Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Fun?’ he asked her.

She nodded. ‘It’s good to be reminded there’s another world out there. Maybe we’d see seals, too, if we hung around long enough.’

‘Or selkies, even.’

‘Did you finish reading that book?’

He shook his head, dodging a puddle in the car park. There was a cairn in front of the Saab and he went to take a look at it. A plaque told him it was the work of a local school and was dedicated to the Brahan Seer.

‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ Rebus said.

‘What?’

Rebus nodded towards the cairn. ‘He gets a mention in that book.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Supposedly prophesied stuff like oil rigs and the Caledonian Canal. But he might not even have existed.’

‘Like Sawney Bean, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’ Rebus unlocked the Saab. As they closed the doors after them, he turned the ignition and got the heating going.

‘Maybe we can just sit here for a minute,’ Clarke said.

‘Sure.’

She was wriggling the warmth back into her body. ‘And you can tell me a story.’

‘What kind of story?’

‘From your book.’

‘I didn’t finish it.’

‘Go on,’ she encouraged him.

Rebus stared out towards the water while he made up his mind. ‘There’s one about a selkie, actually,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s supposed to have happened in the south-west, on the coast outside Kirkcudbright. Young lad there saw a creature emerge from the water and it scared him, so he killed it, which brought bad luck to the surrounding area. The local landowner didn’t like that, but the villagers protected the boy.’

‘They knew he was responsible?’

Rebus nodded. ‘He’d owned up to his father. Anyway, the landowner decided the whole village had to be punished. He was going to starve them out. The boy saw only one answer to that — walked into the Solway Firth until the water closed over his head.’

‘The curse was lifted?’

Rebus nodded again. ‘But each night, his head rose above the water, staring towards land, eyes full of sadness. He’d become a selkie, and he knew that if he ever came ashore again, there might be another scared child waiting for him with a rock.’ Rebus paused. ‘The end.’

‘And the moral of the story is. .?’

He thought for a moment before shrugging. ‘Does there need to be a moral?’

‘Actions have consequences,’ Clarke stated. ‘That’s what I take from it.’

‘Plus there’ll always be people who’ll cover up for the guilty,’ Rebus added, reaching into his pocket for his ringing phone.

‘Hazlitt?’ Clarke guessed.

‘No,’ Rebus said, checking the screen and then answering. ‘What can I do for you, Peter?’

It was Peter Bliss, calling from SCRU. ‘Just thought you’d want to know, that’s us being put out to pasture.’

‘The unit’s for the chop?’

‘Effective near-as-dammit immediately. You’ll want to start clearing your desk.’

‘SCRU’s being shut down,’ Rebus explained to Clarke. Then, to Bliss: ‘How’s Elaine taking it?’

‘She’s philosophical.’

‘And our Lord and Master?’

‘Seems pretty confident that he’s on the shortlist for the Crown Office job.’

‘A shortlist of one, if he has his way.’

Bliss chuckled at the truth of this. ‘So where are you anyway? Got somebody there?’

‘I’m with Siobhan Clarke. We’re up north.’

‘Thought as much. TV cameras don’t seem to be spotting you today, though.’

‘One bullet I’m happy to dodge.’ Rebus pointed through the windscreen, so that Clarke could share his sighting of another dolphin as it made its way towards the feeding grounds. ‘But as of right now,’ he told Bliss, ‘we’re actually sitting in my car watching a passing parade of dolphins.’

‘At Chanonry Point? Then you’re minutes away from where Gregor Magrath stays.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Rosemarkie, it’s called.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Just the once. Cottage facing the beach. Only red door on the street, I seem to recall.’

‘Maybe we’ll drop by.’

‘Could you do that?’ Bliss paused. ‘I’m serious. Gregor’s always wanting to know what we’re up to at SCRU.’

‘And you want me to be the one to tell him it’s on its last legs?’

‘Bit nicer than a phone call,’ Bliss argued.

‘And saves you the grief,’ Rebus countered.

‘You’re a gentleman, John.’

‘Otherwise known as an easy touch.’

‘We’ll have a night out when you get back. Toast the old place before it shows us the door.’

‘Will Cowan be on the guest list?’

‘What do you think?’ Peter Bliss said, ending the call.

Clarke was on the lookout for more sea life.

‘Might find some further up the coast,’ Rebus suggested, starting the engine. ‘Along with a retired detective and a cup of tea. .’

Rosemarkie was only five minutes away. A narrow main street, a church and a pub. Rebus lost sight of the coastline, and signalled right, turning down a narrow lane until he hit the seafront. A row of houses faced the water, bookended by a children’s park at one end and a restaurant at the other. The house with the red door was a cottage with dormer windows jutting out from its roof. There was an enclosed sun porch with enough space for a single armchair. The man seated there held a newspaper close to his eyes, peering hard at the print. There was a venerable olive-green Land Rover parked next to the house, and enough land for a foot-wide strip of weed-free garden. The man eventually realised that Rebus and Clarke weren’t passers-by. He put his paper down and opened the door. He had heft, but the years had given him a stoop and slowed his movements. He would be in his mid sixties, his hair silver but neatly trimmed, his eyes small but piercing.

‘Gregor Magrath?’ Rebus said.

‘That’s me.’

‘I’m John Rebus. This is Siobhan Clarke. Peter Bliss asked us to drop by.’

‘Peter? I was speaking to him just a few days back.’

‘Well, he says hello.’

‘Rebus?’ Magrath studied him. ‘I seem to know that name. .’ He thought for a moment. ‘Lothian and Borders CID?’

Rebus bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘And Siobhan here is a serving DI.’

‘So what brings you north?’

‘Mind if we come in?’

‘The place is a bit of a guddle. .’

‘I promise we won’t look.’

Magrath led them inside. Past the front door, they were immediately in a small, overheated living room, with a kitchenette beyond. There was a patterned three-piece suite, a TV, and shelves filled with books and knick-knacks, including mementoes from Magrath’s time on the force.

‘You live here on your own?’

‘Wife passed away many years back.’

‘I think I remember Peter telling me,’ Rebus said with a nod.

Clarke suggested that she make them a pot of tea. Magrath made to help her, but she told him she would manage. As she busied herself at the worktop, the two men sat down either side of the electric fire.

‘Bills must be grim,’ Rebus commented.

‘Place isn’t hard to heat. Good glazing helps.’ Magrath slapped his hands against his knees. ‘You were telling me why you’re so far from home. .’

‘You must have seen it on the news,’ Rebus said, glancing towards the blank screen of the TV. ‘Or read about it, at least.’

‘The missing women?’ Magrath guessed.

‘Five of whom might just have turned up.’

Magrath nodded solemnly. ‘Bad business,’ he commented, before calling out to Clarke that the sugar was in a bowl next to the bread bin.

‘You’ve been living up here a while,’ Rebus said.

‘Ever since I retired.’