Not at work today, though?’

‘She phoned in sick a few days back. By rights, she should have produced a doctor’s line by now. .’

‘I’d like to speak to her.’

Causley nodded slowly. ‘I can get you her details.’

‘Thank you. And do you happen to know if anyone might have shown her this photo or mentioned the likeness to her?’

‘No idea, sorry.’

She left him to his tea and shortbread, returning a few minutes later with a slip of paper: home address and phone number.

‘Do you know where this is?’ Rebus asked.

Causley shook her head. ‘I’ve only been in Inverness a couple of years. Amanda can find it for you on the computer.’

Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘What about Susie Mercer? Is she a local?’

‘English accent,’ Causley said. ‘No shortage of them in these parts.’

‘Is she married?’

‘Don’t remember seeing a ring.’

‘She must have a personnel file — any chance I could take a quick look?’

‘I’d need authorisation for that.’

‘My word’s not good enough?’

The firmness of her smile was answer enough.

Armed with a route map printed from the internet by Amanda, Rebus set out to the car park. The Saab’s bonnet was still warm to the touch. ‘Sorry, old-timer,’ he apologised. ‘We’re not quite done yet.’

The address was a flat above a charity shop in the city centre. Rebus pressed the bell and waited. He had been forced to leave his car on a double yellow line. Parking didn’t seem to be possible otherwise. He pressed the bell again, checking the name beneath it: Mercer. There was one other buzzer, the name next to it scored out. Rebus tried it anyway, and a minute later the door opened. A man in his mid twenties stood at the foot of the stairs, chewing a mouthful of dinner.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘I was looking for Susie Mercer.’

‘Haven’t seen her today.’

‘She’s been off sick. Workmates are a bit worried.’

The man seemed to accept this. ‘I’m in the flat next to hers. I can usually hear her television.’ He was leading Rebus up the narrow flight of uncarpeted stairs. There were two doors at the top, one standing open, revealing what looked to Rebus like a bedsit: sofa, bed, cooker all visible. The man tapped on Susie Mercer’s door. After a moment, Rebus tried the handle, without success. There was no letter box for him to peer through.

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Few days back. You think she’s in there?’

‘Could be.’

‘I hope she’s all right.’

‘Is there a landlord? He’d have a key, wouldn’t he?’

The tenant nodded his agreement. ‘Want me to fetch him?’

‘He lives nearby?’

‘Few streets away.’

‘I’d appreciate that. Sorry again to interrupt your dinner.’

‘It’s fine,’ the man said, heading indoors to fetch his jacket. He hesitated, about to lock his door, then told Rebus he could wait inside if he liked.

‘That’s good of you,’ Rebus said, accepting the offer.

The room was small, the only available window open a few inches, presumably to release the smell of cooking. Looked like chilli from a tin, with a bag of nachos to accompany it. There was no TV, just a computer on a desk, and the bowl of leftover food next to it. A movie had been paused. Rebus recognised the actor but couldn’t put a name to him. He plucked a nacho from the bag and popped it into his mouth. From envelopes on a ledge behind the door, it seemed the tenant’s name was G. Fortune. Rebus could only presume the G stood for something other than Good.

Next to the narrow single bed were a reading lamp and some well-used paperbacks. Thrillers, picked up for between ten and fifty pence, possibly from the charity shop downstairs. No music system other than an MP3 player attached to a large pair of headphones. No wardrobe either, just a rail for jackets, shirts and trousers, and a chipped chest of drawers for everything else. Rebus heard the downstairs door open and close, and two sets of feet begin to climb the stairs.

The landlord took Rebus’s hand when it was offered, but he had a question ready.

‘You’re from the hotel?’

‘I never said that,’ Rebus commented.

‘Geoff here says you did.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘He may have got that impression.’ He took out his ID. ‘I work for the police, Mr. .?’

‘Ralph Ellis. So what’s going on here?’

‘Just a few questions for Ms Mercer. She’s not been seen at work for a few days. Called in sick but hasn’t provided a doctor’s line.’

‘You think maybe she’s. .?’ Ellis nodded towards the locked door.

‘Only one way to find out, sir.’

Ellis debated with himself for a few seconds, then produced a bunch of keys from his pocket and found the right one, opening the door, calling out to Susie Mercer as he did so.

The room was dark. Rebus switched the light on. The curtain was closed, the bed unmade. The place was very similar to Fortune’s, down to the clothes rack and chest of drawers. But the hangers had been stripped and the drawers emptied.

‘Looks like she’s done a flit,’ Fortune said.

Rebus made a circuit of the room and the shower room off. Toiletries gone. Some women’s magazines left on the floor next to the bed. Pinholes on the wall above the headboard of the bed. Rebus pointed to them.

‘Any idea what the pictures were?’

‘A couple of postcards,’ Fortune said. ‘One or two photos of her and her friends.’

‘What friends?’

Fortune shrugged. ‘I never saw them in the flesh.’

‘What about a boyfriend?’

‘I’ve heard guys’ voices from time to time-’

‘Well,’ the landlord interrupted, ‘she’s not here and she’s not dead, so I think we can lock up again.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘Unless you’ve brought a search warrant with you. .’

Rebus didn’t want to leave. On the other hand, he couldn’t see anything worth lingering for. ‘Is the TV hers?’ he asked.