Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

Magrath flinched at this and began to trudge back up the beach, Rebus close behind.

‘Your brother does some work at Jim Mellon’s farm. He knows the area pretty well, I’d guess, the amount of driving he must do between jobs.’

‘What are you getting at?’ Magrath’s pace had increased and he was breathing heavily.

‘We both know,’ Rebus said.

‘I’ve not the faintest bloody idea!’

‘Which house is Kenny’s, Mr Magrath? I’d like to have a word with him.’

‘Just leave us alone.’

‘Mr Magrath. .’

The man stopped and spun towards Rebus. ‘Can I see your warrant card? I can’t, can I? Because you’re not a bloody cop! Maybe I should phone and register a complaint. Go back home, Rebus. Just leave us be!’

He stomped away again, Rebus at his heels.

‘What is it you’re afraid of?’ Rebus enquired. He received no answer. ‘Fine, if you want Dempsey and her team here, that can be arranged.’

Magrath had climbed the concrete steps connecting beach to roadway and was making for his cottage, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket.

‘You brought Peter Bliss into SCRU,’ Rebus persisted, ‘so he could be your eyes and ears. That way you’d always know which cases were being reopened. Of course, you could have achieved the selfsame result by staying put, but you needed to be here , somewhere near your brother, rather than the hot countries you preferred. Blood’s thicker than suntan oil, eh, Gregor?’

‘I’m not listening to you.’

‘Just think for a second,’ Rebus argued. ‘It’s a lot easier this way.’

But the door was slammed shut in his face. He watched through the glass as Magrath opened a second door and disappeared into the body of the house. There was a newspaper on the chair inside the porch, folded open at the latest report on the Edderton case. The papers spilling across the floor seemed to be open at similar stories. Rebus thumped on the door with his fist, then rattled the letter box. After a few moments, he took a step back and approached the living room window, just in time to see Gregor Magrath drag the curtains closed. He waited a full minute, then walked to the next cottage along and rang the doorbell. A woman who looked to be in her eighties answered, drying her hands on a tea towel.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus told her with a smile, ‘I was looking for Mr Magrath.’

‘He lives next door.’

‘I mean Kenny — the electrician.’

She pointed along the street. ‘The garden with the swing,’ she explained. ‘But the front door’s round the far side.’

Rebus thanked her and began to stride along the seafront. Beyond the row of cottages stood a few modern detached houses with steeply sloping gardens. The neighbour was right: these homes backed on to the view. Someone had added an octagonal conservatory to one, in front of which stood a metal frame for a swing, but with its seat missing, the frame itself rusting. Rebus headed up the lane at the end of the promenade and then took a left until he found the front door he was looking for. He pressed the bell and heard it ringing somewhere inside. A middle-aged woman opened the door.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘I’m looking for Kenny Magrath.’

‘He’s at work. Is it to do with a job?’

‘When will he be back?’

Her face remained friendly but puzzled. She had a rounded, pleasing figure and curly auburn hair, her eyes the same olive green as her brother-in-law’s Land Rover.

‘Is it something I can help you with?’ she asked.

Rebus took out his ID and held it towards her. ‘I’m with the Edderton team,’ he explained. ‘Your husband was out at Jim Mellon’s farm yesterday.’

‘That’s right.’

‘It just occurred to us, the job he does, he might have noticed any suspicious activity or a stranger in the area.’

‘Well, he’d have said something, wouldn’t he?’ Her eyes had narrowed a little.

‘Maybe he would,’ Rebus countered. ‘But sometimes you don’t remember something until you’re asked about it.’

‘Really?’ She took a moment to consider this. Rebus decided to fill the silence with another question.

‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Magrath?’

‘All my life.’

‘Been married a while?’

‘Don’t remind me,’ she said, making a joke of it.

Rebus managed a big, friendly smile. ‘You’ve got a couple of kids?’

Her demeanour stiffened.

‘I saw photos at Gregor Magrath’s house,’ he explained. ‘Are they still at home?’

‘They’re in their twenties.’ She had relaxed a little. ‘One’s in Inverness, the other Glasgow. So you’ve been talking to Gregor?’

‘Not officially. I work with one of his old colleagues. The colleague told me to drop by and say hello.’

She seemed to have made up her mind about him. Taking a step back into the hall, she asked if he wanted to come in.

‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’

‘No trouble,’ she said. ‘Kenny said he’d be home around one for a pit stop. The kettle’s already on. .’

The house was bright and well furnished. Plenty of framed photos on the living room walls, mostly of the offspring in every stage of development from cradle to graduation. Rebus tried not to look as though he was snooping.

‘Does your husband work from a shop?’ he asked.

‘More a sort of shed — just somewhere he can store all his bits and pieces.’

‘That’s near here, is it?’

She nodded. ‘Opposite the pub.’ She paused. ‘Sorry, I didn’t seem to catch your name.’

‘Rebus,’ he said.

‘Rebus?’

‘It’s Polish, if you care to go back far enough.’

‘Lots of Poles in Scotland just now. Kenny’s noticed it in the building trade.’

‘He’s got enough work, though?’

‘Oh, yes. No complaints there.’

‘Always local jobs?’

She looked at him, trying to fathom the reason for the question. Rebus tried out his smile again.

‘Sorry, just me being nosy,’ he said.

‘Kenny has built a name for himself.’ She poured tea from a pot and handed him the mug. There was a plate of shortbread, too, but he shook the offer away.

‘He’s in demand?’

‘Always.’ She took a sip of her own tea. Rebus’s father would have called it a ‘sergeant major’s special’ — the colour of mahogany and giving a tannic coating to the inside of the mouth. He studied some of the photographs.

‘See much of your son and daughter?’

‘When we can. It’s easier with Joanne.’

‘She’s in Inverness?’ Rebus guessed.

Mrs Magrath nodded. ‘Though actually, Kenny saw Brendan a few weeks back.’

‘And Brendan’s in Glasgow?’ Rebus checked.

‘I couldn’t go — had to visit a friend in Raigmore.’

‘Quite a hike from here to the west, isn’t it?’ Rebus sympathised. He’d done that drive himself, after all. A9, then M80, Sally Hazlitt waiting for him at journey’s end.

And if you needed petrol, you might leave the road at Pitlochry. .

‘A few weeks back, eh?’ he added. ‘Can you be more specific, Mrs Magrath?’

‘Being nosy again?’ Her tone had grown cool.

‘Hard to switch off sometimes.’

‘It was a Satur-’

She heard the van before he did. It was pulling up outside.

‘A Saturday?’ Rebus prompted. Same day of the week Annette was abducted . ‘Just over three weeks ago, would that be, Mrs Magrath?’

‘Kenny has a system — he’ll tell you so himself. Leaves here early, lunch with Brendan, then he can start home and miss the football traffic.’

The motor revved once before juddering to a stop.

‘That’s good,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I must remember that.’ Leave Glasgow just after three. . reach Pitlochry between half past four and five . .