‘And the search?’
‘Hasn’t turned up a damned thing. I get the feeling Dempsey’s going to give James and me our ticket home today.’
‘Best talk to her quick, then — in person rather than on the phone.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing Edinburgh again.’
‘It’s been pining for you, believe me. It’s crying on my shoulder as I speak.’ Rebus arched his face towards the rain. It was only a shower, the sky to the west brightening already.
‘So what are you up to today?’ she asked him.
‘Clearing my desk in
‘And that’s it?’
‘Game over, especially if the Complaints have their way.’
‘You’ve done so much on this case, John. Someone needs to tell them that.’
‘I’m sure my fan club’s queuing up with testimonials.’ He paused. ‘So you’ll talk to Dempsey?’
‘She’s bound to ask me how I know.’
‘“Information received”.’
‘She won’t like that.’
‘Not much she can do about it — you’re coming home soon. I’ve ordered balloons and everything.’
‘Come to think of it, I’ve got to brief her anyway — serial killers and their disposal sites.’
‘Did you dig up anything from the trusty internet?’
‘Only that there’s usually a reason — the most basic being that it’s in the vicinity of where they live. Or, to put it another way, their “spatial behaviour” is “empirically modelled”.’
‘I preferred your first answer.’
‘Thought you might.’
When they’d finished speaking, he headed upstairs. The office felt a bit like limbo. With Page and Clarke absent, and the case hijacked by Dempsey and her team, no one really had anything to do. Plenty of hard work; no real sense of achievement.
‘Glad to see you so idle,’ Rebus said, ‘because I need a hand shifting all these boxes. .’
In the end, Esson and Ogilvie helped take everything down to the Saab. Esson asked if the files were heading to Inverness. He told her he didn’t know, and she suggested they be kept at Gayfield Square, just in case.
‘If I’m not staying here, neither are they,’ Rebus explained to her.
Afterwards, they celebrated with mugs of tea (and hot water) and the remnants of a packet of Bourbons.
‘No new marvels to report from that computer of yours?’ Rebus asked Esson.
She shook her head, taking tiny nibbles of her biscuit while Ogilvie dunked his in his tea before sucking the life from it.
‘Best put your feet up while you can, then,’ Rebus went on. ‘Looks like Page might be back here by day’s end.’
‘And you’re headed back to Fettes?’ Ogilvie asked.
‘Not for long — SCRU’s been earmarked for closure.’
‘So what’ll you do?’ The question had come from Esson. Rebus made show of shrugging his shoulders.
‘Carpet bowls maybe;
When she grinned, it made her look younger than ever.
‘Been good working with the pair of you, though,’ Rebus conceded, taking a last look around the office and gracing everyone with a wave as he made his exit. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and watched Dave Ormiston climb towards him, reading from a sheaf of papers. Ormiston spotted him and managed a thin smile.
‘Is this me getting my desk back?’ he asked.
Rebus nodded slowly.
‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’ Ormiston’s hand was out, but Rebus refused to take it and the man stiffened.
‘Here’s the thing,’ Rebus said. ‘All that nosiness of yours on the phone, it got me thinking about Big Ger Cafferty.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘See, Cafferty knew about that CCTV from the bus station when there was no way he should have.’
‘It’s an open secret he’s a pal of yours.’
‘But you and I know differently, don’t we, Dave? We know he’s got someone in his pocket — someone based right here.’ Rebus leaned in towards Ormiston until their faces were only a couple of inches apart. ‘Time you stopped being so chatty, or I might have to gather up a few brownie points from the Complaints. Ever seen them in action, Dave? They’ll go through your phone and computer. They’ll look at your spending habits. They’ll find stuff. And that’ll be the big cheerie-bye to your pension.’ Rebus paused. ‘Fair warning — walk away from Cafferty, and keep walking.’
Back at the Saab, Rebus reached across the dashboard and lifted the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign. He started up the steps, readying to hand it back at the front desk. Then he paused. After all, no one had requested it, had they?
He had only driven fifty or so yards in the direction of Broughton Street when his phone buzzed. It was Siobhan Clarke.
‘Problem with Dempsey?’ he guessed, lifting the phone to his ear.
‘Are you near a television?’
‘No.’ He looked to left and right. Plenty of pubs he could dart into.
‘I’ll try for a screen-grab, then. Give me two minutes.’
The phone went dead. Rebus pulled over, slipped the sign back into place on the dashboard and walked into the nearest watering hole. When the barman asked what he could do for him, Rebus told him he could change channels for a start.
‘Sky or BBC News,’ he guessed.
There were no customers to complain, so the man did as he was told. When the BBC turned out to be focusing on a story about Afghanistan, he switched to Sky, where a reporter was interviewing Jim Mellon, the farmer from Edderton. But they were already cutting back to the studio, and Rebus hadn’t even caught the headline. He got on his phone and told Clarke what he’d seen.
‘I’ve sent you a photo,’ she said. ‘№ 3G here, so it might take a while.’
‘Has there been a break?’
‘A break? No, they’re just talking to the farmer for want of anybody more interesting. Half the news teams have already skedaddled back to wherever they came from. Call me when the picture gets there.’
‘Can’t you just tell me?’
‘Might be nothing.’ She paused. ‘Probably is.’
The phone went dead again and Rebus stared at the screen, willing Clarke’s message to arrive. The barman asked if he wanted a drink while he waited.
‘Half of IPA, then,’ Rebus obliged. It was poured, presented to him, paid for and demolished before his phone let him know he had one new message. When he opened it, he was looking at the scene from the TV interview — newscaster plus Mellon. They were in the farmyard, and close behind them stood a small white van with a name on the side in thick black capitals.
MAGRATH.
Rebus called Clarke back. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Reckon it’s coincidence?’
‘Not such an unusual surname.’
‘Actually it is — spelled that way. I just checked the local phone book.’
‘You think Gregor Magrath runs some sort of business?’
‘Google to the rescue — there’s just one “Magrath’s” within about fifty miles. An electrician, based in Rosemarkie.’
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘Did he act like an electrician to you?’
‘Seemed more your typical pensioner. And the van wasn’t there either, was it?’
