Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘Thanks again. And call any time, please.’

‘Maybe not quite so late, though, eh?’

‘Any time,’ she repeated. ‘It’s nice to know something’s happening.’

He ended the call and stared at the paperwork in front of him.

‘Nothing’s happening,’ he muttered to himself, placing the plectrum back in his pocket and rising to fix the final drink of the evening.

The officer’s name was Ken Lochrin, and he had been retired for three years. Rebus had been given his telephone number after a bit of pleading. Lochrin’s name was in the Zoe Beddows file. He seemed to have done a lot of work on it. His handwriting and signature cropped up over two dozen times. Having introduced himself, Rebus spent the first five minutes discussing retirement itself, swapping stories and explaining how SCRU worked.

‘Me, I miss the job not one jot,’ Lochrin had said. ‘Complete pain in the posterior by the time I emptied my desk.’

‘Bit frustrating not to get a result on Zoe Beddows?’

‘It’s a lot worse when you feel you’re getting close — that never happened with her. Gets to the point where you have to move on — unless cold cases is your job, of course. So you’re part of this new Crown Office initiative?’

‘Not exactly. I’m in a smaller team based in Edinburgh.’

‘Then how come Zoe’s turned up on your radar?’

‘This kid who went missing on her way to Inverness.’

‘Zoe was four years ago, though.’

‘All the same. .’ Rebus liked it that Lochrin used Beddows’s first name. It meant she’d become a person to him rather than a case number.

‘I did wonder about that myself, actually.’

‘What?’ Rebus prompted.

‘Whether there could be a connection. But like I say — four years. .’

‘There was another in 2002, up near Strathpeffer,’ Rebus said.

‘Sounds like you’ve been talking to that woman — the Aviemore one.’

‘Nina Hazlitt?’

‘Daughter went missing on Hogmanay.’

‘You know her?’

‘I know she used to haunt Central HQ in Stirling, after Zoe disappeared.’

‘This isn’t just about her, though,’ Rebus felt it necessary to state. ‘There’s Annette McKie now.’

‘Known by the nickname Zelda — I read two papers a day. Gets me out of the house as far as the newsagent’s. I’d drive the wife daft otherwise.’

‘I didn’t ask where you live, Mr Lochrin. .?’

‘Tillicoultry — world famous for our soft furnishings warehouse.’

Rebus smiled. ‘I think I’ve been there, actually.’

‘You and half of Scotland. So you’re trying to find a link between this new girl and Zoe Beddows? Plus maybe Strathpeffer and Aviemore?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And you want to ask me about the photo?’

Rebus was silent for a moment. ‘What photo?’

‘The one Zoe sent her friend. Didn’t I just mention it? Probably a coincidence, but I suppose you have to check. .’

‘It was in Zoe Beddows’s file,’ Rebus explained to Siobhan Clarke. He ran his hand through his hair distractedly. ‘I should have spotted it, but it was buried in an interview transcript. Just the single mention. Not even one of her closest friends. And no message with it. Just the picture, sent the day she went missing. .’

He was standing with Clarke in the corridor outside the CID suite in Gayfield Square police station. Clarke’s arms had been folded as she listened, but now she held up a hand to interrupt him.

‘You’ve got the files? All the files?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve cleared this with DS Cowan?’ She rolled her eyes at the stupidity of her own question. ‘What am I saying? Of course you haven’t — you’re keeping it to yourself.’

‘You know me too well.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Can I see the photo?’

‘I need to speak to the recipient.’ Rebus paused. ‘Well, it doesn’t have to be me , of course. .’

‘You think I’m going to do it for you?’

‘Annette McKie sent a photograph from her phone the day she vanished. Back in 2008 Zoe Beddows did the selfsame thing from the selfsame road. You’re telling me we should ignore that?’

‘What about the others — Strathpeffer and Aviemore?’

‘Brigid Young didn’t have her phone with her. Besides, could you send photos from a phone back then. .?’

A man appeared in the nearest doorway. Tall, slim, good suit.

‘There you are,’ he said.

Clarke managed a half-smile. ‘Here I am,’ she agreed. The man was staring at Rebus, awaiting an introduction.

‘John Rebus,’ Rebus obliged, holding out a hand. The two men shook. ‘I’m with SCRU.’

‘This is DCI Page,’ Clarke told him.

‘James Page,’ Page clarified.

‘You’ve changed a bit,’ Rebus said. Page looked at him blankly. ‘Led Zeppelin,’ Rebus explained. ‘Guitarist.’

‘Oh, right. Same name as me.’ Page at last attempted a smile, before turning his attention to Clarke. ‘Meeting of the control team in five.’

‘I’ll be there.’

Page’s eyes lingered on hers a second too long. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said to Rebus.

‘No interest at all in why I’m here?’

‘John. .’ Clarke’s tone was warning Rebus off, but too late. He’d taken a step towards Page.

‘I assume you’re in charge, so you should know that there could be a link between Annette McKie and a series of other MisPers.’

‘Oh?’ Page looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. But the phone he was holding had started to vibrate, and he focused his attention on its screen. ‘Need to take this,’ he apologised. Then, to Clarke: ‘Write me a short briefing, will you?’ He turned back into the office, raising the phone to his ear.

There was silence in the corridor for a few seconds.

‘Need any help with that briefing?’ Rebus asked.

‘Thanks for adding another brick to the hod.’ She folded her arms again; he wondered if it was a defensive gesture. He hadn’t paid much attention to the ‘Reading Body Language’ classes at police college. Through the doorway, Rebus had a good view of Page’s back. Neat haircut, no creases in the jacket. He wouldn’t be much more than thirty, maybe thirty-five tops. The DCIs were getting younger. .

‘Thought you had someone in Newcastle you were seeing?’ Rebus asked casually.

Clarke glared at him. ‘You’re not my dad.’

‘If I was, I might have a few words of advice at the ready.’

‘You’re really going to stand there and lecture me about relationships?’

Rebus pretended to wince. ‘Maybe not,’ he conceded.

‘Good.’

‘So the only thing we need to discuss is this briefing for Mr Dazed and Confused.’ He tried for a conciliatory tone and a kindly face. ‘You’ll want it to be thorough. Nobody better placed than me to help with that, I’d have thought.’

She stood her ground for a further moment or two, then made a sound that mixed frustration with resignation.

‘You’d better come in then,’ she said.

The cramped office was busy with detectives on their phones or staring hard at their computer screens. Rebus knew a few faces and offered a wink or a nod. He got the feeling desks and chairs had been requisitioned from elsewhere. It was a narrow, mazy walk to Clarke’s corner spot, with waste bins and electrical cables to be negotiated. She sat down and sifted through the papers next to her keyboard.

‘Here,’ she said, handing him a copy of a blurry photograph. It showed a field and a line of trees beyond, with hills in the distance. ‘Sent from her phone at just after ten p.m. the day she went missing. Wasn’t when the picture was taken, of course. I’d say late afternoon. Nobody on the bus remembers her taking pictures out of the window, but then nobody paid her much attention till she said she was going to throw up.’