Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘If I’m not staying here, neither are they,’ Rebus explained to her.

Afterwards, they celebrated with mugs of tea (and hot water) and the remnants of a packet of Bourbons.

‘No new marvels to report from that computer of yours?’ Rebus asked Esson.

She shook her head, taking tiny nibbles of her biscuit while Ogilvie dunked his in his tea before sucking the life from it.

‘Best put your feet up while you can, then,’ Rebus went on. ‘Looks like Page might be back here by day’s end.’

‘And you’re headed back to Fettes?’ Ogilvie asked.

‘Not for long — SCRU’s been earmarked for closure.’

‘So what’ll you do?’ The question had come from Esson. Rebus made show of shrugging his shoulders.

‘Carpet bowls maybe; Antiques Roadshow reruns. .’

When she grinned, it made her look younger than ever.

‘Been good working with the pair of you, though,’ Rebus conceded, taking a last look around the office and gracing everyone with a wave as he made his exit. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and watched Dave Ormiston climb towards him, reading from a sheaf of papers. Ormiston spotted him and managed a thin smile.

‘Is this me getting my desk back?’ he asked.

Rebus nodded slowly.

‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’ Ormiston’s hand was out, but Rebus refused to take it and the man stiffened.

‘Here’s the thing,’ Rebus said. ‘All that nosiness of yours on the phone, it got me thinking about Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘See, Cafferty knew about that CCTV from the bus station when there was no way he should have.’

‘It’s an open secret he’s a pal of yours.’

‘But you and I know differently, don’t we, Dave? We know he’s got someone in his pocket — someone based right here.’ Rebus leaned in towards Ormiston until their faces were only a couple of inches apart. ‘Time you stopped being so chatty, or I might have to gather up a few brownie points from the Complaints. Ever seen them in action, Dave? They’ll go through your phone and computer. They’ll look at your spending habits. They’ll find stuff. And that’ll be the big cheerie-bye to your pension.’ Rebus paused. ‘Fair warning — walk away from Cafferty, and keep walking.’

Back at the Saab, Rebus reached across the dashboard and lifted the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign. He started up the steps, readying to hand it back at the front desk. Then he paused. After all, no one had requested it, had they?

He had only driven fifty or so yards in the direction of Broughton Street when his phone buzzed. It was Siobhan Clarke.

‘Problem with Dempsey?’ he guessed, lifting the phone to his ear.

‘Are you near a television?’

‘No.’ He looked to left and right. Plenty of pubs he could dart into.

‘I’ll try for a screen-grab, then. Give me two minutes.’

The phone went dead. Rebus pulled over, slipped the sign back into place on the dashboard and walked into the nearest watering hole. When the barman asked what he could do for him, Rebus told him he could change channels for a start.

‘Sky or BBC News,’ he guessed.

There were no customers to complain, so the man did as he was told. When the BBC turned out to be focusing on a story about Afghanistan, he switched to Sky, where a reporter was interviewing Jim Mellon, the farmer from Edderton. But they were already cutting back to the studio, and Rebus hadn’t even caught the headline. He got on his phone and told Clarke what he’d seen.

‘I’ve sent you a photo,’ she said. ‘№ 3G here, so it might take a while.’

‘Has there been a break?’

‘A break? No, they’re just talking to the farmer for want of anybody more interesting. Half the news teams have already skedaddled back to wherever they came from. Call me when the picture gets there.’

‘Can’t you just tell me?’

‘Might be nothing.’ She paused. ‘Probably is.’

The phone went dead again and Rebus stared at the screen, willing Clarke’s message to arrive. The barman asked if he wanted a drink while he waited.

‘Half of IPA, then,’ Rebus obliged. It was poured, presented to him, paid for and demolished before his phone let him know he had one new message. When he opened it, he was looking at the scene from the TV interview — newscaster plus Mellon. They were in the farmyard, and close behind them stood a small white van with a name on the side in thick black capitals.

MAGRATH.

Rebus called Clarke back. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Reckon it’s coincidence?’

‘Not such an unusual surname.’

‘Actually it is — spelled that way. I just checked the local phone book.’

‘You think Gregor Magrath runs some sort of business?’

‘Google to the rescue — there’s just one “Magrath’s” within about fifty miles. An electrician, based in Rosemarkie.’

Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Did he act like an electrician to you?’

‘Seemed more your typical pensioner. And the van wasn’t there either, was it?’

‘It’s probably nothing,’ Rebus told her. Then: ‘Have you had a chance to speak to Dempsey yet?’

‘Not quite, but she’s in the building somewhere.’

‘And you reckon you’ll be back down here tonight? Want to meet for a drink?’

‘Not a session, mind — just a drink?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’ll call you.’

‘I’m happy to bow out if Page makes a counter-offer.’

‘Goodbye, John.’

He smiled at the phone and dropped it back into his pocket. The barman was standing behind the IPA pump, ready to offer a refill, but Rebus shook his head and left the pub.

At SCRU, Bliss and Robison helped him empty the car, Robison asking the same question Esson had: were the files going to Inverness?

‘Quite possibly,’ was all he said in reply.

At the very moment they deposited the last box on the floor, and stood up to wipe the sweat from their eyes and get their breathing back to normal, Daniel Cowan walked in from some meeting or other, looking both more dapper and more generally pleased with himself than ever.

‘I’m not one to criticise,’ he told them, ‘but isn’t our strategy to empty this office rather than fill it?’

‘The A9 case,’ Rebus informed him. Cowan looked suddenly interested, and even ran a finger along the edge of the topmost box. The A9 was a real investigation, current, live and in the news. There was a momentary longing in Cowan’s eyes: he wanted it and could not have it. Moreover, if he took on a role at the Crown Office Cold Case Unit, he might never work a contemporary inquiry again.

‘I was just going to treat the troops to a Kit Kat in the canteen,’ Rebus said.

‘I’m not invited?’ Cowan asked.

‘I thought you’d want to stay put and make the phone call.’

Cowan looked at him. ‘What phone call?’

‘To Inverness — letting them know the files are here when they want them.’

Cowan’s eyes brightened. ‘Yes, I suppose it should be me that does that, shouldn’t it?’

‘We’ll see you later, then,’ Rebus said, leading Bliss and Robison from the room.

Once they were settled at a table, Rebus asked Bliss about Gregor Magrath’s electrical skills.

‘He could change a light bulb,’ Bliss said. ‘Not sure I’d trust him to wire a plug.’

Rebus explained about the van. ‘Has he got any relatives up there?’

‘None that I know of.’

‘He’d have said, wouldn’t he? I mean, the two of you have kept in touch — you’ve been to his house. .’

‘On the other hand, it might explain why he headed north rather than retiring somewhere with a bit of sun.’

‘Suppose so.’

Robison bit into her apple, having turned down Rebus’s offer of biscuits or crisps. ‘Could just be someone with the same surname,’ she offered between chews.