Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

This seemed to come as news to Hammell, who had a twenty-pound note in his hand, ready to attract Holloway’s attention. Rebus looked around the bar. Everyone seemed to have recognised the visitors, while pretending to mind their own business. Arnold was halfway through another game of darts, his glance towards Rebus managing to pose both question and warning.

‘Same again?’ Hammell was asking Hazlitt.

‘Why not?’ she said.

‘What about you, Rebus?’

‘I’m fine as I am.’ Rebus’s eyes were on Hazlitt’s. ‘So how are you doing?’

‘I’ll be better when I get some news.’

‘Tomorrow or the day after, that’s what I’m hearing.’

‘Then you know no more than we do,’ she stated.

When Hammell handed her a glass, Rebus asked him where Darryl Christie was.

‘Back in Edinburgh. Needs to be there for his mum.’

‘Shouldn’t that be your job too?’

Hammell glared at him. ‘What about you? Boozing it up when there’s a freak out there you should be catching.’

‘I’m sure John’s doing all he can,’ Hazlitt broke in. ‘Might explain why he’s too busy to reply to messages. .’

‘I saw Thomas Robertson,’ Rebus told Hammell. The man had ordered both a whisky and a pint, sinking an inch of the latter before adding the former to the mix.

‘Remind me,’ he said.

‘The road worker from Pitlochry,’ Rebus obliged.

‘And why bother telling me?’

‘He’d gone ten rounds with a battering ram.’

Hammell shrugged and took out his phone, checking its screen. Rebus turned his attention back to Nina Hazlitt. ‘What was all that in aid of, across the road?’

‘Media awareness,’ she answered.

‘Your idea or his?’ Rebus nodded towards Hammell.

‘Does it matter?’

It was Rebus’s turn to shrug. Arnold was gesturing from the dartboard, where he had just finished his game. Rebus walked over to him.

‘Hell are you doing?’ Arnold hissed.

‘I can’t help it if those two decide to wander in.’

‘So it’s just coincidence?’ Arnold didn’t sound convinced. ‘You sure all the TV people have packed up? If this ever gets back to Dempsey. .’

‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ Rebus gave a wink and returned to the bar. Hammell asked him if he was finally ready for that drink. Rebus shook his head.

‘Better be off. Another early start in the morning.’

‘One more won’t hurt,’ Nina Hazlitt pressed, a certain amount of pleading in her eyes. Rebus couldn’t tell if she wanted his company for its own sake, or was merely reluctant to be stuck alone with Hammell.

‘Hey, guys!’ The bar’s door was wide open, someone standing there with their phone held up in front of them. Rebus, Hazlitt and Hammell couldn’t help turning towards the voice. The young man smiled as he checked the quality of the photo he’d just taken, then offered a thumbs-up as he backed out on to the pavement, the door swinging shut after him.

Rebus had recognised Raymond, Dempsey’s journalist nephew — and so had Gavin Arnold. The two men shared a look.

If this ever gets back . .

‘Maybe a whisky,’ Rebus told Hammell.

‘That’s the stuff,’ Hammell replied, waving towards Sue Holloway. The tension seemed to leave Hazlitt’s body. She threw a smile in Rebus’s direction, thanking him for staying. .

He was in bed when he heard a knock at his door. Just shy of midnight, according to his watch. He got up and padded across the floor.

‘Yes?’ he prompted.

‘It’s me,’ Siobhan Clarke said. ‘Are you decent?’

Rebus looked around the small room. ‘Give me a minute.’ He pulled on his trousers and shirt, then opened the door.

‘Not interrupting anything?’

‘I should be so lucky. What’s up?’

‘Seen this?’ She was holding up her phone so he could see the screen. It was a news feed from the local paper. The photo from the Lochinver was there, along with a subheading: A9 Families Thirsty For Answers .

‘Not subtle, is he?’ Rebus commented.

‘Want to tell me about it?’

‘I went out for a drink. Hammell and Hazlitt had been talking to reporters. They wandered into the pub and Tintin got busy with his phone.’

Clarke gave him much the same disbelieving look as Gavin Arnold.

‘But to get to the important stuff,’ he added, ‘how did your meal go?’

‘We were civil to one another.’

‘Did you tell him you resent being dumped for the Chief Super?’

‘Can we just drop it?’ She sounded exhausted.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said.

‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’

‘If Dempsey’s not sent me packing by then.’ He gestured towards Clarke’s phone.

‘I might not be far behind. James says he’s struggling to find “a viable role” for me.’

‘He’s a real charmer.’

Clarke checked the clock on her phone. ‘Better get some sleep. Night, John.’

‘Everything’s going to work out,’ he was telling her as he pushed the door shut. He listened as she crossed the landing and headed to her own eaves bedroom a further flight up. Another door opened and Rebus heard Page’s voice asking her if she was all right.

‘Fine,’ was all she said, the stairs creaking as she climbed them.

Dempsey didn’t wait for them to arrive at HQ. Her chauffeured car drew up as, post-breakfast, Rebus, Page and Clarke emerged from the guest house. Rebus, already in the process of lighting a cigarette, asked Dempsey if he needed a blindfold to go with it.

‘What in God’s name did you think you were doing?’ she asked him.

‘I was in a pub, having a quiet drink.’ He’d had time to prepare this version of the story. ‘Hammell and Hazlitt were across the road. After they’d posed for the cameras, they found themselves next to me at the bar. We know each other, so we said hello. That’s when Raymond burst in and took his little paparazzi shot.’

‘What’s this about?’ Page asked, frowning.

‘Your officer,’ Dempsey told him, ‘is all over the internet.’

‘Thanks to your nephew,’ Rebus reminded her.

She ignored the jibe. ‘So what did you tell them about the investigation?’

‘What’s to tell? I’m not exactly in the loop.’

Dempsey pointed at him, but her eyes were on Page. ‘I want him gone, do you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear,’ Page responded. Dempsey was already getting back into the car. Her driver started pulling away.

‘Thanks for backing me up there, boss,’ Rebus commented.

‘Go back inside,’ Page said, ‘get your stuff together and check out of your room — Gayfield Square will pick up the tab. We’ll see you in Edinburgh.’

Rebus thought of things he could say, things like: ‘I was solving murders when you were in your pram.’ He didn’t, though. He just gave a little bow of the head in Clarke’s direction, as if to wish her the best of British, then flicked the cigarette to the ground and did as he was told.

When he re-emerged, Mrs Scanlon — make-up immaculate as usual — came with him and wished him well on the journey south. Page and Clarke were gone. Rebus watched as Mrs Scanlon closed the door, then decided on another cigarette before the off. When his phone rang, he considered not answering, but it was Gayfield Square.

‘Who is it?’ he asked.

‘Christine Esson.’

‘Hiya, Christine. If you’ve not already heard, I’ll be joining you shortly.’

‘Any news to report?’

‘Way this thing’s going, the internet’ll know before I do.’

‘I did see that photo of you with Hammell and Hazlitt. .’

‘And you thought you’d call me to gloat?’

‘What is there to gloat about?’