Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘I think so,’ Fortune said.

‘It’s not mine,’ Ellis added.

‘It might be now,’ Rebus said quietly. Susie Mercer had left in a hurry, taking only what she could carry. He handed business cards to both men.

‘In case she gets in touch,’ he explained.

‘You don’t think she’s coming back, though?’ the landlord asked.

Rebus shook his head slowly in reply. Not now her e-fit was out there. .

He sat in his car and considered the situation. Then he remembered the cop he’d spoken to in Northern Constabulary, when he’d been tracking down the case files on Sally Hazlitt and Brigid Young. He had a name and contact number in his notebook, so he made the call. The police switchboard answered and he told them who he was and that he needed to speak to Sergeant Gavin Arnold.

‘He’s not on shift,’ he was eventually told.

‘It’s a bit urgent. Would he mind you giving me his home or mobile number?’

‘We can’t do that.’

‘Maybe if I give you my number then, and you can get a message to him?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

After ending the call, Rebus knew that all he could do was wait. In Inverness. Aka Dolphinsludge. On a dreich weekday evening with the temperature falling rapidly. He drove around without taking much of it in. A couple of supermarkets were open and looked busy. Men stood outside pubs, sucking hard at cigarettes, keen to get back inside. When his phone rang, he pulled over to the kerb.

‘What is it I can do for you?’ Gavin Arnold asked.

‘Do you remember me, Sergeant?’

‘You’re the reason I spent almost half a day covered in the dust of ages while I hunted those damned files. Haven’t stopped sneezing yet.’

‘I’m grateful to you.’

‘So has there been some progress?’

‘It’d be easier if I explained in person.’

‘You’re planning to drive up?’

‘I’m already here.’

‘Man, you should have said — I’m at the Lochinver, just along from the railway station.’

‘If it’s a pub, I think I passed it a couple of minutes ago.’

‘I’m towards the back of the main room, next to the dartboard. Do you play?’

‘Not really.’

‘Pity. It’s a league night and we’re a man down. .’

More double yellow lines outside the bar — every legal parking spot filled. Rebus left the sign on the dashboard, locked the Saab and pushed open the door of the Lochinver. Arnold waved to him from the bar. The two men shook hands.

‘What’s your poison?’ Arnold asked.

‘Just a lemonade.’

‘Got the car, eh?’ Arnold looked sympathetic. He was in his mid forties, slim and tall. Dressed in dun-coloured chinos and an open-necked white shirt. His cheeks glowed, but that could have been the result of one whisky too many.

‘Your turn, Gavin!’ came the call. Arnold gave Rebus an apologetic smile. ‘This takes precedence, I’m afraid.’

‘Fine by me,’ Rebus said. He rested his weight on a bar stool and watched the game. Arnold was good, but his opponent had the edge. The players’ team-mates offered noisy encouragement from their tables. Arnold lost to a single eighteen/double-top out-shot and the two men shook on it.

This, it turned out, had been the fixture’s decider. After a bit of banter between the teams, Arnold slid on to the stool next to Rebus.

‘Unlucky,’ Rebus offered.

‘I’ve never beaten the swine yet,’ Arnold replied, his voice betraying his irritation. But he shrugged it off, ordered another whisky for himself and turned his attention to Rebus.

‘What brings you all the way from Edinburgh?’

‘What brought you all the way from Lancashire?’

Arnold grinned. ‘Yorkshire, actually. Some days you’d swear the English outnumber the Scots up here. Not that you can always tell by appearances.’ He gestured towards the barmaid and she approached with a smile.

‘Sue,’ he said, ‘this is a friend of mine. His name’s John.’

‘Nice to meet you, John.’ She reached between the pumps to shake his hand. ‘Any friend of Gavin’s, as the saying goes.’

‘Sue owns this place,’ Arnold informed Rebus. Then, to Sue: ‘John here reckons he can place an accent.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘Go on then — where was Sue born? I’ll even give you a clue — her surname’s Holloway.’

Rebus studied Sue Holloway. Her smile told him this was a game he was fated to lose, though it was incumbent on him to try.

‘Manchester?’ he offered eventually.

‘Tell him, Sue,’ Arnold said.

‘You’re almost right, John,’ Holloway obliged. ‘But I was born in Kirkcaldy.’

‘Makes you a Fifer, then,’ he said. ‘Same as me.’

‘You’ve probably been back more regularly than I have.’

‘Of late, only as far as the M90. But you grew up in Manchester, right?’

‘Right,’ she conceded. ‘And for that, you get a drink on the house. Are you sure you want to stick to lemonade?’

With fresh drinks in front of them, Rebus warned Gavin Arnold that the tale he was about to tell might take a while.

‘As long as you like,’ Arnold reassured him.

So Rebus laid out the whole story, finishing the lemonade and accepting yet another. Arnold’s darts team had drifted away, the bar only half full by the time Rebus finished. He ended by saying he would let Arnold mull it over while he stepped out for a cigarette. But Arnold followed him into the cold and stood there with him.

‘So you think Mercer might be the Hazlitt lassie?’

‘She might,’ Rebus conceded, blowing smoke into the night air.

‘And when those photos were published, she decided it was time to leave?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

Arnold thought for a moment. ‘Could be a few clues in her personnel file.’

Rebus nodded. ‘You’re local, I’m not. Easier if you were the one to do the asking.’

Arnold looked at his watch. ‘Bit late now. .’

‘There must be a night manager at the hotel,’ Rebus suggested.

‘Even so. .’

‘I’d really appreciate it.’

‘My one bloody night off,’ Arnold muttered, but he was smiling as he said it.

‘There’s a whisky on me afterwards,’ Rebus said by way of encouragement.

‘That seals the deal,’ he was told.

They took the Saab, and stopped at Arnold’s police station on Burnett Road long enough for him to change into his uniform.

‘Looks better that way, more official,’ he explained.

Then, with Arnold navigating, they headed to Whicher’s. The night porter had started his shift, but said there was nothing he could do. The office was locked until Dora Causley arrived in the morning.

‘How do you contact her in an emergency?’ Rebus asked.

The porter plucked a card from one of the pockets in his tartan waistcoat.

‘Call the number,’ Rebus commanded. Arnold was standing at his shoulder, saying nothing but looking stern and definitely not to be messed with. The porter did as he was told, his eyes on both men.

‘It’s gone to voicemail,’ he said eventually.

Rebus gestured for the receiver, took it, and told Causley she should call him ‘as a matter of urgency’. He recited his mobile number, then handed the receiver back and told the porter they’d wait.

‘Bar still serving?’

‘Guests only,’ the man explained.

Arnold took a step forward and glowered at him until it was decided he might be able to bend the rules just this once.

A single malt for Arnold, and tea for Rebus. They sat in the lounge. Leather chesterfield chairs, piped music. Only three guests were in there with them, huddled around the remains of their drinks, discussing as best they could the next day’s business meetings, voices slurred, eyes drooping.