Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘John Rebus,’ he replied. Her grip was firm, several gold bangles dancing on her wrist. Her reddish-blonde hair was cut in what Rebus would have called a bob. Late forties at a guess, with laughter lines either side of her pale blue eyes.

‘DI Magrath’s retired?’ Rebus nodded by way of answer, and she handed him the business card. It was smudged from age, its edges curled. ‘I did try phoning. .’

‘Long time since those numbers were active. What brings you here, Ms Hazlitt?’ He returned the card and slid his hands into his pockets.

‘I spoke with DI Magrath in 2004. He was very generous with his time.’ The words were tumbling out of her. ‘He wasn’t able to help in the end, but he did what he could. Not everyone was like that — and it’s no different now. So I thought maybe I’d come to him.’ She paused. ‘He’s really retired?’

Rebus nodded again. ‘Six years back.’

‘Six years. .’ She was staring past him, eyes unfocused, as if wondering where the time had gone.

‘I was told you’re here concerning a missing person,’ he prompted her.

She blinked her way back into the here and now. ‘My daughter Sally.’

‘When did she disappear?’

‘New Year’s Eve 1999,’ Hazlitt recited.

‘No sign of her since?’

The woman lowered her head and gave it a shake.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Rebus told her.

‘I’ve not given up, though.’ Hazlitt took a deep breath and met his gaze. ‘That’s something I can’t do till I know the truth.’

‘I can appreciate that.’

Her eyes softened a little. ‘I’ve been told the exact same thing so many times. .’

‘I’m sure you have.’ He turned his head towards the window. ‘Look, I was just headed outside for a cigarette — maybe you could do with one too?’

‘How do you know I smoke?’

‘I’ve seen what you keep in your handbag, Ms Hazlitt,’ he said, ushering her towards the door.

They wandered along the driveway towards the main road. She had turned down his offer of a Silk Cut, preferring her own menthols. When his cheap lighter refused to work, she’d fished in the bag for her Zippo.

‘Don’t see many women with these,’ he’d commented.

‘It was my husband’s.’

‘Was?’

‘He only lasted a year after Sally vanished. Doctors decided it was an embolism. They don’t like putting “broken heart” on death certificates.’

‘Sally’s your only child?’

Hazlitt nodded. ‘She’d just turned eighteen. Six more months and she’d have finished school. University was next: she was going to study English. Tom was an English teacher. .’

‘Tom being your husband?’

She nodded. ‘House full of books; hardly surprising she caught the bug. When she was little, Tom used to read her a bedtime story. I walked in on them one night, expecting it to be a picture book of some kind, but it was Great Expectations .’ The memory caused her to smile, creasing her face. Although more than half her cigarette remained, she flicked it on to the roadway. ‘Sally and a bunch of her friends had rented some sort of chalet not far from Aviemore. Our Christmas present had been her share of the outlay.’

‘The Millennium,’ Rebus commented. ‘I don’t suppose it was cheap.’

‘It wasn’t. But it was supposed to be for four people and six of them squeezed in. That helped a bit.’

‘Was she a skier?’

Hazlitt shook her head. ‘I know that’s what the town’s famous for, and at least two of the girls could ski, but Sally just wanted to hang out. They’d been in to Aviemore itself — got invites to a couple of parties. They all thought she must be at the other one. There hadn’t been a row or anything.’

‘She’d been drinking?’

‘I would assume so.’ Hazlitt buttoned her thin jacket against the chill. ‘I’d expected a phone call at midnight, even though I knew the reception on her phone wasn’t great at the best of times. Next morning her friends guessed she’d hooked up with someone and was sleeping it off elsewhere.’ She stopped abruptly and met his eyes. ‘Not that she was like that.’

‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

‘They’d split up that autumn. He was questioned at the time.’

Rebus didn’t remember the case at all, but then Aviemore was a long way north of Edinburgh.

‘Tom and I had to travel up to Scotland-’

‘Where from?’ Rebus interrupted her. He’d taken it for granted that though her accent was English, she lived in the city.

‘London,’ she informed him. ‘Crouch End — do you know it?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘We were lucky — Tom’s parents helped us buy the place when we were first married. They’d come into some money.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, I know none of that’s relevant.’

‘You’ve been told as much?’ he guessed.

‘By very many police officers,’ she admitted with another rueful smile.

‘So how did you end up talking to DI Magrath?’ Rebus asked, genuinely curious.

‘I talked to everyone — everyone who had time for me. DI Magrath had been mentioned in a newspaper. He specialised in unsolved crimes. And after the second one. .’ She saw that she had his attention and took a deep breath, as if preparing for a recitation. ‘May 2002, A834 near Strathpeffer. Her name was Brigid Young. She was thirty-four and worked as a chartered accountant. Her car was parked by the road. It had a flat tyre. She was never seen again. So many people go missing every year. .’

‘But something made this one stand out?’

‘Well, it’s the same road, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘Strathpeffer is just off the A9 — look at a map if you don’t believe me.’

‘Right,’ Rebus said.

She gave him a hard stare. ‘I recognise that tone. It means you’re beginning to wonder about me.’

‘Is that a fact?’

She ignored him and ploughed on. ‘The third was in 2008 on the A9 itself — a garden centre between Stirling and Auch. .’ She frowned. ‘The place with Gleneagles Hotel.’

‘Auchterarder?’

She nodded. ‘A twenty-two-year-old called Zoe Beddows. Her car was in the car park all the next day and the day after. That’s when suspicions were raised.’

Rebus had smoked his cigarette down to its filter. ‘Ms Hazlitt. .’ he began. She held her hand up to stop him.

‘I’ve heard it too many times not to know what you’re about to say. There’s no evidence, no bodies have ever turned up, so as far as you lot are concerned, there’s no crime. I’m just a mother whose reasoning has disappeared along with her only child. Does that cover it, Inspector?’

‘I’m not an inspector,’ he replied quietly. ‘I used to be, but these days I’m retired. I work for the police in a civilian capacity. Outside of Cold Cases, I have no authority, which means I’m not much use to you.’

‘But what are these if they’re not cold cases?’ Her voice had risen and taken on a slight tremor.

‘It’s possible I can think of someone else for you to talk to.’

‘You mean CID?’ She waited for him to nod. Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned away from him. ‘I’ve just come from there. The inspector hardly gave me the time of day.’

‘Maybe if I speak to him first. .’ Rebus reached into his jacket for his phone.

‘Not a him, a her . Clarke, she said her name was.’ She turned her face back towards him. ‘It’s happened again, you see. And it’s going to keep happening.’ She paused and screwed her eyes shut. A single tear began to trace its way down her left cheek. ‘Sally was only the first. .’

‘Hey, you,’ Rebus said, stepping out of his car.