Ian Rankin: Standing in another's man grave

‘What’s wrong?’ Detective Inspector Siobhan Clarke turned her head slightly to peer at the building from which she’d just emerged. ‘Bad memories stopping you coming in?’

Rebus took a moment to study the dreary two-storey facade of Gayfield Square police station. ‘Just got here,’ he explained, though in fact he’d been sitting in the Saab for a good four or five minutes, hands playing with the steering wheel. ‘Looks like you’re off out. .’

‘Well deduced.’ She gave a smile and took a couple of steps forward, pecking him on the cheek. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘Still seem to have that old lust for life.’

‘Meaning booze and nicotine?’

Rebus gave a shrug, returning her smile but keeping quiet.

‘To answer your question,’ she said, ‘I’m taking a late lunch. There’s a cafe I usually go to on Leith Walk.’

‘If you’re asking me to join you, there are certain preconditions.’

‘And what might those be?’

‘No smoky bacon crisps or prawns.’

She seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘Could be a deal-breaker.’ She gestured towards his Saab. ‘It’ll get a ticket if you leave it there. There’s pay-parking across the street.’

‘At one eighty an hour? I’m on a pension, remember.’

‘Want to see if there’s space in the car park?’

‘I prefer the whiff of danger.’

‘That bay’s for patrol cars — I’ve seen civilians get towed.’ She turned and started back up the steps, telling him to give her a minute. He realised his heart was beating a little faster than usual, and placed a hand over it. She’d been right about his reluctance to enter his old station — it was where he’d worked with her, right up until retirement. Half a lifetime as a cop, and suddenly the force apparently had no need of him. He thought of the cemetery again, and Jimmy Wallace’s grave, and gave a small, involuntary shudder. The door in front of him was swinging open, Clarke waving something in his direction. It was a rectangular sign with the words POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS printed on it.

‘Kept behind the front desk for emergencies,’ she explained. He unlocked the Saab and placed it inside the windscreen. ‘And for that,’ she added, ‘you’re treating me to a baked potato. .’

Not just any baked potato either, but one filled with cottage cheese and pineapple. There were sticky Formica-topped tables and plastic cutlery, along with paper cups for the tea, the drawstring hanging over the side of each.

‘Classy,’ Rebus said, fishing out his tea bag and depositing it on the smallest, thinnest paper napkin he’d ever seen.

‘You not eating?’ Clarke asked, making a professional job of cutting through the skin of her potato.

‘Way too busy for that, Siobhan.’

‘Still enjoying the life of an archaeologist?’

‘There are worse jobs at sea.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘What about you? Promotion suiting you?’

‘Workload’s no respecter of rank.’

‘Well earned, all the same.’

She wasn’t about to deny it. Instead she took a sip of tea and scooped up a forkful of cottage cheese. Rebus tried to remember how many years they’d worked together — not that long really, in the scheme of things. Didn’t see nearly so much of one another these days. She had a ‘friend’ who lived in Newcastle. Weekends she was often down there. And then there were the times when she’d called or texted him and he’d made some excuse not to make a meeting, never quite sure why, even as he sent the message back.

‘You can’t put it off for ever, you know,’ she said now, waving the emptied fork at him.

‘What?’

‘The favour you’re about to ask.’

‘What favour is that, then? Can’t an old pal just drop by for a catch-up?’

She stared him out, chewing her food slowly.

‘Okay then,’ he admitted. ‘It’s someone who came to see you first thing this morning.’

‘Sally Hazlitt?’

‘Sally’s the daughter,’ he corrected her. ‘Nina’s the one you talked to.’

‘After which she came running straight to you? How did she know?’

‘Know what?’

‘That we used to be colleagues.’

He’d thought for a second that she was about to say ‘close’. But she hadn’t; she’d opted for ‘colleagues’ instead, just as earlier she had used the word ‘civilians’.

‘She didn’t. A guy called Magrath used to run SCRU and she was looking for him.’

‘A sympathetic shoulder?’ Clarke guessed.

‘The woman’s daughter hasn’t been seen in a dozen years.’

Clarke looked around the cramped cafe to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then lowered her voice anyway. ‘We both know she should have put it behind her a long time back. Maybe that’s not possible any more, but it’s therapy she needs rather than us.’

There was silence between them for a moment. Clarke seemed to have lost interest in what remained of her meal. Rebus nodded towards the plate.

‘Two ninety-five that cost me,’ he complained. Then: ‘She seemed to think you brushed her off too readily.’

‘Forgive me if I’m not always sweetness and light at eight thirty in the morning.’

‘But you did listen to her?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

Rebus let the silence lie for a few seconds. People were hurrying past on the pavement outside. He didn’t suppose there was one of them without a story to tell, but finding a sympathetic ear wasn’t always easy.

‘So how’s the investigation?’ he asked eventually.

‘Which one?’

‘The kid who’s gone missing. I’m assuming that’s how she ended up speaking to you. .’

‘She told the front desk she had information.’ Clarke reached into her jacket and produced a notebook, flipped it open to the relevant page. ‘Sally Hazlitt,’ she intoned, ‘Brigid Young, Zoe Beddows. Aviemore, Strathpeffer, Auchterarder. 1999, 2002, 2008.’ She snapped the book shut again. ‘You know as well as I do it’s thin stuff.’

‘Unlike the skin of that potato,’ Rebus offered. ‘And yes, I agree, it’s thin stuff — as it stands. So tell me about the latest instalment.’

Clarke shook her head. ‘Not if you’re going to think of it in that way.’

‘All right, it’s not an “instalment”. It’s a MisPer.’

‘Of three days’ standing, which means there’s still a decent chance she’ll wander home and ask what all the fuss is.’ Clarke got up and walked over to the counter, returning moments later with an early copy of the Evening News . The photo was on page five. It showed a scowling girl of fifteen with long black hair and a fringe almost covering her eyes.

‘Annette McKie,’ Clarke continued, ‘known to her friends as “Zelda” — from the computer game.’ She saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘People play games on computers these days; they don’t have to go to the pub and put money in a machine.’

‘There’s always been a nasty streak in you,’ he muttered, going back to his reading.

‘She was taking the bus to Inverness for a party,’ Clarke went on. ‘Invited by someone she met online. We’ve checked and it pans out. But she told the driver she was feeling sick, so he stopped by a petrol station in Pitlochry and let her off. There was another bus in a couple of hours, but she told him she’d probably hitch.’

‘Never arrived in Inverness,’ Rebus said, looking at the photo again. Sulky: was that a suitable description? But to his eyes it seemed overly posed. She was copying a look and a style, without quite living it. ‘Home life?’ he asked.

‘Not the best. She had a record of truancy, took a few drugs. Parents split up. Dad’s in Australia, mum lives in Lochend with Annette’s three brothers.’