Standing in another's man grave

since Durness had been mentioned, he’d thought about Samantha, seeing an excuse to visit her without it looking as though he had gone out of his way.

Just passing.

‘You’re a basket case, John,’ he told himself as he headed back to the idling car. ‘And who wants a basket case as a grandad?’

IVF: she’d not mentioned it before, never really talked about kids. He wondered what the problem was. She’d been hit by a car a decade or so back — could that have caused complications? Or maybe it was Keith and his job. They’d already had a shot at IVF without telling him. Wanting to surprise him maybe? Or did he just not figure in their lives to that extent?

At Bonar Bridge, instead of taking a right and passing through Edderton again, he headed along the northern side of the Dornoch Firth, picking up the A9 at Clashmore.

‘Hello again,’ he told the road. He was driving south now, through Tain and Inverness and Aviemore and Pitlochry. No room in his stomach for a late lunch, but he refilled the Saab’s tank at a petrol station and bought a paper and a bottle of water. There was a veritable convoy on the opposite carriageway, led by a transporter with earth-moving equipment on its trailer. The traffic on Rebus’s side of the road was moving more freely, for which he was grateful. Just south of Aviemore, he pulled into a lay-by behind an articulated lorry and a delivery van, getting out for a stretch and a rolling of the shoulders. Busy as the route was, he got the feeling he could walk a few dozen yards into the hills and be stepping where no feet had ever passed. The wilderness remained wilderness precisely because nobody bothered to stop. He turned at the sound of the van’s door opening, the driver jumping down.

‘Any chance of sparking me up?’ the man said, waving a cigarette.

Rebus obliged.

‘The dashboard lighter’s buggered,’ the man explained, nodding his gratitude before inhaling greedily.

‘What about the HGV?’ Rebus asked.

‘Driver’s dead to the world. Curtains shut and everything. We could be in the back, emptying the container, and he’d still be snoring.’

Rebus managed a smile. ‘Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.’

‘Not really. Dutch number plate, meaning you’re more likely to get a few buckets of flowers than a flat-screen television.’

‘You really have thought about it.’

The man laughed and took another drag on his cigarette.

‘How do you know he’s all right?’ Rebus asked, meaning the lorry driver.

‘If he drives those things every day, he’s far from all right.’ The man tapped a finger to his temple, then asked Rebus if he was in sales.

‘Just had to go up north,’ Rebus answered, keeping it vague.

‘Inverness?’

‘Further.’

‘Wick?’

‘North-west, towards Cape Wrath.’

‘I didn’t think there was anything up that way.’

‘You’re well informed.’ Rebus paused as an artic rattled by, followed by a stream of cars. There was a change in air pressure, as if some force were trying to suck him on to the carriageway.

‘It’s worse on motorways,’ the van driver said. ‘Try taking a piss on the M8 hard shoulder.’

‘Duly noted. You use this road a lot?’

‘Like clockwork: Inverness-Perth-Dundee-Aberdeen. I could drive it blind.’

‘Maybe not when I’m in the vicinity, eh?’

‘Worried I’d dunt your Saab?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Worried I’d have to arrest you. .’

32

Edinburgh again.

Long tailbacks into the city, a forty-mile-per-hour limit enforced by average speed cameras. Bloody roadworks. And then, as he entered the city itself, signs warning him about the tram project with its diversions and road closures. His back was on fire. Too much time at the wheel, and hardly the most relaxing of drives. At Gayfield Square he stuck the POLICE sign on the dashboard before getting out, patting the Saab’s roof in thanks for not breaking down on him. Then he headed inside, expecting his nemesis to be waiting. Instead, there was a new face behind the Plexiglas, and she accepted Rebus’s ID at face value, buzzing him through. He climbed the stairs and entered the CID office. Everyone was clustered around Christine Esson’s computer.

‘What have I missed?’

Page looked up briefly. ‘Welcome back,’ he said, gesturing for Rebus to come and look.

‘It’s the CCTV from the bus station,’ Siobhan Clarke explained. It had been looked at before, but only to make sure Annette really did board the Inverness coach. ‘Christine had the idea of winding it back a bit. .’

Esson was using her mouse pad to move the action forwards and backwards, a few frames at a time. Annette skipped towards the bus queue, then seemed to retreat until she left the frame altogether. There was a cut to another camera, showing her from further away. Different angle, but obviously shot at the same time. Back, back, back towards the glass doors of the bus station. The door opening as she got closer to it, closing as she went through it, her hand pressed to the metal handle. She was on the pavement now, their view of her opaque, glass in the way.

‘Can we zoom in?’ Rebus asked.

‘Not necessary,’ Page said. ‘Watch what happens.’

A figure was approaching her, speaking to her. Rebus sucked air through his teeth. It was recognisably Frank Hammell. His hand was grasping her arm. And then the pair of them moved out of shot again. Esson paused the recording, then played it forward in real time. Hammell and Annette walked into shot, his hand grabbing her as if reluctant to let her go. She shrugged him off and pushed open the door, striding purposefully across the concourse. Cut to the other camera. Was that relief on her face? She was up on her toes, a bag slung over one shoulder, joining the short queue to board the single-decker coach, glancing back just once to see if Hammell was there.

‘The one and only,’ James Page said, straightening up. He rested his palm on Esson’s shoulder. ‘Good work, Christine.’ Then he clapped his hands just once, keeping them pressed together. ‘So now we bring Mr Hammell, that good friend to the McKie family, in for a little chat.’

‘He never mentioned being at the bus station?’ Rebus guessed.

Clarke answered with a shake of the head. ‘And we’ve just managed to get an itemised list from Annette’s mobile network. She sent a dozen texts from the bus — ten to her pal Timmy, the other two to a phone belonging to Frank Hammell. Only time her phone was used after that was for the photo to Thomas Redfern.’

‘Incoming calls?’

‘We don’t have those.’

‘Be interesting to know if Hammell texted her back.’

‘We’ll ask him,’ Page responded crisply. ‘This is a man with a criminal record, isn’t that right, John?’

‘He’s a criminal all right, but as yet we’ve never nailed anything on him.’

‘Well, he’s lied to this inquiry, and that’s quite enough to be going on with.’

‘Obstruction at the very least,’ Ronnie Ogilvie agreed.

Page nodded slowly. ‘Back to your desks then, everyone. Siobhan, get on the phone to Mr Hammell and request his company.’ Page caught Rebus’s eye, gesturing towards his office. Rebus followed him, not bothering to close the door. He’d had enough of close confines for one day.

‘How did it go?’ Page was asking.

‘I’m convinced the photo was taken at a place called Edderton.’

‘Siobhan seems to agree. But she also said something about it being some sort of hoax. .?’

‘Not exactly. But I think the abductor’s playing a game with us.’