After Bert Jansch, it was the turn of the Stones, and after that some Gerry Rafferty. Rebus had emptied a fair amount of Highland Park into himself, and didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse. He had taken the nylon plectrum from his pocket, the one made all those years ago by Jim Dunlop’s company, and was rubbing it between his fingers while he did some thinking about Nina Hazlitt. Had he told her the truth out of simple spite? Would it have been better to leave it unsaid? He’d almost called his own daughter, just to hear her voice for five minutes, but it was too late in the day.
Five families, able finally to grieve properly, but with accompanying horror. Five victims plucked from the world, stripped and buried. Was their killer keeping his trophies — his store of clothing, purses, phones? Rebus really hoped so. He knew that Dempsey would make an appeal at her next press conference. It would be based on detailed descriptions of the women’s belongings when they’d disappeared. He wondered if Dempsey was married — she didn’t wear a ring, but that was hardly conclusive these days. Maybe she had children. Rebus’s phone was on the arm of the chair and he kept checking it, wondering if he could maybe call Siobhan Clarke, just to tell her about his evening. Instead, he flipped the vinyl to side two, turned the volume down a shade, and trickled a final measure of malt into his glass.
The TV was playing silently: a news channel. The A9 story had lost its top billing to a new political crisis in Europe. There was a fresh interview with Frank Hammell, but they only played half a minute of it. Already he was losing his novelty. When they cut back to the studio, a still frame of Hammell from the Edderton cordon was behind the newscaster’s shoulder. Hammell’s eyes bulged, flecks of saliva either side of his open mouth, finger stabbing at the viewer, as if ready to gouge out an eye. If a suspect ever did come to light, only to go missing, Hammell would get both blame and acclamation. Rebus was trying to work Hammell out. Was he so fiery because it was in his nature, or was he trying to impress Annette’s mother? Did he maybe just like all the media attention? The other families had learned stoicism, or had come to embrace defeat. Not Frank Hammell, even though he
Not family.
Trailing Annette. . arguing with her. .
But not family.
Rebus considered this as he finished what was in his glass and decided against another. Instead, he made tea, and used it to wash down a couple of paracetamol. After which, despite the lateness of the hour, he called Frank Hammell. An automated female voice told him the number had not been recognised. He checked and tried again — same result. So he took Darryl Christie’s card from his pocket and punched that number into his phone.
‘Already?’ Christie said, answering straight away.
‘I need to speak to Hammell. I thought I had a number for him.’
‘He changes it every few weeks — he’s worried your lot might be tapping him. Is it anything I can help with?’
‘No.’
‘Care to give me a clue?’
Rebus could hear soft music in the background. As far as he knew, Darryl still lived at home. Maybe he was in his bedroom. ‘It’s nothing important,’ Rebus said.
‘Do you always call people at midnight with stuff that isn’t important?’
Christ, this kid was sharp. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ Rebus said, readying to end the call. But Christie told him to wait. He seemed to be weighing something up. Rebus heard sounds of glasses and coughing. Some sort of bar or club, but nowhere busy. The music sounded recorded.
‘Is that jazz?’ Rebus asked.
‘You like jazz?’
‘Not hugely. And I’d have thought you were about three decades too young for it.’
‘Got a pen on you?’
‘Yes.’
Christie recited Hammell’s new number, which Rebus added to the back of the card before thanking him.
‘I’ll let you in on the secret of jazz,’ the young man said, ‘if you like.’
‘Go on then.’
‘It’s all about control. .’
When the music died, Rebus realised that Christie had ended the call.
He stared at the number jotted on the card, suddenly unwilling to talk to Hammell. He would sleep on it — after adding the number to the list of contacts on his phone.
There was an inch and a half of whisky left in the bottle.
He decided to leave it there and call it a moral victory. ‘It’s all about control,’ he said to himself, sliding the guitar pick back into his pocket and heading for bed.
56
Rebus was leaving the house next morning when a horn sounded. Hammell was beckoning to him from the white Range Rover Sport. Rebus crossed the road as Hammell wound the driver’s-side window down.
‘I need to change addresses,’ Rebus complained. ‘Seems every bugger in creation knows where I live. When did you get back?’
‘Middle of the night. Didn’t seem to be any point sticking around.’ Hammell hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and hadn’t had much sleep either. ‘Darryl seemed to think you’d be calling me.’
‘I was planning to.’
‘Well, here I am.’
‘Here you are,’ Rebus couldn’t help but agree. Hammell was waiting for more. Rebus looked up and down the empty street. ‘Phone might be better, though. .’
‘Why?’
‘Less chance of you being tried for assault.’
Hammell’s eyes narrowed still further. ‘Maybe you should just spit it out.’
Rebus considered his options. ‘Okay then,’ he said, leaning in towards the open window and lowering his voice. ‘Is Annette McKie your daughter?’
The car door swung out suddenly, catching Rebus a glancing blow as he backed away. By the time Hammell got out, Rebus had put some distance between them. They stood in the middle of the road, twelve feet apart.
‘Hell are you saying?’ Hammell snarled.
‘Sure you want to do this here, Frank?’ Rebus indicated the dozens of tenement windows either side of them.
‘She’s fifteen years old,’ Hammell went on, taking a couple of steps towards Rebus, fists bunched. ‘You saying I was doing her mum behind Derek’s back?’
‘I’m saying you’re acting like a parent — tailing her, keeping tabs on her, giving her money, and then having fights about how she spends it and who she sees. And if that’s not the case. .’
‘Which it’s not,’ Hammell spat.
‘Then there’s another scenario we need to discount.’
‘And what’s that?’ Hammell’s eyes were huge and he was breathing heavily, as if pumping himself up for combat.
‘There’s forensic evidence, Frank. A pubic hair that doesn’t belong to Annette. Once the lab get a DNA profile, they’re going to match it against her sexual history. They want to know if it belongs to whoever killed her, or just someone she’d been seeing.’
Rebus had backed away a couple of steps, but Hammell was no longer moving.
‘So I have to ask, Frank — were you and Annette an item? Because if you were, then there’s a good chance of that DNA coming straight back to you. And meantime the team will have been tied up on a wild goose chase, giving the real killer more time to cover his tracks.’
