Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

And then there were the lucky breaks — the things that just happened. Nothing to do with dogged perseverance or shrewd deduction: just sheer bloody happenstance. Was the end result any less of a victory? Yes, always. It was possible that there was something he had missed in the files, some connection or thread. Watching the team at work, he couldn’t decide if he would want them to find it or not. It would make him look stupid, lazy, out of touch. On the other hand, they needed a break, even at the expense of his vanity. So he watched them, their heads bowed as they sifted through the documents, chewing on their pens, underlining, making notes, or typing their thoughts into their computers. Putting together more detailed chronologies, deciding who should be questioned, ready to suggest some avenue that had been missed — either by the original inquiry or by Rebus.

More chewing of pens. More notes. Trips to the kettle and coffee pot. The occasional offer to fetch snacks from downstairs. Rebus was the only one who took cigarette breaks. During one, he made sure the cars in the car park were empty before tapping a number into his phone.

‘I want to talk to Hammell,’ he told the person who answered. ‘Tell him it’s Rebus.’

After a few seconds, the man’s voice was back in Rebus’s ear. ‘He can’t speak at the minute.’

‘Tell him it’s important.’

‘He’ll phone you back.’

And that was the end of the conversation. Rebus stared at the display, cursing under his breath. He lit a second cigarette and paced the car park. It was hemmed in by the two-storey police station and the back of a Georgian tenement. Lots of windows; no signs of life. Pigeons on the rooftops, just getting on with things. A large red-brick chimney belonging to some art studio on Union Street. A plane making a sharp turn, heading for the airport. Car horns sounding from the direction of Leith Walk, and a siren in the distance, failing to come any closer.

‘Life’s rich tapestry,’ Rebus muttered, as if to the friendly cigarette held between his fingers. A couple of minutes later, he was readying to discard it when his phone rang. Not a number he recognised. He answered by giving his name.

‘Something you’ve got to tell me?’ Hammell enquired. All business; no time for chat.

‘It isn’t Thomas Robertson,’ Rebus stated.

‘So?’

‘It just isn’t. You need to let him go or stop hunting him down.’

‘Which would you prefer?’

‘Depends if you have him or not.’

‘What makes you so sure he’s not the guy?’

‘He was in jail when one of the women disappeared.’

‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t snatch Annette.’

‘Yes, it does. We’re pretty confident they’re all linked.’

‘Convince me.’

‘Have you got him or haven’t you?’

‘This is bullshit, Rebus.’

Rebus pondered his options for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘It looks like there are at least two other victims we didn’t know about. One was snatched in November 2009. Robertson was in Peterhead at that time. Both these new victims, photos were sent from their phones, same as with Annette.’ Rebus paused. ‘I could get in trouble for telling you this, but I need you to understand.’

‘All right, I understand. But I never did find that little gobshite.’

Frank Hammell ended the call.

The rest of the day felt a lot like limbo. Things were happening, but not in the vicinity of Gayfield Square. Page had taken Clarke with him for his meeting at HQ with the Chief Constable. Rebus had asked her to text him updates, but she’d probably thought it bad manners to whip her phone out in the middle of the Chief’s office.

Northern Constabulary had requested copies of everything Page’s team had. Esson and Ogilvie were given the job of collating and sending it. Gavin Arnold called Rebus from Inverness to tell him the station was buzzing. Rebus decided the corridor was the best place to continue their conversation.

‘We’re having to draft officers in from all over,’ Arnold went on. ‘Dingwall’s the nearest cop shop of any size, but it’s too far from Edderton. It’ll be Portakabins on site and a loan of some land.’

‘I know a friendly farmer,’ Rebus said, giving Arnold Jim Mellon’s name and contact number. ‘He’s the one who recognised the locus in the first place.’

‘Thanks, John — I might get a brownie point or two for that.’

‘One favour less I owe you.’ Rebus peered through the doorway. The team was restless, impatient for the return of James Page with their instructions. ‘How long till the media gets wind of it?’

‘One of my colleagues is probably blabbing to the local paper as I speak.’

‘Bound to happen, I suppose.’

‘Will you be back up this way?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I remember that drowning — the one in Loch Ness. Nobody thought anything of it at the time.’

‘No reason to. What about Golspie — any memory of that?’

‘None. Slap-bang on the A9, though. Do you reckon that’s what they’ll call him: the A9 Killer?’

‘I’m just hoping this is the end of it.’

‘That depends on us catching him.’

‘I suppose it does,’ Rebus said.

‘Positive news on that front is a chief super called Dempsey will probably head the case at our end.’

‘Good, is he?’

‘One of the best we’ve seen up here. Not a bloke, though — first name’s Gillian.’

‘My mistake.’ Rebus watched as Page and Clarke reached the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve got to go, Gavin.’

‘Give me a bell if you hit town. And if I’m in your neck of the woods for a Caley away game. .’

‘The pies are on me,’ Rebus confirmed, following two stern faces into the CID office. It took only seconds for everyone to gather around Page.

‘Bottom line,’ he began, ‘Chief’s not entirely convinced by Edderton. As he says, it’s a photo of a photo — that’s been confirmed, by the way. Could have been taken at any time and used merely to throw us off the scent. On the other hand, the A9 connection is too strong to dismiss, and since Pitlochry seems to be getting us nowhere, he’s spoken with Inverness and requested a search of the area where the photo was taken, plus interviews with the locals. Northern Constabulary are already actioning this, but they may be short a few bodies, so we’re going to pitch in. Christine and Ronnie, I want you to go talk to the parents in Golspie and Fort Augustus.’

‘Northern are okay with that?’ Esson checked.

Page gave a nod of confirmation. ‘I’ll be headed to Northern Constabulary HQ with Siobhan.’ Page sought out DC Ormiston. ‘Dave, you’ll be running the show here.’

‘Understood.’

Rebus caught Clarke’s eye. She hesitated a moment before speaking.

‘John has been to Edderton, spoken with people there. Might be useful to have him on the ground with us, at least at the start. .’

Page fixed his gaze on Rebus while he made up his mind.

‘Fine,’ he said.

It was mid afternoon before Nina Hazlitt called. Rebus didn’t answer, but listened afterwards to her message.

‘Is it true they’ve found two more? The internet’s full of gossip about it. I should have known. I can’t believe I didn’t spot them in the papers. But it means I’m right, doesn’t it? Right about the A9, right about them all being connected.’ She was sobbing between sentences. ‘Please call me back — you promised you would. You said I’d be the first to know. I need you to tell me what’s happening. Sally was the start of this, John — don’t forget that. I have a stake. . Do you hear me? Don’t shut me out!’

Clarke emerged from Page’s office and approached his desk, just as Nina Hazlitt broke down into sobs again and ended her call.