Standing in another's man grave

‘No, you’re not. What you are, though, is the same conniving bastard you’ve always been. Six missing women and you’re trying to conjure something out of it for your own entertainment.’

Cafferty’s eyes darkened. ‘Careful what you say, Rebus.’

‘I speak as I find.’ Rebus pushed his drink away and headed for the door. The landlord was outside, puffing on a cigarette and with his phone pressed to his face. He recognised Rebus and wished him all the best. As it dawned, however, that Cafferty was staying inside, he began to look a little more anxious. Rebus lit a cigarette of his own and kept walking.

Fox watched him leave. He was slouched in the passenger seat of a Ford Mondeo, parked across the street from the pub, outside a late-opening grocer’s shop. His colleague, Tony Kaye, was inside the shop itself, making it look as though they’d pulled up to buy provisions. Kaye emerged toting a four-pack of beer and munching on a Mars bar. He dumped the cans on the back seat and walked around to the driver’s side.

‘Cafferty’s still in there,’ Fox told him. But only a minute or two later the man emerged. He must have phoned for a taxi, because one drew to a halt and he climbed in. A further figure left the pub straight afterwards and jogged towards the Mondeo.

‘For me?’ he said, climbing into the back and opening one of the beers.

‘Better be worth it,’ Kaye muttered.

Joe Naysmith was the youngest member of Fox’s small team. He swallowed and stifled a burp before making his report.

‘Football on the telly. Helluva din.’

‘Could you make out any of what they were saying?’ Fox demanded.

‘Seemed to be about Frank Hammell. Him and the girl who went missing.’

‘What about them?’

Naysmith offered a shrug. ‘Like I say, it was noisy. If I’d got too close they’d have clocked me.’

‘Useless,’ Tony Kaye growled. He turned towards Fox. ‘All this effort, Malcolm — for what exactly?’

‘For a result.’

‘Some result.’ Kaye paused. ‘Who tipped you off that they’d be meeting?’

‘Text message. Number blocked.’

‘Same as before, then. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘What?’

Kaye gestured in the direction Rebus had taken. ‘If he’s being set up.’

Fox stared at his colleague. ‘Am I missing something? Didn’t a retired detective — a current police employee, by the way, with his nose deep in an ongoing case — just have a known gangster turn up at his door? And didn’t the two of them then go out together for a drink and a catch-up?’

‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘It means everything, especially when they start discussing the very case Rebus is working on. Throw Frank Hammell’s name into the mix and it gets more interesting still.’

‘I don’t see it,’ Kaye said, shaking his head.

‘I do,’ Fox retorted. ‘And at the end of the day, that’s what really matters.’

‘Want one?’ Joe Naysmith asked, holding out a can towards Kaye.

‘Why the hell not?’ Kaye snatched at it.

‘In which case, I’m driving,’ Fox said, pushing open the passenger-side door.

‘Afraid we’ll be pulled over? Why not take a risk for once?’

‘We’re swapping,’ Fox persisted.

Kaye looked at him and knew the man wouldn’t give up. He sighed and reached for the door handle.

Part Four

I took a jar of pain to the soaking field. .

42

If he’d been putting together a mix tape for the journey, it would have featured plenty of songs about roads. Canned Heat and the Rolling Stones, Manfred Mann and the Doors. He refuelled at Kinross, checked out the roadworks north of Pitlochry, and stopped for tea and a cheese scone at Bruar, where he looked at his phone and found a missed call from Nina Hazlitt — making four in total — and a message from Siobhan Clarke telling him that rooms had been booked for a couple of nights at Whicher’s. He doubted this was coincidence. Maybe it was the only hotel Clarke knew in Inverness. Inverness, however, was not his immediate destination. He stayed on the A9, crossing the Kessock Bridge. Alness, followed by Tain, and finally the turn-off to Edderton. Jim Mellon had been contacted, and he’d made sure the police located the spot. A Portakabin was being unloaded from a flatbed lorry, which would have the devil’s own job reversing back to the main road. The crane arm dropped the Portakabin on to the narrow lane ahead of it. Maybe the fields were too marshy to take its weight. The end result was that diversions would be needed. No traffic was going to be able to pass this way until the police operation had finished. A uniform gestured for Rebus to lower his window. Rebus obliged, holding out his ID. Mellon was in consultation with a woman in a smart two-piece suit, the pair of them pointing towards the hills. The woman held a copy of the photo sent from Annette McKie’s phone. She had come prepared: shoes swapped for green wellies. Rebus wished he’d thought of that.

He manoeuvred the Saab up on to what verge there was.

‘Give me a shout when the lorry needs to get out,’ he told the uniform. The man nodded, adding Rebus’s licence plate to the clipboard he was holding. Mellon had recognised him and was giving him a wave. Rebus walked forward and shook hands. The woman was waiting for an introduction.

‘I’m John Rebus,’ he obliged. ‘Attached to the Edinburgh inquiry.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Mr Mellon was telling me about you. I’m DCS Dempsey.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ They shook hands and sized one another up. She was around forty, buxom and bespectacled and with shoulder-length ash-blonde hair.

‘Where’s DCI Page?’ she asked.

‘On his way. What do you make of the comparison?’ Rebus gestured towards the photo she was holding.

‘I think it was taken pretty much where we’re standing.’ She paused. ‘Though I’m still not sure what its significance might be.’

‘Whoever sent it, if he’s being really clever, then he’s brought us here to waste our time and effort.’

She stared at him. ‘We’re praying he’s not that clever?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Then let’s hope that’s the case.’ She gestured towards the line of police vans parked on the carriageway past the Portakabin. They would have to head towards Aultnamain and circle back towards home — no way they could squeeze past the obstruction. Officers were being arranged into groups and shown maps, presumably marked with the grid they would be covering. ‘What is it they should be looking for?’

‘Anything out of place,’ Rebus advised. ‘Scraps of clothing, cigarette ends, a discarded bottle or can.’ He paused. ‘How about the interviews?’

‘A team of six,’ she replied. ‘There really aren’t that many habitations for them to visit.’

‘Would it be cheeky of me to ask them to check cafes and petrol stations too?’

‘Within what sort of radius?’ She had narrowed her eyes a little, as if reappraising him.

‘Dornoch, Bonar Bridge, Tain — for starters, anyway.’