Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

Arnold had removed both jacket and tie, but was still recognisably an officer of the law. He asked Rebus how long he had left until the gold watch.

‘I’m already retired,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Cold case unit’s staffed by crocks like me.’

‘You never told me that.’ Arnold seemed to be weighing up whether to take offence or not. Eventually he chuckled into his glass. ‘I never even asked for ID, did I? You could have been anybody.’

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said.

Arnold chuckled again, but more wearily this time. He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Can’t wait here all night, can we?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘She could be out on the town.’ Arnold yawned, stretching both arms wide, straining the buttons of his shirt. ‘You planning on heading back south?’

‘That was the general idea.’

‘I could get the stuff in the morning and send it to you.’

But Rebus was thinking of something else. He hadn’t brought his overnight bag with him this time, but all the same. .

‘One for the road?’ he asked Arnold, signalling for the barman. When he ordered whisky for both of them, Arnold knew he could no longer rely on his designated driver to get him home.

Another dining room breakfast.

There was no sign of the businessmen from the lounge bar. Most of the guests seemed, like Rebus, to be travelling solo. It was half past seven, and Amanda on reception had informed him that Dora Causley didn’t get in until eight. He’d texted this information to Arnold, along with the offer of bacon and eggs. When Arnold arrived, however, in full uniform and showing no hint of the previous night’s intake, he wanted nothing but coffee and orange juice.

‘Don’t do breakfast,’ he informed Rebus as he pulled out the chair across the table.

‘Me neither, unless it’s already paid for.’ Rebus polished off the last triangle of toast. ‘Sleep all right?’

‘Like a baby — wet the bed three times.’

Rebus smiled, as he felt was expected.

‘How about you?’ Arnold asked.

‘I never seem to be able to sleep late in hotel rooms.’

‘That’s hardly fair, is it?’

‘Hardly,’ Rebus agreed.

Their waitress was pouring refills when Causley, forewarned by the front desk, marched towards them, eyes only slightly bloodshot.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

Rebus was about to say something about her inability to check her phone for messages, but Arnold had sprung to his feet and was shaking her hand. ‘Sergeant Arnold,’ he reminded her. ‘We met when you had that break-in.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good job it was kept out of the papers, eh?’ Arnold turned towards Rebus. ‘Turned out to be one of the housekeeping staff.’

Causley busied herself trying not to squirm. Arnold was still holding her hand, and she knew what was expected.

‘You’ll be wanting to see that file,’ she said.

‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Arnold replied, only now loosening his grip.

Having played his part, Arnold had headed off to work, and half an hour later, Rebus was checking out of the hotel, taking with him photocopies of Susie Mercer’s CV, application letter, references and twelve-week performance review. He sat in the Saab and went through everything for a second time. The references were from other hotels, one in Northern Ireland and one on Mull. Mull was the more recent, and Rebus called the number. Yes, he was told, Susie Mercer had worked there the previous summer. The hotel in Northern Ireland, on the other hand, had no record of her.

‘Though we did have a Susan Merton here around that time.’

Rebus waited for the woman to pull Merton’s photograph from her personnel file, then described Mercer to her.

‘Sounds about right,’ she conceded. Rebus asked if a copy of the photo could be sent to him. She snapped it with her phone and a couple of minutes later it arrived on his screen. It was blurry, and the cut and colour of the hair were different, but he’d bet his pension Susan Merton and Susie Mercer were the same person. He had tried Mercer’s number half a dozen times, leaving messages when prompted. Now he punched in a text and sent it, asking her to get in touch without revealing who he was.

Looking down the CV, he saw more hotel and restaurant work, plus stints in department stores and as an office temp. High school in Aylesbury; further education college in the same town. Rebus had only the vaguest notion that Aylesbury was somewhere near London. Her date of birth was June 1, 1981, while Sally Hazlitt’s was the reverse — January 6. 6/1 and 1/6 — easy to remember. When his phone rang, he answered automatically. It was Peter Bliss.

‘Someone’s looking for you,’ Bliss said, keeping his voice down.

‘Cowan?’

‘Gayfield Square told him you’d be back here first thing.’

Nicely played, Page: just a smidgen of revenge. .

‘I’m in Inverness,’ Rebus confided. ‘I’ll be another three hours at least.’

‘Inverness?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘You should call in on Gregor Magrath.’

It took Rebus a moment to place the name. ‘The guy who started SCRU?’ He remembered the card Nina Hazlitt had given him, the one with Magrath’s number on it.

‘He lives up that way.’

‘You reckon Cowan would be happier if I told him that was what I was doing?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Well, thanks for the warning anyway.’

‘So we’ll see you this afternoon?’

‘Will there be bunting?’

Bliss was stifling a laugh as he ended the call.

Cowan was on the phone when Rebus walked into the SCRU office. Bliss gave Rebus a wink and Elaine Robison added a little wave, their attitude suggesting that the workload had been managed more than adequately in his absence.

‘He’s here now,’ Cowan was saying into the receiver, eyes on Rebus. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’ He paused as he listened. ‘Yes, I’ll tell him. Straight away, yes.’

He ended the call and told Rebus not to bother taking his coat off. ‘DCI Page wants to see you. Any idea why that might be?’

Rebus was stumped. All he could come up with was that the case files were taking up space and needed to be moved.

‘Where the hell have you been anyway?’

‘Didn’t realise you would be pining for me, Dan. .’

Out in the car park, Rebus apologised to the Saab one more time before starting the engine. There was a single dry cough of complaint before the motor caught. He got on the phone to Siobhan Clarke. Before she could speak, he told her that he’d just been to Inverness.

‘And the thing is, I think Sally Hazlitt’s definitely still alive. Soon as that e-fit went public, she did a runner. I don’t suppose it counts as conclusive, but all the same. .’

‘Throwing into doubt your whole serial-killer theory?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thing is, John, there’s a problem with that — it’s why James wants to see you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Couple more victims by the look of it. We’ll tell you all about it when you get here.’

Two of the Gayfield Square detectives would be ‘hot-desking’, so that Rebus could have the one going spare. The boxes had been piled next to it and on it.

‘The desk drawers are out of bounds, I’ve been told to advise you,’ Page said. ‘DC Ormiston’s keeping his stuff in there for the duration.’ They were in his office, Page seated behind his desk, Siobhan and Rebus standing. ‘Siobhan tells me you’ve changed your thinking about the first victim.’

‘She tells me ,’ Rebus countered, ‘that there may be others.’

Page nodded and picked up a sheet of paper, reading from it.