Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘We continue door-to-door. Maybe some of the farms have CCTV we can look at; same with shops and garages. We need to talk to everyone .’

‘All the evidence collected from the field and the woods. .?’

‘Is at the lab. Nothing to report so far.’

‘The pubic hair. .’

‘Yes?’

‘We know it doesn’t belong to Annette McKie.’

Dempsey nodded. ‘Once we get a DNA fingerprint from it, I’ll be asking to take swabs from every male within shouting distance of Edderton.’

The officers in the room exchanged looks, knowing the amount of work this would entail.

‘I know I’m asking a lot,’ she said. ‘But we need to be seen to be doing our utmost.’

Yes, Rebus thought to himself, because if nothing else, it might flush the killer into the open. He remembered the tactic he’d suggested at SCRU, and found himself proposing out loud that Dempsey tell the media there was DNA evidence, even if none existed. She stared him down.

‘Have you considered approaching a criminal profiler, ma’am?’ The question came from Siobhan Clarke, maybe to deflect attention away from Rebus. Dempsey met her gaze.

‘I’m open to any sensible suggestions, DI Clarke.’

‘It’s just that there’s been a lot of research done into what makes serial killers choose their particular disposal sites. The fact is, the victims came from a wide geographical area but ended up in that one spot.’

‘Meaning it has some significance for the perpetrator?’ Dempsey was nodding. ‘I’ve already fielded a few e-mails on the subject. If anyone wants to suggest a friendly profiler who isn’t going to break the bank. .’ She looked around the room. ‘Or maybe DI Clarke could do an internet search and see what she comes up with?’ Dempsey’s eyes were fixed on Clarke again.

‘Be happy to, ma’am.’

‘Good.’ Dempsey checked her watch. ‘Well, if there are no more questions, I’ve got a couple of grieving families I need to prepare for. .’

There were sympathetic sounds from around the room. Page was pushing past a few officers in order to get to Siobhan Clarke.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

‘Here and there,’ she answered.

‘I was looking for you earlier.’ He sounded disappointed in her.

‘I was at the end of the phone.’

‘Mine needs charging,’ he muttered. ‘Nobody seems to have the right adaptor. Did you get my text about dinner tonight?’

‘She’s delighted to accept,’ Rebus interrupted, receiving a stern look from Clarke. ‘And though I’d love to be there too, it so happens I have other plans.’

Having said which, he made his exit.

That evening, despite best intentions, Rebus took a cab from the guest house to the pub. He sat in the front and told the driver he never seemed to be able to find a parking space in Inverness.

‘You should see it at weekends,’ he was informed. ‘Multi-storeys, supermarket car parks — full all day.’

‘Place must be booming.’

The driver gave a snort. ‘Wish I could say I was seeing some of the benefits.’

When Rebus walked into the Lochinver, Gavin Arnold was lining up an out-shot. His dart ended up just the wrong side of the wire and he continued to shake his head as he watched his opponent end the game with double seventeen. They exchanged handshakes and pats on the arm. Arnold saw Rebus and waved him towards the bar.

‘What are you having?’

‘An IPA would do the trick.’

‘Two please, Sue,’ Arnold said. Sue Holloway smiled a greeting at Rebus and got to work.

As they watched her pour, Rebus asked Arnold how things were going.

‘I’m on doorstepping duties,’ he replied. ‘Reckon the shocks have gone on my car already, the number of farm tracks I’ve been up and down.’

‘With no result to show for it?’

‘Which DCS Dempsey insists is a result in itself. Narrowing things down, she calls it.’

‘In a way, she’s right.’

‘It just makes for a bloody tedious day, that’s all.’

‘Stop moaning,’ Holloway said. ‘And these are on the house as a way of saying thanks.’

‘For what?’ Rebus asked.

‘Trying to find the twisted bastard and stop him doing it again.’

‘Cheers then,’ Arnold said, clinking his glass against Rebus’s before taking a sip. ‘How about you, John? Any progress?’

‘I seem to be surplus to requirements, Gavin. Spent half the day sightseeing.’

‘Culloden?’ Arnold guessed.

‘Black Isle, actually.’

‘If they widen the search any further, I’ll end up there before long. What did you think of the place?’

‘I saw some dolphins.’

‘Did you go to Culbokie?’ Arnold watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Nice wee pub there with a beer garden looking over the Cromarty Firth.’

Rebus remembered how he knew the name — Culbokie was where Brigid Young had left her mobile phone the day she’d been abducted.

‘Hey, Gav,’ one of the other darts players called. ‘You seeing this?’

The man meant the TV set above the door. It was tuned to a news channel. On the screen some people were settling themselves around a table. Looked like another bar, this time with menus and napkins. Flashbulbs were going off, and at one point the news camera was jostled.

Rebus recognised Frank Hammell and Nina Hazlitt. They were shaking hands, as if they’d just been introduced to one another. Another couple were there too, not looking comfortable at the amount of attention and the proximity of the cameras.

‘That’s Brigid Young’s sister and her man,’ Arnold explained. Across the bottom of the screen ran the words A9 FAMILIES MEET.

‘Isn’t that the Claymore?’ Sue Holloway said.

‘Looks like,’ Arnold admitted. Then, for Rebus’s benefit: ‘It’s right across the road from here.’

Someone had gone to the door to check. Rebus, Arnold and half a dozen others decided to follow suit. Sure enough: an outside broadcast van with a satellite dish on its roof. And lots of lights moving around inside the Claymore Bar. Rebus crossed the street and peered through the window. He saw the table and the four figures seated at it. A man emerged from the back of the van and started setting up a tripod with a lamp at the top of it. He ran a cable back to the van and plugged it in, further illuminating the interior. Hammell glanced towards the window, his narrowed eyes meeting Rebus’s. Then he turned back towards the microphones and continued with his speech. Rebus could see no sign of Darryl Christie. Nina Hazlitt was handed a drink from a tray. Brigid Young’s sister had her hand clamped around that of the man next to her. As other gawpers closed in around him, Rebus retreated to the Lochinver. Arnold was stationed in front of the TV, watching proceedings. Someone had turned the volume up.

‘Impromptu press conference,’ he stated. ‘Dempsey won’t be happy.’

‘What have they been saying?’ Rebus asked.

‘Mr Hammell’s complaining about a lack of effort; Ms Hazlitt wants to be swabbed for DNA.’

‘And the other two?’

‘Seem not to know what they’ve gotten into. You ready for a top-up?’

‘My shout,’ Rebus said, lifting Arnold’s empty glass from him and making for the bar. When his phone buzzed, he reckoned he knew who it would be, but he turned towards the TV screen to check. Nina Hazlitt was talking. Frank Hammell could be seen next to her, studying the screen of his own phone. Rebus checked the message:

You still here?

He texted back, then paid for the drinks. It was a further half-hour before Hammell walked in. The only surprise was that he had brought Nina Hazlitt with him.

‘This is Nina,’ Hammell said.

‘John knows me,’ Hazlitt said. ‘Though you might not know it from the way he’s been behaving.’