Standing in another's man grave

Side one of Astral Weeks had finished, and what was left of the tea had grown cold. He sat down and took out his phone and the card Nina Hazlitt had given him, punching in her number.

‘Hello?’ It was a man’s voice. Rebus hesitated. ‘Hello?’ A little louder this time.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘Is this the right number? I was looking for Nina Hazlitt.’

‘Hang on, she’s here.’ Rebus listened as the phone was handed over. He could hear a TV playing in the background.

‘Hello?’ Her voice this time.

‘Sorry to be calling so late,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s John Rebus. From Edinburgh.’

He heard an intake of breath. ‘Have you. .? Is there any news?’

‘Nothing like that.’ Rebus had taken the plectrum from his pocket and was playing with it in his free hand. ‘I just wanted you to know I hadn’t forgotten about you. I’ve pulled the files and I’m taking a look.’

‘On your own?’

‘For the moment.’ He paused. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening. .’

‘It was my brother answered the phone. He’s staying with me.’

‘Right,’ Rebus said, not knowing what else to add. The silence lengthened.

‘Sally’s case is reopened, then?’ Nina Hazlitt’s voice was a mix of hope and fear.

‘Not officially,’ Rebus stressed. ‘Depends what I turn up.’

‘Anything so far?’

‘I’m only just getting started.’

‘It’s nice of you to go to the trouble.’

Rebus wondered if the conversation would have been so stilted without the presence of her brother. Wondered too why the hell he had phoned her out of the blue — late at night, when the only reason for calling could be that there was news of some kind, something that couldn’t wait until morning. Filling her with momentary hope.

False hope. .

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you get on.’

‘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.

5

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.’