Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘You reckon he’ll come after you?’ Rebus asked, sliding into the cubicle. Clarke was fetching drinks from the counter — orange juice for her and tea for him.

‘You didn’t say you’d be bringing anyone,’ Hammell snapped back.

‘She’s not here — not officially.’ Rebus slid further over to make room for Clarke, who offered a nod of greeting to Hammell, a greeting he ignored, focusing on a couple of newcomers to the restaurant.

‘I reckon the little turd’s capable of anything,’ he muttered eventually, in answer to Rebus’s original question.

‘Wouldn’t he have made his move at the club?’

Hammell shook his head. ‘Too many witnesses.’

‘You’ve obviously given it some thought.’

‘What else am I going to do? If I so much as pick up the phone to Gail, he says he’ll tell her about Annette and me. He’s even got keys to my house. .’ Hammell’s eyes were filling with anger. ‘If I can just get him on his own, I’ll throttle the bastard.’

‘Duly noted. But how about if we take him instead?’

Hammell looked at Rebus, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Is this a set-up?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘What, then?’

‘There’s a result I’m after, and Darryl Christie’s part of it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Best keep it that way.’

Hammell studied Rebus intently, then switched to Clarke and back to Rebus again. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Remember that question I asked?’

‘Yes.’

Rebus reached into his pocket and took out the road map of Scotland.

‘Just show me,’ he said.

Afterwards, they walked Hammell back to the car park. He had yet to get rid of the Range Rover.

‘Bit conspicuous,’ Rebus warned him.

‘Garage that sold me it offered fifteen to take it back,’ Hammell complained. ‘It’s worth three times that.’

‘All the same. .’

Hammell gestured towards Rebus’s Saab. ‘Want to swap? Fifteen plus yours?’

‘I can’t do that, Frank.’

Hammell got into his own car, started the engine and headed at speed towards the main road. Rebus unlocked the Saab, Clarke sliding into the passenger seat.

‘That would have been a good trade,’ she said.

‘The things me and this old beast have been through. .’ Rebus patted the steering wheel. ‘Money doesn’t come into it.’

‘So what now?’ she asked as she did up her seat belt.

‘Now,’ Rebus answered, ‘we start planning.’

‘Planning what, exactly?’

‘How to give Kenny Magrath the fright of his life. .’

He made the call Sunday lunchtime, using the number on the card Darryl Christie had given him. Whoever it was who answered, Rebus didn’t recognise the voice.

‘I need to speak to your boss,’ he explained.

‘What boss might that be?’

‘Don’t be daft, son. Give Darryl the name John Rebus and tell him to phone me back.’

Then he hung up and waited. Not quite three minutes had passed when his mobile trilled.

‘I’m listening,’ Darryl Christie said. No niceties; no small talk. Everything changed. Well, that was fine with Rebus.

‘The guy you’re looking for is Kenny Magrath. He lives with his wife in a house in Rosemarkie. I can give you the address.’

‘I know about him,’ Christie interrupted. ‘It was all over the net — he’s been checked out by Dempsey’s lot and let go.’

‘That’s as may be,’ Rebus said. ‘But hear what I’ve got to say, then decide for yourself.’

‘You’ve got two minutes.’

It took Rebus a bit longer than that to lay out his reasoning: the van at the petrol station; the retirement of Gregor Magrath; the way Kenny Magrath had acted when confronted. There was silence on the line when he finished. Then Darryl Christie’s voice:

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘Because I can’t get to him — he’s made too good a job of covering his tracks.’

‘Are you taping this?’

‘If I am, I’m about to sign my own arrest warrant. He has to disappear, Darryl. And it has to look like he’s done a runner, otherwise the pair of us might come under the magnifying glass. Can’t have his body being found.’

‘Bodies have a habit of turning up, though, don’t they?’

‘Depends where they’re left.’

‘Are you inviting yourself to the party?’

‘No,’ Rebus assured him. ‘The less you tell me, the better. Magrath has a workshop he uses — a garage, across from the pub at the far end of the village. Goes there first thing in the morning, and when he knocks off in the evening. I’d say evening would be best — it’s nice and dark by five o’clock. His van can’t be left behind, not if he’s supposed to have scarpered in it.’

‘You’ve given this some thought.’

‘I’ve not had much else to do — you said it yourself, Dempsey proved less than useless when I went to her.’

‘You know what I’ll do to you if this is a stitch-up?’

‘Yes.’

‘This isn’t some trick Cafferty’s come up with?’

‘No.’

‘And what’s stopping me from going straight to this bastard’s house and kicking his door down?’

‘For one thing, he has neighbours. For another, you’d have to do something about his wife. My way’s better. You take him to woods somewhere — plenty of forests up north. I can suggest a few if you like. .’ Rebus’s voice trailed off as he waited to see what Christie would say.

‘Not necessary,’ was the answer.

Which was good news: it meant he already had a spot in mind.

‘I reckon he’s a creature of habit,’ Rebus went on, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘Likes his dinner ready when he comes home. That means his wife will start to worry sooner rather than later. If he’s half an hour behind schedule and not answering his phone, she’s going to go out looking, and it won’t be long after that before she calls it in.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘There’s a place you can take the van?’

‘Want me to tell you?’

‘I just want to make sure this is done right — for both our sakes.’

‘No qualms?’

‘Not a one.’

‘We’re not going to speak again, you and me.’

‘As long as I can close the file, I’m happy. Call it a little retirement present I’m giving myself.’

‘If this works out, I might chip in a clock for your mantelpiece. On the other hand, if it doesn’t. .’

Darryl Christie ended the call without bothering to finish the threat. Rebus stared at his phone until the screen went blank.

‘Well?’ Siobhan Clarke said. She was standing in the living room, hands cupped around a mug of coffee. Rebus rose from his chair and poured himself a drink, then thought better of it and pushed it aside. Instead he lit a cigarette, heading to the sash window and pulling it open so Clarke couldn’t complain.

‘Promising,’ he decided, blowing smoke through the gap. ‘No more than that.’

‘Did he mention which forest?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But he knows about the one his old boss used from time to time. And it’s perfect — not much more than forty-five minutes from the Black Isle. He won’t want to be riding around roads he doesn’t know with someone he’s just abducted — not when there’s a wife at home readying to call the police.’

‘And the van?’

‘I’m guessing dumped in a loch or sent for scrap.’

‘Why not make it look like an accident? Van goes off the road with Magrath at the wheel?’

‘Too much can go wrong — any half-decent scene-of-crime unit would smell something.’

Clarke lowered herself on to the sofa. Rebus’s map was there, a circle drawn around a wooded area just outside Aviemore. ‘He won’t go rushing up there tonight?’