Standing in another's man grave

Cowan’s desk, he noticed, was as tidy as ever — just in case any of the brass decided to drop by. There was a stapler with the name COWAN on it; Cowan had purchased it himself after each and every one of its predecessors had gone missing. Rebus lifted it from the desk and pocketed it, same as with the others, then headed out of the office and back down the stairs.

It wasn’t a bad day for a drive and he wasn’t in the mood for stopping. He’d filled the Saab on his way to Fettes and knew it was good for the trip north. He promised himself he would book the old warhorse in for a full service and valeting when this was all finished, a little reward for its efforts. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, Nazareth on the CD player, Rebus drove. He wasn’t really thinking about anything other than the journey and its punctuations: the moment a particular section of dual carriageway ended; the passing of landmarks such as the Pitlochry roadworks and House of Bruar; familiar signposts pointing him to places he would most likely never visit, such as the Waltzing Waters and Killiecrankie. There was still a good covering of snow on most of the hills. Sheep continued to graze, inured to the passing parade of trucks, vans and cars. Rebus remembered Siobhan Clarke’s words as they drove towards Chanonry Point: it’s an odd little country this. . hard to fathom. She’d accused him of coming over all defensive — well, it was a natural enough reaction, but in fact he agreed with her. A nation of five million huddled together as if cowed by the elements and the immensity of the landscape surrounding them, clinging to notions of community and shared history, some of them identified or hinted at in the book of legends Nina Hazlitt had given him. Even bogeymen were useful, because if there was a ‘them’, there was also an ‘us’, and if there was a ‘them’, there was someone to blame. .

Aviemore.

Inverness.

Kessock Bridge.

Then Munlochy, Avoch, Fortrose.

Arriving finally at his destination: the row of houses fronting the coastline at Rosemarkie.

There was no sign of Gregor Magrath in the sun porch. The venerable olive-green Land Rover was parked in the same spot as before. Rebus knocked on the door of the cottage and waited. When there was no answer, he peered in through the living room window, noting no movement within. He could just about make out the framed photos on the bookcase. Straightening up, he fought the elements to get a cigarette lit, then stood beside his cooling Saab, gazing towards the distant shore. A dog was barking on the beach, way over to Rebus’s right, its owner lagging many dozens of yards behind. There was a figure by the water’s edge. Rebus shielded his eyes and watched as the man continued to trudge along the tide line. Not bothering to lock the car, he headed in the same direction, the wind flinging granules into his face.

‘Mr Magrath!’ he called. Magrath turned towards him, but then seemed to dismiss him. He had his back to Rebus when Rebus called his name a second time.

‘You again.’ Magrath sounded irritated. He was digging the toe of one shoe into the wet sand, watching each new indentation fill with seawater.

‘What’s the matter?’ Rebus asked. ‘Can’t bear to look me in the eye?’

Magrath accepted the challenge, the two men standing in silence for a moment.

‘How come nobody knows about your brother?’ Rebus enquired, dropping his voice.

‘Kenny? Everybody knows Kenny.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Up here, maybe. But all the times you’ve spoken to Peter Bliss on the phone. . and all the years you were at SCRU. . and when Bliss visited you and I came to your house that last time. .’ Magrath had broken off eye contact, his interest shifting back to the beach beneath his feet. He opened his mouth but said nothing. The only sounds were the breaking of the waves and the stropping of the wind.

‘You’ve always been so interested in SCRU’s caseload, pestering your pal Bliss for details.’

‘Didn’t I start the blessed thing?’ Magrath complained.

‘You did,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But I think there’s more to it than that. A woman called Nina Hazlitt comes to your office one day, and soon afterwards you decide to retire — surprising everyone. SCRU is your baby, and suddenly you don’t want it any more. You’re moving north, moving near to your brother. Not that you’re explaining it to anyone or mentioning his name. .’ When Magrath said nothing, Rebus went on. ‘Nina Hazlitt came to see you because she thought she’d found a thread connecting her daughter’s disappearance to that of Brigid Young. That thread was the A9 itself. She reckons you were kind to her, in that you listened to her story. But you yourself said it — you didn’t make any actual progress, didn’t manage to get anyone else interested in the case.’ Rebus paused. ‘I’m wondering if you even tried.’

Magrath flinched at this and began to trudge back up the beach, Rebus close behind.

‘Your brother does some work at Jim Mellon’s farm. He knows the area pretty well, I’d guess, the amount of driving he must do between jobs.’

‘What are you getting at?’ Magrath’s pace had increased and he was breathing heavily.

‘We both know,’ Rebus said.

‘I’ve not the faintest bloody idea!’

‘Which house is Kenny’s, Mr Magrath? I’d like to have a word with him.’

‘Just leave us alone.’

‘Mr Magrath. .’

The man stopped and spun towards Rebus. ‘Can I see your warrant card? I can’t, can I? Because you’re not a bloody cop! Maybe I should phone and register a complaint. Go back home, Rebus. Just leave us be!’

He stomped away again, Rebus at his heels.

‘What is it you’re afraid of?’ Rebus enquired. He received no answer. ‘Fine, if you want Dempsey and her team here, that can be arranged.’

Magrath had climbed the concrete steps connecting beach to roadway and was making for his cottage, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket.

‘You brought Peter Bliss into SCRU,’ Rebus persisted, ‘so he could be your eyes and ears. That way you’d always know which cases were being reopened. Of course, you could have achieved the selfsame result by staying put, but you needed to be here, somewhere near your brother, rather than the hot countries you preferred. Blood’s thicker than suntan oil, eh, Gregor?’

‘I’m not listening to you.’

‘Just think for a second,’ Rebus argued. ‘It’s a lot easier this way.’

But the door was slammed shut in his face. He watched through the glass as Magrath opened a second door and disappeared into the body of the house. There was a newspaper on the chair inside the porch, folded open at the latest report on the Edderton case. The papers spilling across the floor seemed to be open at similar stories. Rebus thumped on the door with his fist, then rattled the letter box. After a few moments, he took a step back and approached the living room window, just in time to see Gregor Magrath drag the curtains closed. He waited a full minute, then walked to the next cottage along and rang the doorbell. A woman who looked to be in her eighties answered, drying her hands on a tea towel.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus told her with a smile, ‘I was looking for Mr Magrath.’

‘He lives next door.’

‘I mean Kenny — the electrician.’

She pointed along the street. ‘The garden with the swing,’ she explained. ‘But the front door’s round the far side.’

Rebus thanked her and began to stride along the seafront. Beyond the row of cottages stood a few modern detached houses with steeply sloping gardens. The neighbour was right: these homes backed on to the view. Someone had added an octagonal conservatory to one, in front of which stood a metal frame for a swing, but with its seat missing, the frame itself rusting. Rebus headed up the lane at the end of the promenade and then took a left until he found the front door he was looking for. He pressed the bell and heard it ringing somewhere inside. A middle-aged woman opened the door.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘I’m looking for Kenny Magrath.’

‘He’s at work. Is it to do with a job?’

‘When will he be back?’

Her face remained friendly but puzzled. She had a rounded, pleasing figure and curly auburn hair, her eyes the same olive green as her brother-in-law’s Land Rover.