Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘We need to talk about your brother,’ Rebus called out to him.

The man shook his head slowly.

‘Did you move here to stop him? If so, you did a piss-poor job.’

‘Go away,’ Magrath said.

‘It was all right for the first year or so, but after that. .’

‘Go away!’ Magrath was shouting now.

‘It’s all ending, Gregor,’ Rebus persisted. ‘Surely you can see that. Time to call a halt and save what’s left of your reputation.’

‘I’m not listening!’

‘You’ve got to convince him — easier for all concerned if he turns himself in. Tell him he should think of Maggie, if nobody else. .’

Gregor Magrath’s look was full of loathing, but Rebus saw a trace of resignation too. The man turned away and went back indoors. Rebus bided his time and Magrath reappeared in the porch, this time brandishing the wooden truncheon.

‘That won’t do it,’ Rebus told him with a shake of the head and the faintest of smiles. ‘Not any longer. I know it’s about protecting family — and maybe protecting your own name while you’re at it. But moving up here hasn’t stopped him. Time for the next step, Gregor.’

‘Go to hell!’

Magrath disappeared inside again, and though Rebus stood there for a further few minutes, giving the door an occasional blow with his fist, he knew the man wasn’t coming back this time. He returned to the Saab and called Siobhan Clarke in Edinburgh.

‘Bit early for you,’ she complained.

‘Did I wake you?’

‘Not quite.’ He thought he could hear her sit up in bed. Her mouth seemed to be dry and she cleared her throat. ‘So where’s the fire?’

‘I’m in Rosemarkie,’ Rebus admitted.

‘Doing what exactly?’

‘It’s Magrath’s brother, Siobhan, I’d swear to it.’

‘What?’

‘Magrath moved north to try to keep a lid on it. The brother travels all over. He was in Glasgow the day Annette McKie was abducted, and he’d have driven up the A9 to get home.’ Rebus rubbed his free hand across the stubble on his cheeks and chin.

‘Wait a second.’ He listened as she walked into another room. ‘Can you prove any of this?’

‘I told Dempsey, we need forensics on Magrath’s van, plus searches of his home and garage.’

‘You told Dempsey?’

‘She’s not going to bite unless I can give her something. That’s why I thought of you.’

‘Are you off your head?’

‘Everybody seems to think so — but I know it’s him.’

‘That’s not the way it works, John.’ She paused, only now registering something he’d said a moment back. ‘What do you need me for?’

‘The phone number of that petrol station in Pitlochry. I want to take a look at their CCTV. If Annette hitched a lift in the town, Kenny Magrath must have been in the town.’

‘He pulled off the A9 to fill up?’

‘Maybe.’

She gave a lengthy sigh. He imagined her seated on the edge of her sofa, elbow on knee, hand pressed to forehead. Not quite ready to face the day yet, and already landed with this.

‘The longer he has, the more chance we’re giving him to dump anything that could be incriminating.’

‘Hang on a minute, then,’ she said, getting to her feet. She found the number and gave it to him twice while he jotted it down and checked it.

‘Thanks, Siobhan.’

‘I suppose Dempsey will have contacted James,’ she commented.

‘I dare say I’m in for yet another bollocking.’

‘Except that you’re not a cop any more.’ She paused. ‘Which means I shouldn’t even be talking to you, and you shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘Aren’t I naughty?’ Rebus said with a tired smile. Then: ‘I thought I saw a dolphin earlier.’

‘Or maybe a selkie?’

‘You implying I see things that aren’t there, DI Clarke?’

‘How many lies are you going to tell the petrol station?’

‘As few as necessary. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Always supposing they allow you more than one phone call,’ she said.

Rebus managed another smile before punching in the number she had given him. But the petrol station’s footage for the day of Annette McKie’s disappearance was not available.

‘You’ve already got it,’ he was told.

‘It’s at Inverness?’ Rebus nodded his comprehension, ended the call and tried another number.

‘John?’ Gavin Arnold answered. ‘What can I do for you this fine, stress-free morning?’

‘Raise those stress levels, maybe,’ Rebus suggested.

‘By doing what?’

‘Bending a few rules,’ Rebus answered, going on to explain his request.

Fox was usually first into the Complaints office, but not today. Tony Kaye was standing behind Fox’s desk, holding a cardboard beaker of coffee in one hand and using the other to sift through one of the stacks of paperwork relating to John Rebus.

‘Early bird,’ Fox said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up.

‘Thought I’d maybe have a word before Joe Naysmith arrives.’

‘Lost your phone?’

‘I thought this was best done face to face.’

‘Spit it out, then.’

Kaye rested a hand on one of the piles of paper. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

‘You’re going to tell me we’re wasting our time.’

‘The guy’s old-school, Malcolm. It’s amazing any of them still survive.’

‘So he’s some kind of endangered species and we should be feeding him bamboo?’

‘A good hunter knows when not to pull the trigger.’

‘You’ve seen the phone logs, Tony: is there any villain in the city he’s not cosied up to?’

‘DI Clarke said it — if Rebus is attached to the McKie case, he’s got plenty of reasons for talking to Frank Hammell.’

‘And Cafferty?’

‘Used to be Hammell’s employer.’

Fox shook his head slowly. ‘The man’s a liability — and dangerous with it.’

‘That’s for the board to decide.’

‘With our input. Are you saying I put a halo over Rebus’s head?’

‘Just stick to the facts . Don’t let it get personal.’

‘Who says it’s personal?’

‘It is, though. You worked CID at St Leonard’s, same time he did.’

‘So?’

‘I remember you once telling me, not every good detective fits in at Complaints.’

‘Are you saying I couldn’t hack it in CID?’

It was Kaye’s turn to shake his head. ‘I’m saying Rebus got results the old way, without seeming to earn them. He did that because he got close to some nasty people in a way you couldn’t. This is what you’re good at, Malcolm.’ He tapped the desk. ‘Rebus specialises in something a bit different — doesn’t necessarily make him the enemy.’

‘We’ve got to be accountable, Tony. Rebus and his ilk don’t see that. In point of fact, I think he gets his jollies sticking two fingers up to the rest of us.’

‘Doesn’t make him the enemy,’ Kaye repeated quietly.

Fox’s phone vibrated, letting him know he had a message. He looked at the screen, then at his colleague.

‘Have you mentioned any of this to the Chief?’

Kaye shook his head. ‘Why?’

‘Because he wants a word.’ Fox’s eyes scanned the mass of paperwork. There were boxes of it on the floor next to his desk. Thousands of pages detailing dozens of infractions. But dozens of arrests, too. And no smoking gun. Same with the notes at Fox’s house — all of it circumstantial; easy to read into it anything you liked.

‘You think it’s about Rebus?’ Tony Kaye was asking.

‘What else?’ Fox said, making for the door.

‘They could bounce me down the stairs for this,’ Arnold complained, meeting Rebus outside Northern Constabulary HQ.