Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Interesting, all the same. And how are things with the family?’

‘Much the same.’

‘Still keeping an eye on your mum?’

‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Of course you will. But remember, anything I can do to help. .’

‘Thanks, Mr Cafferty.’

‘Your dad would be proud of you.’

‘My dad is proud of me.’

‘Safe home then, Darryl,’ Cafferty said, ending the call.

Darryl took a mug of tea into his bedroom. It was after midnight again. He’d phoned both pubs and the club — quiet nights in all three. He lay on his bed, phone active, checking the net while he played back the events of the evening. Frank Hammell lived in a mews house near Raeburn Place. He’d put Darryl in charge of the catering and welcoming the guests. Plus making sure glasses were kept topped up. That was fine by Darryl — he could listen in on as many conversations as he liked. The bottles of whisky, wine and champagne were stored in the room Hammell used as an office, meaning it was easy for Darryl to boot up his boss’s laptop, get it working, and plug in the memory stick he’d brought with him. Left it to do its job while he poured more drinks. Frank Hammell enjoyed playing the host, treating Darryl like a lackey — more whisky, more samosas, more of those mini hamburgers. And Darryl was happy to look obliging. Hammell had even ruffled his hair at one point in front of Calum MacBride, calling him ‘a good lad’.

A good lad, yes. A good lad who knew almost every aspect of the business and was learning more every day. A good lad who was paying off long-term employees and replacing them with leaner, hungrier models who knew where their loyalty lay.

Stretched out on his bed with his head supported by a pillow and his laptop balanced on his flat stomach, Darryl slotted home the memory stick. Financial records, not all of them password-protected. Those that were would be the kind the taxman never saw. Hammell had trusted Darryl with some passwords. The rest wouldn’t be a problem. Darryl had a friend who spent his whole life hacking — one good reason Darryl himself would never succumb to online banking. Hammell had, however.

‘Makes life simpler,’ he’d said.

Simpler, yes, if you were stupid enough.

The blinds hadn’t been closed yet and he glanced up at the sky. Overcast again; the house silent apart from the hum of his laptop’s fan. He thought about his sister, taking cash from her mother’s lover. She wouldn’t have said please or thanks — Frank Hammell would have offered. But following her to make sure she got on the train? Arguing with her at the bus station? Darryl wondered what that was all about. No way he could ask without his employer asking in turn how he knew.

Then he remembered the package. .

Page was just starting the briefing when Rebus arrived at Gayfield Square next morning. Christine Esson handed him nine sheets of paper held together with a staple. Rebus scanned them while Page spoke. The final five pages comprised the material gleaned the previous night from the files, but they were preceded by details of the two new MisPers.

August 2007, Jemima Salton, age fifteen, had failed to return home from a party, some of her clothing turning up in a picnic area on the banks of Loch Ness. The party had been held in Invermoriston and Jemima lived six or so miles away in Fort Augustus. Her plan had been to walk or hitch home in the early hours. Divers had been sent in, but the loch stretched for miles. Accidental drowning had been the verdict. No body ever turned up, and her phone and bag remained missing. Her family had maintained her bedroom almost as a shrine. The photo had been sent to them at three in the morning, though they hadn’t seen it until later. No message. They’d checked the bedroom. No Jemima either. .

November 2009, sixteen-year-old Amy Mearns had had an argument with her parents and gone to visit various friends in the village of Golspie. There had been a trip to a nearby beach, and at some point Amy had drifted away. Her jacket was found the following day, attached to a fence above the seashore, blown there perhaps. Amy herself had not been seen again.

‘Accidental drowning,’ Page intoned once more. Rebus could feel the man’s eyes on him. ‘You’ll note from the map that Golspie is on the A9, north of Tain and Dornoch, while Invermoriston is on the A82, south of Inverness and within easy reach of the A9. Two patterns seem to be emerging — the photos, plus that road — and that means I’m taking them seriously.’ He paused. ‘Any thoughts so far, John?’

Rebus only now looked up from his reading. ‘It’s a busy enough route. Tourist traffic as well as vans and lorries. It also covers a lot of ground. Not easy to get an investigation going. .’

‘Nevertheless,’ Page barked. But he didn’t seem to know what to say next. Clarke saved his blushes by suggesting that the various constabularies needed to be contacted and a summit of sorts held.

‘All sorts of jurisdiction and protocol issues,’ she said.

Page nodded.

‘We also need to do what John did with the previous cases,’ Esson piped up. ‘Talk to families and friends, try to get a better sense of the MisPers’ lives in general and their movements on the day they vanished.’

Page nodded at this, too.

‘The photo is just about all we’re left with,’ Ogilvie added. ‘If we’re confident it’s Edderton, we should organise a sweep of the area and interview anyone who lives locally or visits regularly.’

Page puffed out his cheeks, visibly daunted by what lay ahead.

‘Something to bear in mind,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘The earliest victim we have is Sally Hazlitt, and I’m beginning to think she may still be alive. Same might go for one or more of the others.’

‘How much do we let the media know?’ Clarke asked Page.

‘At this stage, as little as possible.’

‘If we turn up mob-handed in Edderton, they may start to get an inkling.’

‘We need to talk to Grampian Constabulary first — or is it Northern?’

‘The latter,’ Rebus answered.

‘We also need to talk to the families of Jemima Salton and Amy Mearns as soon as possible,’ Clarke said. ‘For several years now they’ve been under the impression their daughters drowned. We’ve just put the idea in their heads that they may have been abducted and murdered instead.’

‘Good point.’ Page was rubbing a hand up and down his jaw. ‘An order of priority is needed — can I leave that with you, Siobhan?’

She nodded her agreement. ‘You’ll be wanting to brief the Chief Constable,’ she told him, trying her best to make it sound like a reminder rather than the strong suggestion it actually was.

‘I’ll call his office,’ Page said, glancing at his watch. A moment later he had retreated to his cupboard. There was silence in the room, all eyes on Clarke. She, on the other hand, was staring in Rebus’s direction.

‘John,’ she said, ‘can you divvy up the cold cases? We need fresh interviews with all concerned. Did our abductor lie in wait, or had he met the women beforehand? Could he be in some job that took him to those specific places, or to those particular victims?’

‘It’s a tall order,’ Rebus warned her.

‘Worth a try, though, wouldn’t you say?’ Her look dared him to defy her.

‘Absolutely,’ he responded, the team gathering around him to receive their orders.

Rebus had lost count of the number of cases he’d worked, cases often as complex as this one, requiring interview after interview, statement after statement. He thought of the material in the boxes, now being pored over by those around him — paperwork generated in order to show effort rather than with any great hope of achieving a result. Yes, he’d been on cases like that, and others where he’d despaired of all the doors knocked on, the blank faces of the questioned. But sometimes a clue or a lead emerged, or two people came forward to furnish the same name. Suspects were whittled down. Alibis and stories unravelling after the third or fourth retelling. Pressure was sustained, enough evidence garnered to present to the Procurator Fiscal.