Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Dolphin-watching?’

‘Mrs Scanlon says you don’t need to pay — there’s a place called Chanonry Point where they practically come to the shore.’

‘Reckon we’ve got time to play tourists?’

‘That depends on our dear leader.’

The landlady had returned with his coffee — just the one small cup. Rebus stared at it.

‘Better bring the rest of the pot, Mrs Scanlon,’ Siobhan Clarke advised.

Brigid Young’s mother and sister lived in Inverness, and were filmed by the TV cameras as they left home to make the drive to Edderton, the mother carrying a small wreath and a framed photo of her missing daughter. Zoe Beddows’s family had decided not to make the trip north, not until they had absolute confirmation that she had been found. A DNA swab had already been taken from her father. Nina Hazlitt had texted Rebus to say she was on the road and would Rebus meet her when she arrived? He hadn’t replied as yet. A television had been set up in the inquiry room so the team could keep up to date. The room itself was half empty — some were at Edderton, others at the mortuary or the forensic lab. Someone had pointed out Raigmore Hospital to Rebus — it was right around the corner from Northern Constabulary HQ. Phones drip-fed updates from all three locations. Looking out of the office window, Rebus could see a couple of camera crews and a posse of print journalists, plus curious locals with nothing better to occupy their time. Darryl Christie had formally identified his sister, and he too was on his way to Edderton, in the passenger seat of Hammell’s Range Rover. One of the news channels had blown the budget on a helicopter, and it tracked the car’s progress, cutting now and then to aerial shots of Edderton itself and the woods where the SOCOs and search teams were still at work. Ruby and her handler were on their way back to Aberdeen, services no longer deemed necessary. On the TV, Rebus saw the Portakabin, then the field he’d stumbled across in the dark. Between the treetops could just be made out the canopies covering the graves. There was no journalist on the helicopter itself, the running commentary coming from the studio anchor.

‘And we’re going now to our man at the scene, Richard Sorley. Richard, what’s happening there?’

Rebus watched as the action shifted to the police cordon. The reporter held his microphone to his face, jostling for position as Hammell’s car arrived and was let through the barrier, two stony-faced figures in the front. Its wheels spun as it moved off again, kicking up stones, the camera following its route up the single-track road. Back to the helicopter pictures as the Range Rover found its way blocked by a line of parked police vans. The two men got out. As usual, Darryl Christie seemed glued to his phone. Hammell appeared to give the helicopter the finger before plunging his hands into his pockets, striding in the direction of DCS Gillian Dempsey. She then led the way towards the track into the woods, the figures disappearing from view. Rebus realised Siobhan Clarke was standing next to him.

‘Is Page out there?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Where else would he be?’

The studio anchor was back in business, announcing that he now had Nina Hazlitt on a video link. Her face appeared on a screen behind him. She was adjusting an earpiece. The caption had her location as Inverness.

‘She’s outside Raigmore,’ Clarke said, identifying the backdrop, as Hazlitt began explaining to the anchor that she was readying to provide her own DNA to help investigators establish that her daughter Sally was among the victims. When the anchor reminded her that she had been the first to spot that the missing persons were linked by the A9, she nodded so briskly that her earpiece slipped out and she had to push it back in.

‘I feel vindicated, Trevor,’ she announced. ‘Until recently I was dismissed as a crank by every police force I approached. I want once more to thank John Rebus, a retired detective inspector in Edinburgh, for pushing my case.’

‘Isn’t that nice?’ Clarke said.

Rebus just grunted. One of the other officers in the room mimed a burst of applause.

‘And you can bugger off too,’ Rebus told him.

At the end of the interview, Nina Hazlitt removed the earpiece and handed it to a member of the news crew, before turning towards the doors of the hospital and walking through them, head held high.

‘She’s loving this,’ Clarke commented. ‘Maybe a bit too much.’

‘She’s waited a long time for the attention,’ Rebus retorted. The camera seemed to want to follow her inside, but a member of the hospital’s security team had other ideas. The studio anchor announced that they were returning to Edderton, where the helicopter was watching the white Range Rover reverse down the lane.

‘Didn’t take them long,’ Clarke said.

‘Not much to see.’

Another cut: this time to the cordon and Richard Sorley. The reporter craned his neck to watch as the Range Rover arrived at a spot where it could do a three-point turn. When it reached the crime-scene tape, it stopped and both Hammell and Christie got out. Hammell was dressed in his usual jeans and open-necked sports shirt with a gold chain around his neck. Darryl Christie was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, black tie, every inch the dignified bereaved. Blood had risen to Hammell’s face and he was ready to talk to anyone who would listen.

‘Whoever did this,’ he told the reporters, ‘they’re going to hell. Whether they believe in it or not, that’s where they’re headed.’ He stared straight into the lens of the camera. ‘I’d like to see them swing from a fucking scaffold. .’

At which point the sound feed was muted so that only the pictures remained. The anchor’s voice apologised to viewers before beginning a commentary based on what Hammell was saying.

‘Mr Hammell,’ he intoned, ‘a close friend of the family and understandably upset by his visit to the crime scene. .’

Rebus was watching closely. The incandescent Hammell was the focus of the camera’s attention, but over his shoulder could be seen glimpses of Darryl Christie, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. When someone tried asking him a question, he simply shook his head. Hammell was now stabbing a finger towards the camera, as if he had the culprit himself in front of him.

‘Wish I could lip-read,’ Clarke was saying.

More microphones were being thrust in front of Hammell, but he was beginning to run out of steam. When Darryl Christie placed a hand on his arm, Hammell acknowledged him with a nod and the pair of them headed for the car. The studio had handed back to Richard Sorley, who was talking about ‘the extraordinary tirade we’ve just witnessed here’. The Range Rover’s horn sounded as it drove past the cordon and the scrum of journalists, slaloming before picking up speed along the main road.

‘I’m going to have to interrupt you, Richard. .’

And they were back outside Raigmore Hospital again as Nina Hazlitt emerged, teary-eyed and trembling with emotion, the gist being: her DNA was not required at this time and she would be contacted at some later date.

‘How does that make you feel?’ she was asked by the reporter with the microphone.

‘Absolutely livid. I’ve placed my faith in the Scottish justice system and this feels like a slap in the face, not just to me but to all the relatives out there. .’

‘Something tells me you’ll be getting another text,’ Clarke commented to Rebus. A small box had appeared at the top of the screen, showing Dempsey and James Page being driven away from Edderton in the back of a large black saloon car.

‘Is there anything we should be doing?’ one of the officers in the room asked.

‘Look busy when they get here,’ someone else suggested.