Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it.’

‘So?’

‘You’re not going to tell me I hurt your feelings?’

Cafferty managed the thinnest of smiles. ‘Maybe not,’ he conceded. ‘So why did you bring me here?’

Rebus reached into his pocket and unfolded a page torn from the Scotsman , flattening it out on the table. It was a report of Annette McKie’s funeral, accompanied by a photograph of some of the mourners as they left the chapel, Cafferty among them.

‘I was invited by the family,’ Cafferty explained.

‘I wasn’t aware you knew them.’

‘I know Darryl.’

‘Since when? Not so long back, you didn’t even know he worked for Frank Hammell.’

‘It was you who tipped me off.’ Cafferty raised his glass as if in a toast.

‘And between then and now, you’ve managed to worm your way into the family?’

‘Darryl wanted me there.’

‘Why, though?’

‘Bit of business.’ Cafferty took a sip of whisky, savouring it before swallowing.

‘I didn’t see Hammell among the guests.’

‘Well you wouldn’t.’

‘Because he’s been pushed out?’ Rebus guessed. ‘You turned Darryl against him?’

‘You don’t give the lad enough credit.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just that my help wasn’t really needed. Young Darryl’s had Frank Hammell in his sights from the word go.’

Rebus took a moment to digest this.

‘I’d say he’s going to give your lot a few headaches in the coming years, too,’ Cafferty went on. ‘Just as long as he stays smart and stays lucky.’

‘So where’s Hammell now?’

‘Keeping his head down.’

‘I don’t buy it — Hammell’s too big.’

‘The kid’s been chipping away at him from the ground up. Kicked out Hammell’s men and brought in his own. And he did all of that without Hammell noticing, meaning he’s been very clever. If Hammell had suspected, the kid would be lying in a forest somewhere.’

‘Somewhere off the A9?’

‘As good a place as any.’

Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Darryl had to have your backing.’

‘Do you think I wouldn’t be taking the credit if I could?’

‘He’s too young.’

‘But sharp as a craft knife.’

‘What was your plan — turn him against Hammell?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Stir things up a bit?’

‘You’re pretty good at that yourself — no wonder the Complaints are interested. Doesn’t seem to have stopped our little get-togethers, though, does it? I reckon that’s because you’d get bored otherwise.’

‘Oh aye?’

Cafferty was nodding. ‘Tell me something,’ he said, leaning his elbows against the table. ‘The argument Hammell had with the girl — any idea what it was about?’

‘I know exactly what it was about.’

‘But you’re not going to tell me.’

‘No, I’m not — and there’s no point asking Ormiston, because I can tell you for a fact he doesn’t know.’

The two men sized one another up. If there had been a chessboard between them, they might have been readying to call a draw — another draw in an ever-lengthening line of them. Cafferty finished his drink and got to his feet. ‘One more?’ he asked, heading for the bar without waiting for a reply. Having ordered for both of them, he listened as the door behind him rattled open and then closed again. When he turned, Rebus was gone, leaving behind a half-full glass and the photo from the funeral.

A forest somewhere . .

As good a place as any . .

A forest . .

Back at his flat, Rebus tapped the number he had for Frank Hammell into his phone. It rang and rang without anyone answering. He tipped the dregs of the whisky bottle into his mouth and swallowed them down. He was standing by the living room window, its view unchanged. The two kids in the flat opposite were cross-legged on the carpet watching TV. He wondered what life held in store for them. An absent parent, perhaps. College or straight into work? Maybe unemployment. Meeting someone they really loved. And the last-chance saloon of IVF. Then they might become parents themselves, worrying about the future and wishing they could see what it held. His phone buzzed, Hammell’s name appearing on the screen. Rebus hesitated, then decided to answer.

‘I think we should meet,’ he said.

‘Why?’ The voice sounded dry and hollow.

‘Because I’ve heard about you and Darryl.’

‘I never want to hear that little prick’s name again!’

‘You might have to,’ Rebus stated calmly. ‘What’s more, I think it’ll be worth it.’

‘I’m not a grass, Rebus.’

‘I’m not asking you to be one. I just need you to answer a question — it’s not even a question about Darryl.’

‘And?’

‘And a spot of payback might well be forthcoming.’

There was silence on the line as Hammell considered this. Rebus listened to him exhale. ‘What’s the question?’

‘There may be a follow-up, depending on how you answer.’

‘Just ask me the damned question.’

‘Okay, then.’ One of the kids opposite had come to the window. They waved at Rebus. He waved back. ‘Where would you bury a body?’ he asked Hammell, as the kid waved again, this time with a huge gap-toothed grin.

A forest . .

Rebus was leaving his tenement building, pulling the door shut behind him, when he saw Siobhan Clarke standing on the pavement.

‘Got Page with you?’ he asked, looking to left and right.

‘No.’

‘So what can I do for you?’

‘I was a bit worried, that’s all.’

‘Worried?’

‘You’ve fallen off the radar.’

‘Maybe it escaped your attention, but I’m not on the books any more.’

‘All the same. .’

‘What?’

She studied him closely. ‘I was right. You’ve got that look in your eyes. Something’s brewing.’

‘Nothing’s brewing.’

‘And suddenly he gets all defensive. .’

He opened his arms in a show of innocence, but he wasn’t fooling her.

‘Where are you off to?’ she asked.

‘Just out.’

‘Mind if I tag along?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not heading to the pub, then.’

‘Christ’s sake, Siobhan. .’ Rebus made an exasperated sound. ‘There’s just something I have to do.’

‘Does it happen to involve Kenny Magrath?’

‘It might,’ he conceded.

‘And naturally you’ll be sticking to the letter of the law?’

‘I’m not the police; I’m not even a civvy working for the police.’

‘And having a real-life detective along for the ride wouldn’t help at all?’

He stared at her, then shook his head slowly. ‘You should listen to Fox, Siobhan. To keep rising through the ranks, you need to steer well clear of the likes of me.’ He prodded his chest with his thumb to drive the point home.

‘A rise through the ranks that turns me into the likes of James Page or Malcolm Fox?’ She made show of considering this. ‘Somehow your way of doing things is just that bit more fun.’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head again.

‘Yes,’ Clarke countered. ‘Tell me what you’ve got in mind.’

Rebus rubbed at his jaw. ‘If I do, will you bugger off home and leave me to it?’

It was her turn to shake her head.

‘Thought not,’ he said.

Frank Hammell was waiting for them in a fast-food restaurant next to a petrol station. The place was brightly lit, showing how much colour Hammell had lost from his face. His hair needed combing, and grey stubble showed on his cheeks. He was nursing a coffee, the burger in front of him not even half eaten, and his eyes darted everywhere, his whole body seeming to tense with each new customer through the door.