Standing in another's man grave

35

It didn’t help that Rebus was doing a good impression of a man coughing up his lungs when Page encountered him in the corridor outside the CID suite.

‘You all right, John?’

‘Never better,’ Rebus replied, wiping a hand across his eyes. ‘Something stuck in my throat.’

‘The butt of a cigarette, maybe?’ Page made show of sniffing the air. ‘And Polo mints for lunch? Interesting diet you have there.’

‘Works for me.’ Rebus pulled back his shoulders.

‘Well, I wanted a word with you anyway. .’

‘Is this me getting my jotters?’

‘You’ve done good work here, John, but the inquiry seems to be moving in different directions.’

‘While I’m stuck on the hard shoulder trying to thumb a lift?’

‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that. But it’s true that I’m starting to think your time here may be drawing to a close.’

‘In which case, I’ve a favour to ask.’

Page’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Yes?’

‘Don’t tell SCRU just yet. I need a bit of time to shift those boxes.’ Rebus gestured in the vague direction of Clarke’s desk.

‘Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two,’ Page countered. ‘I can get one of the team to help you.’

Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Not your best use of resources, James. I’m happy to move them myself. I’ll be out of your hair by this time tomorrow.’ He held out a hand, which Page studied for a moment before extending his own to meet it.

Ten minutes later, Rebus was on Leith Walk again with a takeaway coffee and a box of paracetamol from the local pharmacy. He swallowed two, and browsed the windows of local shops. One of them sold second-hand vinyl, but he knew he didn’t have time for a browse. Having convinced himself that he was fit to drive, he headed to his car, tucking the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign under the passenger seat and turning the ignition. It was approaching three p.m. and he was going to meet the rush hour somewhere on his route, but all the same. .

‘Back in the saddle,’ he told his car, patting its dashboard for luck.

I could drive it blind. . He remembered the van driver’s words as he headed for the M90. Escaping the city centre provided the usual problems: temporary traffic lights; teams digging up the roads. Many a potential rat-run had been blocked off, meaning little was to be gained by diverging from the main route north out of the city. Traffic slowed again on the approach to the Forth Road Bridge, and remained heavy until he had passed the turn-offs to Dunfermline and Kirkcaldy. He stopped at the Kinross services for fuel. The woman behind the till gave a little nod of recognition. Maybe she had a good memory, but it was more likely he had taken on the tics and rhythms of the regular traveller, and she was merely acknowledging him as a member of the tribe.

Perth, with its busy roundabouts, and then the end of the dual carriageway and the sense that time was working against each and every traveller on the road. Turbo-charged BMWs and Audis weaved in and out of the procession, driven by men in shirts and ties, any one of whom could have been the man he’d talked to at the petrol station in Pitlochry, the one with ‘solutions’ to offer.

Pitlochry itself eventually arrived, bringing a welcome stretch of dual carriageway, though this was also when slow lorries decided to overtake other slow lorries, Rebus yelling curses at them as he was forced to brake. He studied the roadworks as he passed them. Men in high-vis jackets and hard hats were still busy with their tools and machines. He couldn’t make out Bill Soames or Stefan Skiladz. When the Michael Chapman CD finished, he swapped it for Spooky Tooth, and reached over to the passenger seat for a slug of water from the bottle he’d bought. Darkening skies and no sign of any hill-walkers today. No stopping at Bruar: on to Glen Truim and past Newtonmore. Aviemore to his right, where he prayed for more lorries to turn off than actually did, then Tomatin and another salute in the direction of its distillery. Evening now, the sky over Inverness illuminated by sodium, feeder roads still busy with the remnants of the homeward rush. It was only as he approached the city that he thought: I could have taken the train. But he liked his car too much, and patted the dashboard again to convey this feeling to it. Ten minutes later, he was in the car park at Whicher’s Hotel, rolling his shoulders and clicking his spine back into place while listening to the Saab’s engine start to cool.

He paused long enough for a cigarette, taking in his surroundings. There was a new-looking shopping mall within walking distance, plus business units, some of them not yet leased. This was an area of the city for sales reps rather than tourists. When he eventually headed indoors to reception, he noted that the carpet was tartan and there was a stag’s head on the wall. Plenty of wood panelling and piped music. A man in a pinstripe suit was checking in.

‘Your usual room, Mr Frazer,’ the receptionist was assuring him.

The receptionist was young — early twenties, maybe even late teens. Curly blonde hair and lashings of aquamarine eyeshadow. Behind her, a man much the same age was busy with paperwork. When Rebus’s time came, she had the same smile as for Mr Frazer. It faltered only when he showed her his ID and the e-fit of Sally Hazlitt.

‘Recognise her?’ Rebus asked.

‘Looks a bit like Susie,’ the receptionist said. ‘What do you think, Roddy?’

The young man turned from his work long enough to give a crisp nod. Rebus noted that he was wearing a waistcoat of the same tartan as the carpet.

‘Susie works here?’ Rebus asked. The receptionist’s badge identified her only as Amanda.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know if anyone showed her this photo? It’s been on the news.’

‘She’s a different shift from me.’ She was growing wary now.

‘When was she last seen?’

She had picked up the phone next to her. ‘You need to speak to the duty manager. ..’

The duty manager’s name was Dora Causley and she sat with Rebus in the lounge as a pot of tea was fetched. She held the e-fit and studied it carefully.

‘It’s very like her,’ she admitted.

‘Susie?’

‘Susie Mercer. She’s been with us nearly nine months.’

‘Not at work today, though?’

‘She phoned in sick a few days back. By rights, she should have produced a doctor’s line by now. .’

‘I’d like to speak to her.’

Causley nodded slowly. ‘I can get you her details.’

‘Thank you. And do you happen to know if anyone might have shown her this photo or mentioned the likeness to her?’

‘No idea, sorry.’

She left him to his tea and shortbread, returning a few minutes later with a slip of paper: home address and phone number.

‘Do you know where this is?’ Rebus asked.

Causley shook her head. ‘I’ve only been in Inverness a couple of years. Amanda can find it for you on the computer.’

Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘What about Susie Mercer? Is she a local?’

‘English accent,’ Causley said. ‘No shortage of them in these parts.’

‘Is she married?’

‘Don’t remember seeing a ring.’

‘She must have a personnel file — any chance I could take a quick look?’

‘I’d need authorisation for that.’

‘My word’s not good enough?’

The firmness of her smile was answer enough.

Armed with a route map printed from the internet by Amanda, Rebus set out to the car park. The Saab’s