Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Could be,’ Rebus agreed.

‘Meantime,’ she went on, ‘while the three of us are here, maybe we could decide where we want to go for our night out. .’

That evening, Rebus met Siobhan Clarke at the Oxford Bar. They took a table in the back room and Rebus asked her if there was any more news from Inverness.

‘The wheels are grinding,’ she told him. ‘More conscripts have been drafted in. Dempsey’s widening the search area — locals are queuing up to help, along with a full complement of hunky fire-fighters.’

Rebus thought back to the original MisPer cases — lots of legwork, most of it so there could be no accusation of slacking.

‘Thing is,’ he cautioned, ‘one of those locals could be hiding something.’

‘She knows that. Every team of civvies has one of our lot attached, with orders to watch out for anyone acting nervous or odd.’

‘And all this in the hope of finding clothes and belongings?’

‘They have to be somewhere.’

Rebus nodded slowly and asked her if she’d spoken to Dempsey. Clarke nodded back, lifting her drink.

‘I could see she wanted to ask me why I hadn’t taken it to my boss.’

‘But she didn’t?’

‘Just said she’d arrange for Hammell to be swabbed.’

‘How did she react when you told her Annette and Hammell had been lovers?’

‘A slight raising of the eyebrows.’

‘And your source. .?’

‘Remains confidential.’ Clarke paused. ‘There’s always a chance the hair won’t belong to Hammell.’

‘In which case, it becomes useful again,’ Rebus agreed.

She took another sip of her drink. ‘By the way, I phoned that electrician’s — no answer. Still reckon it’s a coincidence?’

‘Peter Bliss has stayed in touch with Gregor Magrath. Doesn’t see him as a sparky and isn’t aware of any relatives in the area.’ He thought for a moment, then reached for his phone.

‘Who are you calling?’

‘Jim Mellon — just remembered I’ve got his number here.’

It was Mellon’s wife who answered. Her husband was in one of the barns and wouldn’t be back for a while. Rebus gave her his number and asked if Mellon could phone him back.

‘Nothing I can help you with, then?’ she enquired.

‘Actually, maybe you can. It’s just that Mr Mellon was on TV earlier. .’

‘He’s getting too much of a taste for it, if you ask me.’

‘I was wondering about a van I saw parked in the farmyard behind him. It had the name Magrath on the side. I think it belongs to an electrician. .?’

‘Kenny Magrath,’ she stated.

‘Kenny Magrath,’ Rebus repeated for Clarke’s benefit. ‘Lives in Rosemarkie, does he?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It’s just that I know another Magrath in Rosemarkie, name of Gregor.’

‘Might be the brother.’

‘The brother?’ Rebus’s eyes were on Clarke as he spoke.

‘I’m sure Kenny’s mentioned a brother.’

‘That must be it,’ Rebus said.

‘Do you still want Jim to phone you?’

‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary. You’ve been a great help, Mrs Mellon.’

Rebus ended the call, eyes still fixed on Siobhan Clarke.

‘So?’ she said.

‘So Gregor Magrath retires and buys a place up north — despite the fact that he and his wife were always after holidays in the sun. .’

‘Making the Black Isle an odd choice.’

‘Unless he has family there — which he does. But how come he never mentions as much to Peter Bliss? Even when Bliss visited, the brother never cropped up.’

‘Maybe they’d had a falling-out somewhere down the line. It’s not unknown in families.’

‘But there were photos on the wall unit — a mum and dad with a couple of young kids, plus the same kids after they’d grown a bit. That has to have been the brother and his family.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘I’ve always loved that positive attitude of yours.’

‘That used to be my line.’ She paused, then asked him what he reckoned it all meant.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Worth another word in Dempsey’s ear?’

He gave a shrug and concentrated on his beer. Clarke checked the time on her phone.

‘A quick one?’ Rebus suggested.

‘Got a home life waiting for me,’ she said with a shake of the head.

‘Meaning. .?’

‘Post to open, bills to pay, washing to do.’

He nodded his understanding and glanced at his watch: he’d left it too late to collect his own laundry. ‘We’ll catch up again soon,’ he said.

She had risen to her feet and extended her right hand towards him. Rebus took it and they shook, though it felt wrong, too formal. Was it her way of saying that their time together was done? Before he could ask, she was gone.

‘Just you and me, eh?’ he said to his pint glass. ‘Same as it ever was.’ Then he leaned back and focused his attention on the wall opposite, thinking some more about Gregor Magrath, and families, and secrets.

It was mid evening at Jo-Jo Binkie’s. Frank Hammell had gone to see his dentist earlier for some repair work. Nobody had dared to ask him about the cuts on his face. He was watching from the balcony as the DJ twitched and danced behind his decks. Not that the man played records — it was all CDs, MP3s and laptops. The music wasn’t to Hammell’s taste, but Darryl was after a younger crowd, a crowd less careful with its money. The place was hipper these days, and people came from all over — sometimes in coaches from out west or Fife or the borders. A few dozen dancers gyrated below; Hammell checked out the talent. There was one skinny blonde, he could almost see down the front of her short, low-cut dress.

Almost.

A couple of staffers patrolled the periphery, on the lookout for trouble. Hammell didn’t know their names. They were new. Almost everybody was new. Darryl had explained — people not turning up on time; people bad-mouthing Hammell behind his back: they had to be replaced. People too old to handle the job; people who didn’t pull their weight. Tonight, as Hammell had walked into his own club, he hadn’t recognised a single person working the door. Even Rob the Reliable had gone AWOL. It was the same with the staff at his pubs: out with the old and in with the new. Darryl called it ‘refreshing the brand’. Still, there was money coming in — no mean feat in a recession, as Darryl himself had suggested — and thanks to some creative accounting, not all of it went out again.

Hammell ran his tongue over the replacement filling. It didn’t seem quite smooth, but he liked the coarseness. He felt movement next to him and turned to see Darryl himself standing there. Hammell patted the young man’s upper arm in greeting.

‘Not a bad crowd for a week night,’ he said over the music.

‘It’ll get busier,’ Darryl stated. He was in another new-looking suit, dark, with a pale-green shirt beneath.

‘Where’s Rob tonight?’

Darryl turned his attention from the dancers to his employer. ‘I had to let him go,’ he said.

Hammell lifted an eyebrow. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing happened. But with you up north, it made it easier for me to tell him to take a walk. He got a bit of money, same as the others.’

‘He was a good guy.’

‘He was your guy, Frank, that was Rob’s problem.’ Christie gestured towards the dance floor. ‘Now it’s all my guys.’

Hammell pulled back his shoulders and bunched his fists. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

Darryl Christie answered with a cold smile. ‘You’re out, Frank, that’s what’s going on. I’ve got some paperwork arriving from your lawyer — now my lawyer, too. You’re going to sell me your entire business for one pound sterling.’