Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

An unoiled van door creaked open, then slammed shut. Mrs Magrath was on her feet when the front door rattled open.

‘I’ve only got ten minutes,’ a male voice boomed out. Kenny Magrath walked into the room, doing a double-take when he saw there was a stranger there.

‘This is Detective Rebus,’ his wife began to explain.

‘I know who he is — just had Gregor nipping my ear about him.’ A finger was pointed at Rebus. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

His wife looked from one man to the other. ‘What’s going on?’

Kenny Magrath’s eyes were burning into Rebus’s. He was taller and broader than his brother, and maybe ten years younger. A thick head of hair only now beginning to go silver at the temples. Chiselled face and deep-set eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. Rebus stood his ground, happy to continue the staring contest. He had risen to his feet and was sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, showing he was in no hurry to be anywhere else. The fingers of his right hand grazed the guitar pick.

‘I’m asking you to leave.’ Magrath gestured towards the door. Then, to his wife: ‘Maggie, call the police.’

‘But he is the police.’

‘Not according to Gregor.’

Maggie Magrath looked at Rebus, feeling cheated and let down by the visitor.

‘I’m attached to the Edderton inquiry,’ Rebus stated, eyes never leaving Magrath’s.

‘He’s from Edinburgh,’ Magrath told his wife. ‘Got no business being here, barging into people’s homes. .’

Rebus was about to explain that he’d been invited in, but didn’t want to get Maggie Magrath into any extra bother. ‘We need to talk,’ he told Magrath.

‘No we don’t.’ Magrath took a step towards him.

‘I still don’t know what this is about,’ his wife was complaining.

‘It’s about all those dead women, Mrs Magrath,’ Rebus obliged.

Magrath bared his teeth and took another step forward. ‘You want me to throw you out?’

Rebus knew that a struggle would make a mess of Maggie Magrath’s impeccable room. His eyes were fixed on Magrath’s.

‘Maybe we should talk outside.’

‘We’re not talking anywhere!’ Magrath clamped his fingers around Rebus’s forearm.

‘Let go of me,’ Rebus said quietly.

‘Answer me first.’

‘I’m going,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Just as soon as you take your hand away and save me breaking it.’

‘That sounds like a threat.’ Magrath released his grip on Rebus’s arm and stepped away from him. ‘Best walk out of here while you still can.’

‘Now who’s making threats?’

‘Not me,’ Magrath told him. ‘And I’ve got my wife as witness.’

Maggie Magrath couldn’t look Rebus in the face, and he realised suddenly that she knew — knew or had had her suspicions. ‘Just go,’ she said, her voice cracking.

‘One way or another, we’ll talk,’ Rebus told Kenny Magrath, making for the doorway.

‘Like hell we will!’ the man responded.

Outside sat the small white van with the name on the side: MAGRATH. There were windows in the back but they’d been painted over. Nothing in the front but a few loose tools and an out-of-date tabloid newspaper. Rebus tapped the details of the licence plate into his phone’s notebook before retracing his steps towards the seafront and his Saab.

‘What are you doing here?’ Gillian Dempsey asked.

‘Trying to see you,’ Rebus said. He’d been waiting for her outside Northern Constabulary HQ for over an hour. ‘I got the front desk to buzz up to you.’

‘I’ve been rather busy.’ She was walking towards her car. Her driver already had the rear door open for her. Dempsey was trying to control the sheaf of papers tucked under her arm while still hanging on to her shoulder bag and briefcase. The few journalists waiting on the pavement seemed to know better than to expect any of their questions to be answered. They were kept at a distance anyway, courtesy of two uniformed officers who had somehow merited their thankless task.

‘They wouldn’t let me in,’ Rebus went on, walking beside Dempsey. ‘My ID wasn’t good enough.’

‘We’ve had our fair share of gawpers,’ Dempsey explained. ‘Even a few reporters trying their luck.’

‘Including your nephew?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking. She stopped and gave him a hard stare.

‘What is it you want, Rebus?’

‘I think I’m on to something.’

‘So write it up and Page can run it by me.’

‘We need to cut a few corners here.’

‘Why?’

‘Because otherwise we’re giving him time to dispose of any evidence.’

She thought for a moment. ‘In other words, he knows you suspect him?’

‘Sorry about that.’

Dempsey sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Get in the car,’ she said. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got to say.’

Rebus didn’t know the destination or how long he might have, so he spoke quickly, making a few mistakes which he then had to go back and correct. Dempsey sat next to him, the armrest pulled down between them. Classical music was playing softly — her choice rather than the driver’s, Rebus reckoned. She asked the occasional question, and only met his eyes when he’d finished talking.

‘That’s it?’ she said. ‘That’s all you’ve got?’

‘I’ve had worse hunches.’

‘Oh, I can believe that.’ She started checking messages on her phone. ‘But we’re up to our eyes. People are screaming for a result, and we’ve had every lunatic on the planet phoning us to assist — either shopping themselves or some neighbour they don’t like. There are spiritualists who are in touch with the victims, and ghost-hunters who just need access to the site for a night. Every last shred has to be logged and added to the pile, and now you come riding back into town with a hunch ?’

She shook her head slowly, then gave a laugh that only came, Rebus suspected, because the alternative would have been a bellow of frustration and rage.

‘It’s pretty straightforward,’ Rebus reasoned. ‘Search his home, garage and van. Check CCTV at the Pitlochry petrol station for the day Annette McKie disappeared. Then interview him concerning his whereabouts on the days the other women were abducted.’

‘Well, I’m glad one of us has it all figured out.’

‘Killers usually live in the vicinity of their disposal sites.’

‘You got that from your friend Clarke.’

‘Kenny Magrath knows Edderton.’

She studied him, as if for the very first time. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said. ‘Exhausted and hung-over. When was the last time you can truthfully say you were thinking straight? Head lucid, no jumble or muddle?’

‘Are we talking about me or you?’

‘We’re talking about you.’

‘Because I can see how a case like this would grind you down until you just wanted it all to go away.’

‘I’ve got work to do, Rebus. Actual work — not just jumping to conclusions. Don’t forget, we may still be one body short — despite that previous “hunch” of yours about Sally Hazlitt.’

‘Sally Hazlitt’s alive,’ Rebus stated. ‘I met up with her in Glasgow.’

‘What?’

‘She was running away from her father’s attentions. As of now, she’s still running.’

‘Why am I only hearing this now?’

‘Because it doesn’t change the facts. There’s a killer out there and I’ve just given you a name.’

‘I need more than a name! I’ve got dozens of names! How dare you not tell me about meeting that girl!’

‘You should have asked for the files,’ he couldn’t help snapping back at her.

Her face darkened further as she turned towards her driver. ‘Alex, stop the car! At once!’ Then, to Rebus: ‘This is where you get out.’