Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

So it was back on to the A9, the rain growing heavier as they crossed the Kessock Bridge, side winds buffeting the car. Clarke had set the wipers to their maximum speed, but they still struggled to cope.

‘Never did buy those wellies,’ Rebus commented from the back seat.

‘There’s an umbrella somewhere at your feet,’ he was told. He reached down and picked it up. It was pink and retractable, and looked to have a circumference no bigger than a drum cymbal.

‘It’s yours if you want it,’ Clarke said.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus replied without enthusiasm.

The uniform at the cordon was dressed for the elements. He even had a plastic shield for his clipboard. Their names were jotted down, along with the Audi’s registration number. A camera crew were sheltering in the back of their van, doors open so they could keep an eye on things. Raymond — Dempsey’s nephew — was seated in his own car, a white Volkswagen Polo. His window was down, and he offered a nod of greeting towards Rebus as the Audi crawled past the cordon and started to ascend the hill, rivulets of rainwater either side of it. The Portakabin had been unlocked and was providing shelter for those taking a break from the crime scene. SOCOs cupped their hands around beakers of instant soup, trying to get warm. Page decided to keep moving up the slope towards the locus. Clarke glanced back and saw that Rebus was happy where he was, but gesturing for her to stick with her boss.

There was just about room enough for Rebus inside the Portakabin. A couple of SOCOs were waiting for the kettle to boil, mugs at the ready. Bottles of water; empty Cup-a-Soup sachets. No sign of the evidence bags from the previous evening — the lab had probably taken them.

‘Not the best of days for it,’ Rebus said to no one in particular. ‘And no sign of the heater we were promised.’ Then: ‘Have all the bodies gone now?’

There were nods of confirmation.

‘Still just the five?’

‘Just?’

‘I’m thinking we should be thankful there aren’t more.’

‘They’ve brought the dog back for a final recce,’ one SOCO said.

‘Any effects in the graves?’ Rebus asked, trying to keep his tone conversational.

‘Sorry — who are you again?’

‘I’m with the Annette McKie team. I was here when Ruby found the first of them.’

This seemed to satisfy the room — just about. ‘No effects,’ he was told. ‘No clothing, no jewellery, nothing.’

‘And one body a good bit more recent than the others?’

There were more nods.

‘She should be easy enough to identify,’ someone conceded.

‘The others won’t be?’

‘Dental records maybe. Or a DNA match. Do you want some soup?’

The offer told Rebus that he had been accepted. ‘Thanks,’ he said, even though he was still full from breakfast.

‘Grabs them from the A9,’ another of the team was saying, ‘buries them here and sends a picture — got to be local.’

‘Might just be someone who knows the road,’ Rebus cautioned. ‘Any tyre tracks up there?’

‘Nothing useful as yet.’

‘Only three or so weeks since he was last here, though.’

‘Ground might have been frozen — dipped below zero the night the McKie girl went missing.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘You’ll keep looking?’

‘Until we’re told to pack up.’

‘Clothing and personal effects might have been buried separately.’

‘We’ve a metal detector coming later today, plus the offer of geo-phys if we want it.’ The man’s eyes were on Rebus, daring him to doubt the effort being made. Rebus blew across the surface of the soup instead. Reconstituted peas and carrots had never held such fascination for him.

Late in the afternoon they reconvened at Northern Constabulary HQ in Inverness. Dempsey was due to host a press conference at the top of the hour, but wanted her team to hear the news first. The mood was solemn. Photographs were handed round. According to the pathologist’s report, all five corpses were women, but only one was readily identifiable. Rebus stared at the face of Annette McKie. Her eyes were closed and bits of earth still clung to her eyelashes, hair and ear lobes.

‘Manual strangulation,’ Dempsey was intoning. ‘We may even get lucky and come up with a thumbprint. You’ll see signs of bruising to the neck, especially around the voice box. Large hands, the pathologist says. Judging by decomposition and insect activity, victim has been deceased for between twenty and twenty-five days.’ She looked up at the room. ‘Three weeks today since she was abducted, so I think it’s fair to say she wasn’t kept alive for long.’ Dempsey returned to her notes. ‘From the visual evidence, I’m prepared to name the victim as Annette McKie, but the family are on their way from Edinburgh to make the formal identification.’

‘Did the other victims die the same way?’ someone asked, interrupting Dempsey’s flow. She glowered at the miscreant.

‘No way of telling. Deterioration is too advanced. All the pathologist would say is that she can’t see initial signs of stab wounds or gunshots on any of them. Regarding Annette McKie, there’s probable sexual activity, but as yet no indications of forced penetration. Pathologist’s got a mountain ahead of her, however, and we can’t expect a full report for a few more days. We have the particulars of the missing women provided by our friends at Lothian and Borders, and those will be useful in the preliminary stages. I have to stress that we don’t know for sure who the other victims are. I don’t want any of you jumping to conclusions.’

There were nods and grunts of acknowledgement. Clarke had raised her hand. Dempsey considered for a moment before deciding to grant permission for a question.

‘Who’s ID’ing Annette McKie?’

‘One of her brothers, I think. Apparently her mother’s in bits. Probably been watching the live feed on TV.’ The mention of TV caused her to glance at her watch. ‘I need to get ready to face the jackals,’ she said. ‘We can have another confab after. Meantime, thinking caps firmly on heads. I want constructive ideas — as many as you can throw at me. Now, back to your posts, everybody.’

As the meeting broke up, Page lunged forward, ready to press his case for inclusion in the media conference. Rebus turned to face Siobhan Clarke.

‘We don’t have “posts”, do we?’

She looked around the room. ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘we don’t.’

‘Nor do we have a place to sleep tonight — unless we risk the hotel.’

‘Another good point.’

‘And the pair of us still need boots of some kind.’

She couldn’t deny it: her shoes were caked with mud from earlier. ‘Are you suggesting a shopping trip?’

‘And maybe a quick visit to the tourist office — check out the bed-and-breakfast situation.’

Clarke was staring towards Page. Page was smiling at Dempsey, bowing his head in gratitude. He was in. ‘We’ll only be an hour,’ Rebus pressed her.

‘Fine,’ Siobhan Clarke said through gritted teeth.

They were walking back into Northern Constabulary HQ with the address of a willing guest house when the press pack’s interest was aroused. A car was arriving, a white Range Rover Sport with tinted rear windows. Frank Hammell was driving, Darryl Christie in the passenger seat, his attention focused on the screen of his phone. A few photos were taken, TV cameras hoisted to shoulders, but otherwise they were allowed some room and a bit of respect as they parked in the bay allotted to them and got out. No one thrust a microphone into their faces while demanding to know their reaction to the news. Rebus ended up holding the door open for Hammell and Christie, neither man seeming to recognise him, perhaps because they were avoiding all eye contact.