Standing in another's man grave

‘No?’

‘Things could get messy afterwards, and I don’t want my mum being more upset than she already is.’

‘Frank Hammell has a pretty good track record, Darryl. If he gets hold of someone, there’s not going to be a trace of them afterwards — not for a long time.’

‘This is different. I’ve not seen him lose it the way he’s been doing.’

It was Rebus’s turn to study the young man in front of him. ‘You really are smarter, aren’t you?’

‘I’m just a bit more rational at this point in time. Plus it’ll put my job on the line if he does something stupid.’

‘It’s more than that, though. I’d say you’re canny by nature. My bet is, you kept your head down in school, did well in exams. But always watchful, learning how things are and what makes people tick.’

Darryl Christie offered a shrug of the shoulders. When he removed his hands from his pockets, he was holding a card in one. ‘I’ve got lots of phones,’ he said. ‘If you ring this number, I’ll know it’s you.’

‘You really think I’m going to hand over whoever did this?’

‘A name and an address; that’s all.’ He looked through the windows of the Saab at the carrier bags on the rear seat. ‘You never know — there might be the price of a washing machine in it. .’

Rebus watched him turn and head back to the Merc. No swagger to the walk, just an easy confidence. The driver’s eyes were on Rebus, as if daring him to go against Christie’s wishes, whatever those wishes might be. Rebus managed a wink as the window began to slide up, then got into the front seat of the Saab and started the engine. By the time he’d reversed out of his parking space and reached the junction at the foot of Arden Street, the Merc was nowhere to be seen.

The guy in the launderette told him it might be a couple of days. Rebus remonstrated that he didn’t have a couple of days, to which the owner responded by waving his arms in the direction of the backlog of service washes.

‘Way things are,’ he said, ‘I’d almost pay you to load the machine yourself.’

On the way back to the flat, it was a three-way contest between fish and chips, Indian and Chinese. Indian won, and Rebus stopped at Pataka’s, ordering a rogan josh and saying he would wait. He was offered a lager but turned it down. The place was doing good business, the booths filled with couples sharing platters of food and bottles of chilled wine. There were three or four pubs within a two-minute walk, but Rebus flicked through that day’s Evening News instead. By the time he’d finished, his food was ready. He drove back to Arden Street with Maggie Bell playing on the radio. He wondered if she was still going strong. .

His kitchen filled with aromas as he opened the containers, scooping out the meat, sauce and rice on to a plate. There were beers in the cupboard, so he opened one and added it to the tray, which he carried through to the dining table. The living room felt a bit better, so he closed the window again and put the Bert Jansch album back on. His phone sounded, letting him know he had a message. He decided it could wait. A couple of minutes later, it issued another reminder and this time he got up to check the screen. One missed call; one voicemail.

It was Nina Hazlitt.

‘Guess where I am,’ she was saying.

55

They met at an old-fashioned bar behind the railway station. She was booked on to the sleeper service down to London, a couple of hours still to kill before boarding. She was seated at the bar when he arrived. The pint she’d bought him had been there some time and had gone flat. Rebus said it would be fine anyway.

‘I thought you’d still be in Inverness,’ she told him.

‘Surplus to requirements.’

‘They’ve identified all the bodies now?’

He nodded and took a sip of beer.

‘No sign of Sally,’ she went on, lowering her eyes.

‘Meaning she’s unconnected to the case,’ he offered.

‘But she has to be! Wasn’t I the first person to see it?’

The barman cast a warning look towards them: this wasn’t a place for raised voices. Rebus noticed that the couple at the table next to the window were readying to leave. He picked up his own glass and Nina Hazlitt’s suitcase. After a moment she followed him, carrying her vodka and tonic. When they were settled, she waited for him to meet her gaze. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face sallow and taut, lacking sleep and answers.

‘What did you think of Frank Hammell?’ Rebus asked.

‘He seems very caring.’

‘He’s a gangster.’

‘That’s certainly what the papers imply.’

‘He’s not someone you want in your life.’

‘He’s not in my life.’

‘The two of you looked pretty cosy in Inverness — which one of you arranged that bit of filming?’

‘What does it matter?

‘Just trying to get things straight in my head.’

‘I don’t see that it’s any of your concern, John.’

‘Maybe not.’ He paused. ‘What about the other guy — I suppose he’s none of my business either?’

She gave a sigh. ‘Which “guy” are we talking about now?’

‘The one who lives with you — is his name really Alfie?’

‘I told you, he’s my brother.’

‘You don’t have any brothers, Nina.’

Her mouth opened a little. He watched as colour flooded her cheeks.

‘What makes you say that?’ she was eventually able to ask.

‘I’m a cop; we’re good at finding stuff out.’ Rebus paused. ‘So who is he?’

‘He. . lives with me.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Why did you lie?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you reckon your feminine charms wouldn’t work on me if there was someone else in the picture?’

She had lowered her eyes again. Her hands had dropped into her lap, resting there palms up. ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded quietly.

‘Plus the grieving mother probably plays better with the media if there isn’t somebody else waiting at home.’

‘John. .’

He gestured for her not to go on. He wasn’t even halfway down the pint but knew he was going to leave it. His stomach felt queasy, filled with undigested meat and swelling rice. He rose to his feet. Nina Hazlitt didn’t move. She seemed fascinated by her hands. Or maybe it was just that the pose had worked for her in the past. Rebus rested his knuckles against the edge of the small table and leaned down towards her, lowering his voice.

‘She doesn’t want to see you,’ he told her. ‘But for what it’s worth, I don’t think she’s got any intention of telling the world about her father.’

Nina Hazlitt flinched, her head jerking up. ‘Where is she?’ she said.

Rebus shook his head as he straightened up.

‘You’ve seen her?’

He was turning away towards the door. She was on her feet now. ‘I’m begging you!’ she called out. ‘I just want to say sorry, that’s all! Will you tell her I’m sorry? John! Will you tell her. .?’

But Rebus had pulled open the door, leaving her world well and truly behind him.

During the drive back to his flat, he expected any number of calls or messages, but none came. Once he’d parked his car, he took out his phone and found the number for Sally Hazlitt’s mobile. He tapped in a text — She says sorry — and sent it, unsure if it would ever find a reader.