Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘You little shit bag, get your arse out of here.’ Hammell was standing toe to toe with him, flecks of saliva flying from his mouth. ‘After all I’ve done for you? Ungrateful wee bastard.’ He jerked a thumb towards the stairwell. ‘Go on, before I rip your head from your fucking neck!’

‘Look again,’ Christie said calmly. Hammell looked, and saw three men appearing at the top of the stairs. Doormen. Men whose names and faces he didn’t know. Darryl Christie’s men.

‘I’ve got everything,’ Christie went on, his voice still icy calm. ‘Passwords, account details, everything . The offshore banks, the numbers you don’t think anyone knows about. It did for Al Capone and it’ll do for you. Taxman’ll have a field day.’

‘What’s your mum going to say?’

‘Not one damned thing, because you’re not going near her again. You’re steering clear of my family from now on.’ Christie paused. ‘Unless you want me to tell her about you and my sister.’

Hammell’s face froze.

‘It was Annette who told me,’ Christie went on. ‘That’s how she was — no way she could keep it to herself. I nearly whacked you over the back of the head for that — that and everything else.’

‘There’s not a chance in hell of me signing anything.’

‘Then a memory stick arrives at HMRC sometime tomorrow. Not even enough time for you to leave the country — not when I’ve got your passport in the same safe place as everything else.’

The three doormen were standing behind Hammell, awaiting orders. When Hammell made his move, they grabbed him by the shoulders, stopping him from getting to their employer.

‘I made you who you are,’ Hammell growled, trying to wrestle free. ‘Gave you a job, took you to my house. .’

‘And pretty soon I’ll have a house just like it,’ Christie said. ‘But there’ll always be a difference between us.’

Hammell glared at him. ‘What?’ he couldn’t help asking. Christie leaned closer.

‘I won’t trust anyone ,’ he confided, gesturing for the doormen to take Hammell to the office.

‘I’m signing fuck all!’ Hammell called out as he was led away. But he would sign, Darryl was sure of it. He rested his forearms on the balcony as he entered the text into his phone. It was to his father, and the message was succinct.

All done and dusted .

Even though he knew that wasn’t quite the case.

Having managed a broken night’s sleep, Rebus arrived at the Fettes HQ car park to find it half empty. The sky wasn’t fully light yet, street lamps still burning. He locked his car and entered the building. The main reception was manned by the same officer who’d called up to SCRU that first day to tell him there was a visitor downstairs for DI Magrath. Another member of the team might have answered, or Rebus could have been on a cigarette break.

And everything would have been different.

He took the stairs rather than the lift — every little bit helped, as his doctor had told him at his last check-up. Even so, he needed the help of the banister and a breather at the halfway stage. The corridor was deserted, as were the offices he passed. He opened the door to SCRU and stood on the threshold. The place was frozen in time — half-filled crates; waste bin emptied by a cleaner and waiting to be used again; marker pens and paper clips; mugs needing to be rinsed. At his desk he found a clean sheet of paper, dated it, and jotted down the barest details of his meeting with Sally Hazlitt. Then he signed it and opened her case file, clipping it to the inside front cover. Cowan’s desk, he noticed, was as tidy as ever — just in case any of the brass decided to drop by. There was a stapler with the name COWAN on it; Cowan had purchased it himself after each and every one of its predecessors had gone missing. Rebus lifted it from the desk and pocketed it, same as with the others, then headed out of the office and back down the stairs.

It wasn’t a bad day for a drive and he wasn’t in the mood for stopping. He’d filled the Saab on his way to Fettes and knew it was good for the trip north. He promised himself he would book the old warhorse in for a full service and valeting when this was all finished, a little reward for its efforts. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, Nazareth on the CD player, Rebus drove. He wasn’t really thinking about anything other than the journey and its punctuations: the moment a particular section of dual carriageway ended; the passing of landmarks such as the Pitlochry roadworks and House of Bruar; familiar signposts pointing him to places he would most likely never visit, such as the Waltzing Waters and Killiecrankie. There was still a good covering of snow on most of the hills. Sheep continued to graze, inured to the passing parade of trucks, vans and cars. Rebus remembered Siobhan Clarke’s words as they drove towards Chanonry Point: it’s an odd little country this. . hard to fathom . She’d accused him of coming over all defensive — well, it was a natural enough reaction, but in fact he agreed with her. A nation of five million huddled together as if cowed by the elements and the immensity of the landscape surrounding them, clinging to notions of community and shared history, some of them identified or hinted at in the book of legends Nina Hazlitt had given him. Even bogeymen were useful, because if there was a ‘them’, there was also an ‘us’, and if there was a ‘them’, there was someone to blame. .

Aviemore.

Inverness.

Kessock Bridge.

Then Munlochy, Avoch, Fortrose.

Arriving finally at his destination: the row of houses fronting the coastline at Rosemarkie.

There was no sign of Gregor Magrath in the sun porch. The venerable olive-green Land Rover was parked in the same spot as before. Rebus knocked on the door of the cottage and waited. When there was no answer, he peered in through the living room window, noting no movement within. He could just about make out the framed photos on the bookcase. Straightening up, he fought the elements to get a cigarette lit, then stood beside his cooling Saab, gazing towards the distant shore. A dog was barking on the beach, way over to Rebus’s right, its owner lagging many dozens of yards behind. There was a figure by the water’s edge. Rebus shielded his eyes and watched as the man continued to trudge along the tide line. Not bothering to lock the car, he headed in the same direction, the wind flinging granules into his face.

‘Mr Magrath!’ he called. Magrath turned towards him, but then seemed to dismiss him. He had his back to Rebus when Rebus called his name a second time.

‘You again.’ Magrath sounded irritated. He was digging the toe of one shoe into the wet sand, watching each new indentation fill with seawater.

‘What’s the matter?’ Rebus asked. ‘Can’t bear to look me in the eye?’

Magrath accepted the challenge, the two men standing in silence for a moment.

‘How come nobody knows about your brother?’ Rebus enquired, dropping his voice.

‘Kenny? Everybody knows Kenny.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Up here, maybe. But all the times you’ve spoken to Peter Bliss on the phone. . and all the years you were at SCRU. . and when Bliss visited you and I came to your house that last time. .’ Magrath had broken off eye contact, his interest shifting back to the beach beneath his feet. He opened his mouth but said nothing. The only sounds were the breaking of the waves and the stropping of the wind.

‘You’ve always been so interested in SCRU’s caseload, pestering your pal Bliss for details.’

‘Didn’t I start the blessed thing?’ Magrath complained.

‘You did,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But I think there’s more to it than that. A woman called Nina Hazlitt comes to your office one day, and soon afterwards you decide to retire — surprising everyone. SCRU is your baby, and suddenly you don’t want it any more. You’re moving north, moving near to your brother. Not that you’re explaining it to anyone or mentioning his name. .’ When Magrath said nothing, Rebus went on. ‘Nina Hazlitt came to see you because she thought she’d found a thread connecting her daughter’s disappearance to that of Brigid Young. That thread was the A9 itself. She reckons you were kind to her, in that you listened to her story. But you yourself said it — you didn’t make any actual progress, didn’t manage to get anyone else interested in the case.’ Rebus paused. ‘I’m wondering if you even tried.’