Standing in another's man grave

Rebus was sitting in his flat, smoking and thinking, when he heard someone thumping on his door. He rubbed at his eyebrows, trying to erase a headache that was gathering between them, walked into the hall and opened the door.

‘When’s that escalator getting fixed?’ A thick-built, shaven-headed man his own age was standing there, breathing heavily. Rebus peered past him at the two flights of stairs he had just climbed.

‘Hell are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘You forgetting what day it is? I was starting to get worried about you.’

Rebus checked his watch. It was almost eight in the evening. There was this arrangement they had — a drink once a fortnight. ‘Lost track of time,’ he said, hoping it didn’t sound too much like an apology.

‘I tried phoning you.’

‘Must be on silent,’ Rebus explained.

‘You’re not lying dead on the living room carpet, that’s the main thing.’

Cafferty was smiling, though his smiles had more threat to them than most men’s scowls.

‘I’ll get my coat,’ Rebus told him. ‘Just wait there.’

He retraced his steps to the living room and stubbed out the cigarette. His phone was under a pile of papers — switched to silent as he had suspected. One missed call. His coat was on the sofa and he started to shrug his way into it. These regular drinks had begun soon after Cafferty’s release from hospital. He’d been told that he’d flatlined at one point and that Rebus had brought him back. Not the whole truth, as Rebus had stressed. All the same, Cafferty had insisted on a drink as a way of saying thanks, then had arranged for the same thing to happen a fortnight later, and a fortnight after that.

Cafferty had once run Edinburgh — the worst of the city, at least. Drugs and prostitution and protection. These days he took either a back seat or no seat at all: Rebus wasn’t sure. He knew only what Cafferty chose to tell him, and could never bring himself to trust the half of it.

‘What’s all this?’ Cafferty asked from the living room doorway. He was gesturing towards the display on the wall, his eyes taking in the files on the table and floor.

‘I told you to wait outside.’

‘Bringing the job home with you — never a good sign.’ Cafferty, hands in pockets, entered the room. Rebus just needed his keys and lighter. . Where the hell were they?

‘Out,’ he commanded.

But Cafferty was studying the map. ‘The A9 — good road, that.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Used it myself, back in the day.’

Rebus had located keys and lighter both. ‘That’s us,’ he said. Cafferty was, however, in no hurry.

‘Still playing the old records, eh? Might want to. .’ He nodded towards where the needle had reached the run-out groove of a Rory Gallagher album. Rebus lifted the tone arm and switched off the hi-fi.

‘Happy now?’ he asked.

‘Taxi’s downstairs,’ Cafferty replied. ‘These some of your cold cases, then?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Not that you know of.’ Cafferty gave Rebus that smile again. ‘All women, though, judging by the pictures. Never my style. .’

Rebus stared at him. ‘What did you use the A9 for exactly?’

Cafferty shrugged. ‘Fly-tipping, you might call it.’

‘You mean getting rid of the bodies?’

‘Ever driven the A9? Moorland and forest, logging tracks leading to the middle of nowhere.’ Cafferty paused. ‘Beautiful scenery, mind.’

‘Some women have gone missing down the years — you wouldn’t know anything about that?’

Cafferty shook his head slowly. ‘I could ask around, though — if you want me to.’

There was silence in the room for a moment. ‘I’ll think about it,’ Rebus said eventually. Then: ‘If you did me a favour, would that be us square?’

Cafferty made to place a hand on Rebus’s shoulder, but Rebus shied away.

‘Let’s get that drink,’ he said, ushering his visitor back towards the landing.

4

It was ten thirty by the time he returned to his flat. He filled the kettle and made a mug of tea, then returned to the living room, switching on just the one lamp and the stereo. Van Morrison: Astral Weeks. His downstairs neighbour was old and deaf. Upstairs was a group of students who never made much noise except for the occasional party. Through the living room wall. . well, he’d no idea who lived there. He’d never needed to know. The area of Edinburgh he called home — Marchmont — had a shifting population. A lot of the flats were rentals, most of them short lets. Cafferty had made this point in the pub. Everybody used to look out for everybody else. . Say you did end up on that floor of yours, how long would it be before anyone came calling?

Rebus had argued that it had been no better in the old days. He’d been inside plenty of flats and houses, the inhabitant dead in bed or in their favourite chair. Flies and odour, plus bills piling up behind the door. Maybe someone had thought to knock, but they hadn’t done much more than that.

Everybody used to look out for everybody else. .

‘I bet you used lookouts, too, didn’t you, Cafferty?’ Rebus muttered to himself. ‘When you were burying the bodies. .’ He was staring at the map as he sipped his tea. He had driven the A9 infrequently. It was a frustrating road, only some of it dualled. Lots of tourists, many of them hauling caravans, with regular bends and blind summits making passing difficult. Lorries and delivery vans, struggling up the inclines. Inverness was just over a hundred miles north of Perth, but it could take two and a half, maybe three hours to drive. And when you got there, to cap it all, you were in Inverness. One radio DJ Rebus listened to called the place Dolphinsludge. There were certainly a few hardy dolphins in the Moray Firth, and Rebus didn’t doubt that sludge figured too.

Aviemore. . Strathpeffer. . Auchterarder. . and now Pitlochry. He’d ended up telling Cafferty some of the story, adding the caveat about coincidence being a strong possibility. Cafferty had given a thoughtful pout, swirling the whisky in his glass. The pub had been quiet — funny how people tended to finish their drinks and move on whenever Cafferty entered an establishment. The barman hadn’t just removed the empties from their chosen table but given it a bit of a wipe, too.

And the first two rounds had been on the house.

‘I doubt I can help much,’ Cafferty had admitted.

‘I didn’t say I was asking for help.’

‘All the same. . If it was villains going AWOL, people who might well have fallen out with people they shouldn’t have. .’

‘Far as I can tell, these were just ordinary women — civilians, you might call them.’

Cafferty had begun to outline the sorts of punishment he felt might be deserved, should a single culprit come to light, and had ended by asking Rebus how he felt whenever people got less than they deserved — less of a jail sentence; less of a punishment.

‘Not part of my remit.’

‘All the same. . Think of the number of times you saw me walk free from court, or not even make it that far.’

‘It rankled,’ Rebus had admitted.

‘Rankled?’

‘As in: pissed me off. Royally pissed me off. And made me that bit more determined it wasn’t going to happen next time.’

‘Yet here we are, sitting enjoying a drink.’ Cafferty had clinked his glass against Rebus’s.

Rebus hadn’t said what he was thinking: give me half a chance, I’d still put you away. Instead, he had finished his whisky and risen to fetch another.