‘The other three, then. I’ve already briefed on Annette McKie.’
‘We’re one body short,’ Clarke added. ‘Six A9 victims, five recovered.’ It was her turn to look at Rebus. ‘Are you going to tell them you think Sally Hazlitt’s still alive?’
‘I probably should,’ Rebus determined. Then, to Page: ‘When’s this briefing scheduled for?’
‘About five minutes from now.’
‘I suppose if we hadn’t turned up in time, you’d have been happy to fill my shoes?’
Page opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.
‘I need to go for a slash,’ Rebus said into the silence. Then, to Clarke: ‘You going to tell him Hammell and Darryl have arrived?’
Clarke was doing just that as Rebus made his exit. As he headed down the corridor, however, he came face to face with Frank Hammell and Darryl Christie as a uniform led them towards Dempsey’s office.
‘For a retired crock,’ Hammell said, placing him eventually, ‘you don’t half get about a bit.’
Rebus focused his attention on Darryl, who was only now looking up from his phone. ‘Sorry about your sister,’ he offered. ‘How’s your mum doing?’
‘How do you think she’s doing?’ Hammell snarled. Rebus ignored him.
‘What about you, Darryl? You all right?’
The young man nodded. ‘What happens now?’ he asked calmly.
‘You’ll be taken to the hospital for the identification.’
‘And you’re sure it’s her?’
Rebus nodded slowly. Darryl’s mouth twitched and he lowered his eyes to the screen of his phone again, fingers busy texting.
‘Some bastard’s going to pay big time,’ Hammell spat.
‘This probably isn’t the place to be saying that,’ Rebus warned him.
‘It’s true, though.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘And none of your lot better find themselves in my way.’
A door opened further along the corridor. Dempsey stood there, wondering what was taking her visitors so long.
‘Is everything all right?’ she called out.
Hammell had time for one last glare in Rebus’s direction before shouldering past him and walking towards her. Rebus held a hand out towards Darryl Christie, but the young man ignored it, attention focused on his phone as he followed Hammell into Dempsey’s office.
48
Rebus’s presentation went as well as he could have wished. The team had plenty of questions for him, none of them stupid.
‘Bright kids,’ he commented afterwards to Clarke.
‘It’s how they make them these days.’
They had checked out of the hotel, driven to the guest house near the battlefield at Culloden, and inspected their rooms. There was no evening meal, so they’d headed into town and stopped at the nearest Indian restaurant. Page wasn’t with them; he’d been invited to dine with Dempsey and a few other senior officers. When Clarke’s phone rang, she wasn’t at the table, having gone to visit the toilets. Rebus saw that the call was from Gayfield Square and decided to answer.
‘It’s Rebus,’ he said.
‘Is Siobhan there?’
‘Who wants her?’
‘Dave Ormiston — I’m the one whose desk you were given.’
‘She’ll be back in a minute. Is it anything I can help with?’
‘Thomas Robertson has rejoined the land of the living.’
‘Oh?’
‘Aberdeen sent us the message. He’s in hospital there.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘From what I can tell, he took a bit of a pasting from person or persons unknown.’
‘Local police involved?’
‘They found him next to some rubbish bins down by the docks. Unconscious, but with ID in his pocket. Credit cards and cash untouched, so not an obvious mugging.’
‘He’s going to be okay, though?’
‘Sounds like.’
Rebus took out a pen and reached across the table for a paper napkin. ‘What’s the name of the hospital?’ he asked. ‘Plus, a name and contact number for someone in Aberdeen CID, if you have them.’
Ormiston gave him what he had, then asked how things were going in Inverness.
‘Things are fine,’ Rebus said.
‘I saw you on the news — holding open the door for Frank Hammell.’
‘Common courtesy.’
‘Did you speak to him at all?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘No reason.’ Ormiston made a sound as though he were clearing his throat.
‘People usually have reasons for asking questions,’ Rebus persisted.
‘Not this time. You’ll let Siobhan know about Thomas Robertson?’
‘Of course,’ Rebus said.
By the time Clarke returned, her phone was off and had been returned to its original position next to her glass of water. She was yawning, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Minute my head hits that pillow,’ she told him.
‘I know what you mean,’ Rebus pretended to agree. ‘Reckon we should be getting back?’
She nodded, and signalled for their waiter to bring the bill. ‘This is my shout, by the way,’ she said. ‘I can always claim it on expenses — and besides, I’m not the pensioner here. .’
Having returned to the guest house, Rebus stayed in his room long enough to give his phone a bit of a charge and check the quickest route to Aberdeen. The A96 seemed to be the answer. It was a trip of a hundred miles, though, which caused him to hesitate. On the other hand, as soon as he was well enough, there was nothing to stop Robertson doing a runner. Tonight might be Rebus’s only chance. As he crept down the stairs and out of the three-storey house, he wondered how he was going to break the news to the sleeping Saab.
It was well after eleven when he reached Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. He hadn’t been to the city in years and didn’t recognise any landmarks along the route. Oil was Aberdeen’s core business, and the industrial units he passed all seemed to be oil-related. He got lost a couple of times before chancing on a sign that pointed him towards the hospital. He parked in the area reserved for ambulances and headed inside. The reception area was claustrophobic, and whoever manufactured beige paint had made a killing here. The bleary-eyed front desk sent him to the lifts, and he emerged a couple of floors up, pushing open the doors to the ward and explaining to the only duty nurse around that he was a police officer and needed to talk to a patient called Robertson. There were eight beds, seven of them filled. One man was awake, plugged into headphones and with a book held in front of him. The others all seemed to be asleep, one of them snoring loudly. There was a light over Thomas Robertson’s bed, and Rebus switched it on, illuminating the pulpy face. Eyes blackened; chin gashed and sporting thick black stitches. The nose — presumably broken — had been strapped. There was a folder at the foot of the bed, and Rebus opened it. One broken toe, two broken fingers, one cracked rib, a tooth missing, damage to the kidneys. .
‘Someone did a job on you, Tommy,’ Rebus said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. There was a jug of water on the cabinet next to the bed, and he poured himself a glass, gulping it down. His head was throbbing from the drive, palms tingling after so long at the steering wheel. He opened the cabinet and reached in for Robertson’s wallet. Credit cards and driving licence, plus forty pounds in cash.
