Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Checked into the hotel yet?’

‘Seems all right.’ She shuffled her feet. They were standing well away from the three graves, there being not enough overshoes and the like to go round. Trace evidence again; the ‘integrity of the locus’ had to be maintained — Page had used those exact words when explaining to Clarke why she’d have to stay this side of the tape for now. Rebus hadn’t merited any such apology, or even an acknowledgement of his existence.

Even though he’d been the one to call it in.

Or maybe because he’d been the one to call it in.

Dempsey had thanked him, though, Rebus reminding her that it was Ruby’s result more than his.

‘Sore point,’ Clarke had said to him afterwards. ‘As I was hearing at HQ, not much love lost between Northern Constabulary and their neighbours in Grampian. .’

She was looking at her phone now, reciting the time. ‘Ten fifteen.’

‘Feels later,’ Rebus offered.

‘How long have you been out here?’

Rebus didn’t like to think. Instead he moved aside to let more SOCOs through. They ducked beneath the tape, dressed in their hooded white overalls and elasticated shoe covers, making a rustling sound as they walked. They carried cases and folded plastic sheets. The mortuary van had yet to arrive. It would bring the body bags. But nothing was being moved just yet.

Rudimentary tents had been erected over only two of the graves, someone having been dispatched to Inverness for more.

‘This is interminable,’ Clarke said, shuffling her feet again.

‘We could sit in the car,’ Rebus offered. She dismissed this with a firm shake of the head. ‘If Page needs you, he’ll know where to find you.’

‘He’ll find me right here,’ she stated.

‘Well, I’m going for a cigarette.’ She nodded and he left her to it, emerging on to the road and lighting up. Looking back, he saw the long shadows of the players as they moved around the clearing. One of the generators was really making a hellish racket, but it was better than silence, better than overhearing snatches of the discussions the SOCOs would be having.

It was a lonely spot. He couldn’t help wondering if they’d been brought here alive, bound and gagged perhaps, or in a stupor. Or maybe already dead. Trace evidence again — there had to be some of it in the vehicle. Fibres of clothing; strands of hair; maybe even saliva or blood.

Did they arrive here in daylight or at night? He guessed the latter. But a car left on the lane at night would look suspicious to anyone happening to drive past — another reason to take it into the woods.

Where it might have left tyre tracks, scrapings of paint against a trunk or branch.

The forensic team would get busy in the morning; they needed daylight for their work.

A cordon had been put in place at both ends of the road, diversion signs posted. When a man approached on foot, Rebus tensed. His shoes and trouser bottoms were soaked, meaning he’d got past the guards by crossing the fields.

Journalist.

He had his phone out, held in front of him to film what he saw. Rebus covered his face with his hand.

‘Put that bloody thing away unless you want a night in the cells,’ he barked. ‘Then turn yourself around and bugger off the way you came.’

‘Can I quote you on that, officer?’ He was young, with fair curly hair spilling from the hood of a green Barbour jacket.

‘I mean it.’ Rebus checked and saw that the phone had been lowered.

‘Big operation,’ the reporter said, rising up on to his tiptoes to peer over Rebus’s shoulder. ‘SOCOs and everything. I’m guessing that means you’ve found something.’

‘You’ll know when everybody else does,’ Rebus growled.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

Rebus turned in the direction of the voice. DCS Dempsey was striding towards him.

‘Pond life,’ Rebus explained, but her eyes were on the young man.

‘Might have guessed you’d be first out of the traps, Raymond.’

‘Anything you’d care to share, DCS Dempsey?’ He was busy with his mobile’s touch screen, turning it from camera to tape recorder.

‘There’ll be a press conference in the morning.’

‘Too late for our early edition. Throw me a bone here, will you? The internet’s killing us.’

Dempsey gave a theatrical sigh. ‘There seem to be human remains, but we don’t know much more than that. Now off you go.’

When the reporter tried asking a further question, she shooed him away. He gave a lopsided grin. ‘See you at Mum’s on Sunday, then?’

She nodded, avoiding eye contact with Rebus. The reporter was already on the phone to his newsroom, having turned back the way he’d come.

‘Is Raymond his first name or his last?’ Rebus enquired.

‘First,’ Dempsey confided. ‘And before you say anything, he’s my nephew. Doesn’t mean he gets special treatment.’

‘I thought he just did.’ She made no response. ‘Well,’ Rebus went on, ‘I hope he’s got sharp elbows — when word gets out, there’s going to be a media scrum.’ They stood in silence for a moment. ‘How many are we up to?’ he asked eventually.

‘Five, I think. Four in an advanced state of decay.’

‘And the other?’

‘I wouldn’t bet against it being Annette McKie.’

Rebus watched as Page and Clarke emerged from the woods, Page removing his shoe protectors. Clarke was stony-faced as she checked her phone for a signal. Page looked pale and queasy. He turned away and dry-heaved, hand clamped to his mouth to muffle the sound. Rebus offered him what water was left in his bottle. Page accepted it with a nod of thanks. Clarke had got through and was talking to either Esson or Ogilvie, letting them know the game plan had just changed.

‘I need to get back to Inverness,’ Dempsey announced. ‘Gee up some pathologists and see what can be done before morning.’ She studied the three Edinburgh detectives. ‘You lot should get your heads down — big day in front of all of us. .’ She started walking towards her car, shoulders slumped. Page was offering Rebus’s water back to him.

‘It’s yours now,’ Rebus said. Clarke had ended her call.

‘Will the restaurant still be open at the hotel?’ she asked.

Rebus shook his head. ‘A sandwich in the bar if you’re lucky. Crisps on the side.’

‘Can you pair stop talking about food?’ Page requested, angling his head away from them as another wave of nausea struck.

Almost two a.m.

Page had retired an hour back, and Esson and Ogilvie soon after. The original plan had been for the pair of them to head to Edinburgh at day’s end, but Clarke hadn’t wanted either of them nodding off at the wheel. Neither had seemed to mind. They had interviewed the parents of the Golspie and Fort Augustus victims, gleaning not very much in the process.

‘It was weird seeing Jemima’s bedroom,’ Esson had said. ‘It really is exactly as she left it. Some people just can’t let go, can they?’

Reception had doled out little toothbrush sets for both Esson and Ogilvie, and found them a couple of rooms at ‘the last-minute rate’. Rebus guessed the place might be busier next day, depending on how many news channels decided to cover the story. He was nursing his fourth whisky of the night.

‘You thawed out yet?’ he asked Clarke.

‘Almost.’

‘I’ve half a mind to head back out there,’ Rebus told her.

‘What good would it do?’ She was staring at her phone’s screen, using the hotel wi-fi to scour the internet for mentions of Edderton.

‘None,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’d just be in everyone’s way. On the other hand, I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.’