Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘It’s the photo sent from Annette McKie’s phone. It chimed with a couple of families. Both have lost teenage daughters in the past five years. Suspected drownings, neither body recovered.’

‘They sent photos from their phones the day they vanished?’ Rebus guessed.

Page nodded slowly. ‘In one case, the photo no longer exists. But the parents swear it was the same as the one they saw on the news.’

‘And the other family?’

‘Kept all their daughter’s things. Here’s the picture they were sent.’ Page was tapping the screen of his computer. Rebus walked around the side of the desk so he could see it.

‘Christ,’ was all he could think to say.

It was Edderton, no doubt in his mind at all.

That night, Rebus stayed late at the office. Clarke had volunteered her services and the two of them were giving some order to the boxes, sorting out what might be important. Page wanted a precis, something he could take to the Chief Constable. Northern Constabulary would need to be persuaded to cooperate in the inquiry — the area around Edderton searched; local people questioned at length and in detail — and that meant putting together the facts, while trying to predict queries and problems, then prepping possible responses. Clarke was working on the timeline.

‘Do we add Sally Hazlitt or not?’ was one of her questions.

Rebus didn’t really know.

‘1999, 2002, 2008 and 2012. To which we can add 2007 and 2009.’ She stared at the figures. ‘I know what a profiler would say.’

‘Enlighten me, if you must.’

‘They’d say serial offenders start out slow, then become more prolific the longer they get away with it.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Three possibilities: one, it’s because they want to be caught; two, it’s precisely because they’re not being caught; three, it’s because they’re becoming addicted to it — each new victim satisfying them for a shorter time.’

‘Is that the sort of stuff you need to know these days to be a DI?’

‘I think it’s worth looking at those essays Christine printed out. Our guy has given us one big problem: no disposal sites to work with. But we do have Edderton. It has to mean something to him.’

‘Unless he chose it at random to throw any police investigation off the scent. Could be somewhere he stopped just the once. Maybe someone else snapped the original picture and he got hold of it somehow.’

Clarke considered this, trying not to look too disheartened. They worked in silence for a few more minutes until she asked him about Inverness and he filled her in on the details of his trip.

‘And the Saab didn’t break down?’

‘Not ready for the knacker’s yard just yet.’

‘Apparently not.’

Rebus stretched his spine and rolled his shoulders. ‘We about done here?’

‘I should type all this up.’

‘Ready to present to Page first thing?’

‘It would make sense.’

‘A cold drink would make sense, too.’

‘Give me another half-hour.’

‘And what will I be doing all that time?’

‘Getting your Inverness adventure down on paper,’ Clarke suggested.

Afterwards, they walked to a bar on Broughton Street, Clarke sucking in lungfuls of the night air as if tasting freedom after long captivity.

The pub was well lit and filled with conversation rather than music. A pint of beer and a gin, lime and soda. Rebus, feeling reckless, even threw in salted peanuts and a bag of crisps.

‘How are you feeling?’ Clarke asked as they clinked glasses.

‘I’m all right.’

‘I meant with all the driving you’ve been doing.’

‘You offering to apply the Deep Heat?’

‘No.’ She smiled and took a sip.

‘It’s weird up there,’ Rebus said. ‘Beautiful and bleak and eerie, all at the same time.’ He swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘One particular stretch south of Durness — I doubt it’s changed since the time of Sir Walter Scott.’

‘You should have taken a navigator.’

‘I really did think you were needed here.’

‘And I know that’s not the whole truth.’ She paused, inviting him to comment, but he opened the crisp bag instead.

‘What about Edderton?’ she asked eventually.

‘Farming and tourism, I’d say. A distillery an easy commute away. Plus some rigs in the Cromarty Firth.’

‘Dornoch?’

‘Nice wee place. Good-looking beach. No sign of Madonna.’ He wiped foam from around his mouth. ‘Everything seemed so. . normal.’ He shrugged. ‘Just normal.’ His phone went and he checked the screen. ‘Nina Hazlitt,’ he informed Clarke.

‘You going to answer?’ She watched him shake his head. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I’d probably lie to her, tell her there’s no news.’

‘Why not the truth?’

‘Because I want to be a hundred per cent sure — maybe a hundred and ten.’

They waited until the phone had stopped. It sounded once more to tell Rebus he had voicemail.

‘If Sally is alive,’ Clarke said, ‘what do you think her story is?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘What was her place like in Inverness?’

‘Pretty anonymous. I think she moves around a lot, never stays anywhere long.’

‘Maybe it’s like the song says — she hasn’t found what she’s looking for.’

‘Who has?’ Rebus said, lifting the pint to his mouth again.

‘You’re not doing too badly,’ Clarke commented, causing him to raise an eyebrow.

‘This case,’ she explained. ‘It’s put a spring in your step.’

‘I’m a regular Fred Astaire all right.’

‘You know it’s true, though. .’

He managed to lock his eyes on to hers. ‘I don’t think it is. The job’s changed, Siobhan. Everything’s. .’ He struggled to find the words. ‘It’s like with Christine Esson. Ninety per cent of the stuff she does is beyond me. The way she thinks is beyond me.’

‘You’re vinyl, we’re digital?’ Clarke offered.

‘Contacts used to be the way you got things done. The only network that mattered was the one out there on the street.’ He nodded towards the pub window, thinking that Frank Hammell had said much the same to him that night in Jo-Jo Binkie’s, after Darryl Christie had gone.

‘Your way works too, John — Edderton; Susie Mercer. Those were shoe-leather results. So don’t go thinking you’re obsolete.’ She pointed to his near-empty glass. ‘Are we having another?’

‘Might as well, eh?’

He watched her as she queued at the bar. Then his phone rang again, and he decided he might as well answer.

‘John?’

‘Hello, Nina.’

‘I called you a few minutes back.’

‘Signal’s patchy here.’

‘You sound like you’re in a pub.’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘You sound tired, too. Is everything all right?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

‘And the inquiry?’

‘See my previous answer.’

There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘Do you mind me calling?’

He closed his eyes. ‘No,’ he told her.

‘And when you get news, you’ll tell me?’

‘Didn’t I promise?’ I think your daughter’s alive. .

‘Promises aren’t always kept, John. Should I come north again? I’d like to see you.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Your daughter’s alive, but why did she leave?

‘You sound. .’

‘Tired?’

‘No, not just tired — strange. Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I have to go, Nina.’ Why would she not get in touch when she knows you’re out there, desperate and searching?

‘John, I-’

He ended the call just as Clarke returned to the table.

‘Let me guess,’ she said, watching him switch off the phone and place it on the table. Then, sitting down: ‘You really don’t want to tell her about Susie Mercer?’