Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Nothing.’ He crushed the butt of his cigarette underfoot and got into the Saab. Would this be the day it refused to start?

The engine growled into life; none of the dashboard’s warning lights came on.

‘So, anyway,’ Esson was saying, ‘I said I’d pass on her number.’

‘Sorry, Christine, I missed the start of that. Whose number?’

‘The woman who phoned wanting to speak to you about Sally Hazlitt.’

Rebus rolled his eyes. Another sighting. ‘How much of a crank did she sound?’

‘She seemed perfectly sane. Told me to give you her name and get you to call her.’

Rebus sighed, but reached into his pocket for his notebook and pen. When Esson read the woman’s name out, he stiffened. Then he asked her to repeat it.

‘Susie Mercer,’ she obliged, keeping her intonation nice and clear.

‘That’s what I thought you said first time,’ Rebus told her.

Glasgow.

Rebus had told the woman who called herself Susie Mercer: ‘This has to be in person.’

She’d asked him why.

‘I need to be sure.’

She was in Glasgow. A9 south, then M80 west. It was lunchtime before Rebus arrived, parking in a multi-storey near the bus station and walking the short distance to Buchanan Street. As arranged, he called her again.

‘I’m here,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘Heading down Buchanan Street.’

‘Turn left at Royal Exchange. You’ll see a cafe there called Thompson’s. Sit at the counter by the window.’

‘I’m hardly James Bond material.’

‘Just do it or I walk.’

So Rebus did it — ordered a coffee and an orange juice and sat with them, staring out at the passing parade of shoppers. Glasgow wasn’t his patch. It was a sprawl compared to Edinburgh. As long as he stuck to a half-dozen streets, he could navigate his way around; outside that tight circumference, he’d be lost.

It was a good five minutes before she came in. She eased herself on to the stool next to him.

‘Had to be sure you weren’t bringing her ,’ she announced.

Rebus studied her. She’d cropped her hair and bleached it, then plucked her eyebrows till they almost ceased to exist. But the eyes and cheekbones were still those of her mother.

‘You’ve gotten good at this down the years,’ Rebus said, staring into the eyes of Sally Hazlitt.

‘Not good enough,’ she snapped back.

‘That e-fit was a fair likeness, though — no wonder you panicked.’ He paused. ‘So do I call you Sally, or Susie, or have you already fixed on a new name?’

She stared at him. ‘Nina keeps mentioning you on the news. Then I saw that photo of the two of you. .’

‘And?’

‘And she needs to be told to stop .’

‘Stop looking for you or stop thinking you’re a murder victim?’

Her eyes remained fixed on his. ‘Both.’

‘Why not tell her yourself?’

She shook her head. ‘No way,’ she said.

‘Then tell me why you did it.’ Rebus lifted the coffee to his mouth.

‘First I need you to tell me something — why do you think she’s doing it?’

‘She’s your mother. What other reason does she need?’

But Sally Hazlitt was shaking her head again. ‘Has she told you anything about what our lives were like?’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Your mum and dad were teachers. Lived in London. .’

‘That’s as much as you know?’

‘Crouch End, she told me — a nicer area than they should have been able to afford. A relative left some sort of legacy.’ He paused. ‘She’s still in the same house, by the way, sharing with your Uncle Alfie at the moment. Your dad liked reading you stories when you were a kid.’ He paused again, maintaining eye contact. ‘You know he’s dead?’

She nodded. ‘Good riddance.’ And at last Rebus thought he began to see. ‘There’s lots he liked teaching me,’ she went on, meaningfully. ‘Lots and lots.’

The silence lay between them until he broke it, his voice softening.

‘Did you say anything to your mum at the time?’

‘I didn’t need to — she knew . That’s the whole reason she wants to know if I’m still around. Because if I am, I might spill the beans.’ She was looking down at the floor, eyes glistening.

‘Why wait till Aviemore to make your move?’

It took her a moment to gather herself again. ‘I knew I didn’t want to study English at university — that had always been his idea. And the more we all sat around the chalet in Aviemore talking about the future, the more I knew I couldn’t tell him to his face.’

Rebus nodded his understanding.

‘He’d. . stopped by that time. Stopped when I was fourteen.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Sounds crazy, but I thought back then it must be my fault, and that made it worse somehow. I’d spent the years since thinking how to punish him, and that night, December 31st, I had just enough Dutch courage in me — or gin at any rate. The whole thing felt so much easier, being in a strange place, hundreds of miles away from them .’

‘But once you found out he was dead. .?’

‘Too late by then. I knew I wasn’t going back.’

‘It can’t be much fun, always living in fear of being recognised.’

‘That’s why you need to tell her to stop. I’m alive and I’m fine and I never want to see her or talk to her again.’

‘It’d be a lot easier if you told her yourself.’

‘Not for me it wouldn’t.’ She slid from the stool and stood in front of him. ‘So will you do it?’

Rebus puffed out his cheeks. ‘You’re sure this is the life you want?’

‘It’s what I’ve got.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Plenty of others out there worse off than me. You should know that.’

Rebus thought for a moment, then nodded his agreement.

‘Thanks,’ she said, managing a sliver of a smile. Rebus tried to think what else to say, but she was already at the door. Once outside, however, she hesitated, then came back in.

‘Something else you’ve got wrong — I don’t have an Uncle Alfie. Or an Uncle Anything, come to that.’ She pulled open the door and left the cafe again, striding away with her bag slung over her shoulder, head held high, until the ranks of pedestrians swallowed her up and she was gone. Rebus took out his phone, adding her mobile number to his contacts list. She would probably change it, just as she would slip into a new identity, gifting herself a different past. He couldn’t help but see it as a waste of a life — but then the life was hers to waste. With her number safely stowed, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and ran his hands down his cheeks as he replayed the meeting.

There’s lots he liked teaching me . .

I might still spill the beans . .

I don’t have an Uncle Alfie. Or an Uncle Anything, come to that . .

‘So who the hell is Alfie?’ Rebus asked himself, staring at his reflection in the window.

Rebus walked into the SCRU office at Fettes HQ and saw that the packing crates had arrived. Peter Bliss and Elaine Robison were busy with labels and inventories.

‘Come to give us a hand?’ Robison pleaded.

‘This lot going to the Crown Office?’ he asked, prodding one of the boxes with his toe.

‘That’s right,’ Bliss said. ‘And it’ll all be in a damned sight better order than when it first arrived.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Robison added, ‘we’ve left one or two for you. Didn’t want you to feel you were missing out.’