Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Four’s not enough any more?’ She gestured towards his whisky glass.

‘Never has been. This is just taking the edge off.’

She picked up a shred of lettuce from the plate in front of her. The sandwiches, crisps and cherry tomatoes had been dispatched, though Rebus had abstained, with the complaint that he’d already eaten his own weight in white bread that day.

‘This is just beginning, isn’t it?’ Clarke speculated. ‘Totally different case now.’

‘Nothing’s really changed,’ Rebus countered. ‘We’ve got confirmation, that’s all.’

‘You always knew it would turn out like this?’

‘It was a possibility — we all knew that, whether we said so or not.’

‘You’ve worked more of these cases than I have: where do we go from here?’

‘Local interviews; crime-scene analysis; appeals for information. .’

‘What sort of person are we looking for?’

‘Isn’t that a question for one of your profiler chums?’

‘I don’t have any profiler chums. And it’s out of my hands anyway.’

Rebus looked at her. ‘I’m not convinced our pal Page is up to the task. You might need to be at his shoulder.’

‘James will be fine. He’s just not been to many murder scenes.’

‘He’s an office manager, Siobhan — could be CID or a company selling fitted kitchens. This needs someone a bit different.’

‘DCS Dempsey’s at the head of the table.’

‘That’s a definite bonus. But even she won’t have covered something like this before.’

‘And you have? You’re asking me to get you an invite into the boardroom?’

‘More or less.’

‘That might make it a bit crowded — unless you want me left outside?’

He shook his head. ‘I just need to be there.’

‘Won’t always be possible, John.’ She finished her orange juice and checked the time. ‘What’s the breakfast like?’

‘Substantial.’

‘I forgot to ask when they start serving. .’

‘Seven.’

She gave a tired smile. ‘It’s like sitting with the Michelin guide.’ Then she rose to her feet, bidding him good night.

He sat for the length of one final drink, adding it to his tab. His phone was on the table in front of him. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. He could call Nina Hazlitt. Or Frank Hammell. Or Darryl Christie. By morning the news would be out there, broken by Dempsey’s nephew. No, he decided eventually — give them one last night of unknowing, one last sleep sprinkled with hope. When he tried getting to his feet, the backs of his legs ached: too much standing around in the cold. There were some books on a shelf in the bar area, and he asked if it was all right to borrow one.

‘That’s what they’re there for, sir.’

The one he picked — for its title more than anything — was Cracking the Code . He took it upstairs to bed with him, the barman’s last words echoing in his head:

Pleasant dreams . .

The first news crew arrived at breakfast time.

Rebus was out front, smoking a cigarette. Rain had arrived in heavy gusts, and he was sheltering next to the hotel’s entrance. The crew chatted among themselves as they sprinted past him. They didn’t have reservations, but were hopeful; an early check-in would be a bonus; quick shower and something to eat, then they could get on the road to Edderton. English accents; unshaven; bleary-eyed: Rebus got the idea they’d driven through the night to get there. He flicked away his cigarette and headed for the breakfast room. Page was busy on his phone, while Clarke started on the second pot of coffee.

‘Slight problem,’ Rebus told her, nodding towards the open doorway. Clarke had a clear view of the reception desk. One of the arrivals held a full-sized news camera at his side. Page saw it too, and told the person he was speaking to that he would call back.

‘If they’re staying, we’re not,’ he commented.

‘Agreed,’ Clarke said. Then: ‘Any news from Dempsey?’

Page nodded slowly. ‘First autopsy will start in an hour. Pathologist reckons it’ll take a couple of days to get through them. Meantime, forensics are busy at the locus.’

‘Weather won’t be helping,’ Rebus interrupted.

‘They’ve covered what they can with plastic sheeting,’ Page informed him.

‘I need to buy some wellies,’ Clarke said.

‘Me too.’ Rebus lifted one foot so she could see his rudimentary attempt at shoe-cleaning. ‘And trousers, while I’m at it.’ The reception desk had provided a needle and thread, but his repair wasn’t going to hold.

‘How about the tetanus?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘What are the symptoms?’

‘Headache, dry mouth. .’ She examined his sewing. ‘Lack of hand/eye coordination.’

Page was busy checking messages. ‘Are Christine and Ronnie on the road home?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Clarke confirmed.

‘Dempsey’s going to want the families brought to Inverness,’ Page said. ‘It’s a murder investigation now.’

‘That reminds me, we should buy Ruby a nice juicy bone,’ Rebus said.

All three of them watched as the news crew entered the dining room, grabbing a table before heading for the buffet. There was a swagger to them, as though they suddenly owned the place.

‘I think that’s our cue to make an exit,’ Page said, getting to his feet.

They decided not to check out — not until they knew there was somewhere else for them to go. There wasn’t much leg room in the back of Clarke’s Audi, but that was where Rebus ended up. On the way to Northern Constabulary HQ, Page decided to entertain them with a pep talk about protocol and how they were ‘representatives’ of Lothian and Borders Police so should ‘showcase’ their talents and not make ‘waves’ — or any foul-ups. Rebus got the feeling the speech was aimed squarely at him. He met Clarke’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but she wasn’t giving anything away.

The building they were looking for was next to a roundabout and across the road from a twenty-four-hour Tesco. The police HQ was a modern three-storey construction of pink stone and smoked glass. There were journalists waiting on the roadway and pavement in front of it, setting up cameras or busy on their phones. A uniformed constable checked Page’s warrant card before nodding the Audi in the direction of a parking space. Rebus spotted a sign next to the entrance with the motto Protect and Serve on it, written in Gaelic as well as English. Bit late for the ‘protect’ part; all that was left was the ‘serve’. .

Once indoors, they learned that Detective Chief Superintendent Dempsey had already left for the first autopsy. It was being held at nearby Raigmore Hospital. Rebus couldn’t help thinking: same place as Sammy’s IVF. Page was asking for directions when a text arrived on his phone.

‘Dempsey,’ he explained to Clarke and Rebus. ‘Resident pathologist’s apparently annoyed by the number of bodies — live rather than dead — and wouldn’t welcome us adding to the total.’ He gnawed at his bottom lip. Rebus knew what he’d be thinking. They were here as guests of Northern Constabulary. It wasn’t really their case — not until Annette McKie was formally identified. Even then, common sense dictated that the McKie inquiry would be bundled with the others. With Edderton as the locus, it was Northern’s case, no contest. If Page complained or made a fuss, they could be sent packing at a moment’s notice. On the other hand, what use were they to anyone just hanging around, waiting to be told what had already happened in their absence?

‘We could head out to Edderton,’ Clarke suggested.

After a moment’s consideration, Page nodded his agreement.