Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Want one?’ Joe Naysmith asked, holding out a can towards Kaye.

‘Why the hell not?’ Kaye snatched at it.

‘In which case, I’m driving,’ Fox said, pushing open the passenger-side door.

‘Afraid we’ll be pulled over? Why not take a risk for once?’

‘We’re swapping,’ Fox persisted.

Kaye looked at him and knew the man wouldn’t give up. He sighed and reached for the door handle.

If he’d been putting together a mix tape for the journey, it would have featured plenty of songs about roads. Canned Heat and the Rolling Stones, Manfred Mann and the Doors. He refuelled at Kinross, checked out the roadworks north of Pitlochry, and stopped for tea and a cheese scone at Bruar, where he looked at his phone and found a missed call from Nina Hazlitt — making four in total — and a message from Siobhan Clarke telling him that rooms had been booked for a couple of nights at Whicher’s. He doubted this was coincidence. Maybe it was the only hotel Clarke knew in Inverness. Inverness, however, was not his immediate destination. He stayed on the A9, crossing the Kessock Bridge. Alness, followed by Tain, and finally the turn-off to Edderton. Jim Mellon had been contacted, and he’d made sure the police located the spot. A Portakabin was being unloaded from a flatbed lorry, which would have the devil’s own job reversing back to the main road. The crane arm dropped the Portakabin on to the narrow lane ahead of it. Maybe the fields were too marshy to take its weight. The end result was that diversions would be needed. No traffic was going to be able to pass this way until the police operation had finished. A uniform gestured for Rebus to lower his window. Rebus obliged, holding out his ID. Mellon was in consultation with a woman in a smart two-piece suit, the pair of them pointing towards the hills. The woman held a copy of the photo sent from Annette McKie’s phone. She had come prepared: shoes swapped for green wellies. Rebus wished he’d thought of that.

He manoeuvred the Saab up on to what verge there was.

‘Give me a shout when the lorry needs to get out,’ he told the uniform. The man nodded, adding Rebus’s licence plate to the clipboard he was holding. Mellon had recognised him and was giving him a wave. Rebus walked forward and shook hands. The woman was waiting for an introduction.

‘I’m John Rebus,’ he obliged. ‘Attached to the Edinburgh inquiry.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Mr Mellon was telling me about you. I’m DCS Dempsey.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ They shook hands and sized one another up. She was around forty, buxom and bespectacled and with shoulder-length ash-blonde hair.

‘Where’s DCI Page?’ she asked.

‘On his way. What do you make of the comparison?’ Rebus gestured towards the photo she was holding.

‘I think it was taken pretty much where we’re standing.’ She paused. ‘Though I’m still not sure what its significance might be.’

‘Whoever sent it, if he’s being really clever, then he’s brought us here to waste our time and effort.’

She stared at him. ‘We’re praying he’s not that clever?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Then let’s hope that’s the case.’ She gestured towards the line of police vans parked on the carriageway past the Portakabin. They would have to head towards Aultnamain and circle back towards home — no way they could squeeze past the obstruction. Officers were being arranged into groups and shown maps, presumably marked with the grid they would be covering. ‘What is it they should be looking for?’

‘Anything out of place,’ Rebus advised. ‘Scraps of clothing, cigarette ends, a discarded bottle or can.’ He paused. ‘How about the interviews?’

‘A team of six,’ she replied. ‘There really aren’t that many habitations for them to visit.’

‘Would it be cheeky of me to ask them to check cafes and petrol stations too?’

‘Within what sort of radius?’ She had narrowed her eyes a little, as if reappraising him.

‘Dornoch, Bonar Bridge, Tain — for starters, anyway.’

This merited the thinnest of smiles. ‘You know this part of the world?’

‘A bit.’

‘What’s your thinking?’

‘A traveller — might not be someone who lives locally. But they must know the area.’

‘We’ll see what we can do.’ She had been about to add his rank until realising she didn’t know it.

‘I rose to the giddy heights of detective inspector,’ Rebus informed her.

‘Past tense?’

He nodded again. There was an incoming text on his phone.

‘Lucky you,’ Dempsey said. ‘I’m getting no signal.’

‘Half a bar,’ Rebus said. ‘And as Mr Mellon will tell you, a gust of wind the wrong way and I’ll lose it.’

The message was from Clarke, letting him know they’d reached HQ in Inverness and were about to go into a meeting with ‘the brass’. But Rebus knew that the only ‘brass’ worth dealing with was right there with him. When he looked up, Dempsey was on her way over to one of the search teams. They carried thin sticks and evidence bags and seemed enthusiastic about the task ahead of them. When Dempsey started giving them what Rebus guessed must be a pep talk, they paid close attention.

‘A fine woman,’ Mellon said in an undertone. ‘You’d be proud coming home to that of an evening.’

The uniform with the clipboard was standing by Rebus’s shoulder.

‘Time to move your car, sir,’ he said, as the air brakes on the flatbed gave a loud hiss. ‘If you want it kept in one piece. .’

Mid afternoon. Neither Page nor Clarke had put in an appearance. From her texts, it seemed to Rebus that this was not Clarke’s favoured strategy, but Page had lined up a series of meetings, presumably so he could listen to his own voice, and Clarke had felt obliged to stick with him.

Sandwiches and bottles of water had appeared from somewhere. They filled the back of a patrol car, its doors wide open so people could help themselves. No hot drinks, though Mellon had offered to see what he could do. The Portakabin contained little more than a table and a couple of chairs. There was an Ordnance Survey map of the area on the table, the whole scene reminding Rebus of that first trip to the roadworks outside Pitlochry. A generator was on its way, so that the structure could have both lighting and heat. Another half-hour or so and the search would be called off for the day. Light was fading — at least thirty minutes earlier than in Edinburgh. Rebus was sipping water when the van arrived. It parked at the rear of the line of vehicles. There was no sign of the officer on clipboard duty. A uniform emerged from the driver’s seat and nodded a greeting towards Rebus. Rebus got a bit closer so he could read the writing on the van’s side.

Grampian Police Canine Unit.

The back had been opened and a cage unlocked. A dappled springer spaniel emerged and began a keen examination of the road surface.

‘Long way from home,’ Rebus commented.

‘Northern doesn’t have anyone like Ruby,’ the officer explained.

‘You’ve driven here from Aberdeen?’

The man nodded, his attention focused on the dog.

‘Left it a bit late.’ Rebus studied the sky.

‘Ruby’s not using her eyes, though. Means she can work that bit longer. You in charge?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘DCS Dempsey’s the one you need, but she’s had to head back to Inverness.’

‘Maybe I’ll just get started, then.’ The dog handler looked like he came from farming stock: plenty of girth and a ruddy face, black hair swept back from his forehead. The gate to the field stood open, and Ruby was itching to explore, but she wasn’t going anywhere until given permission.