‘As if you had a choice.’ She was smiling at him above the rim of the coffee mug.
‘Remember: you’re the only cop here. If Fox and his crew ever get wind of this. .’
‘I’d be scuppering my chances of joining the Complaints.’
‘You want to work for Fox?’
‘He told me I’d be good at it — I think he meant it in a kind way.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Do you fancy it?’
‘I’d have to take a vow of silence, wouldn’t I?’
‘About me, you mean?’ Rebus blew another stream of smoke out of the window.
‘The stuff I could tell them. .’
‘True enough,’ he said, stubbing out the cigarette on the ledge before flicking it into the void.
68
On Monday, they were in position by three thirty, parked on Rosemarkie’s narrow main street, Clarke’s Audi tucked in between two other vehicles, pointing south. Rebus’s reasoning: after grabbing Magrath, this was the way they would come — unless they wanted to end up in Cromarty.
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Clarke had replied. The shop windows were illuminated, and locals walked past carrying bags of groceries. Rebus and Clarke had checked out Magrath’s workshop, but there was nowhere to park that wasn’t conspicuous. Rebus was passing the time explaining to Clarke that it was Darryl Christie who had abducted Thomas Robertson.
‘Darryl’s the one who’s always surfing the web — that’s how he’d have learned we’d lifted someone from the road crew at Pitlochry. Easy enough to find him, have him followed to the Tummel Arms and then snatch him.’
‘And smack him about?’
‘To get him to talk. But then comes news that it can’t have been him after all, so they dump him in Aberdeen.’
‘Why Aberdeen?’
Rebus watched as a car drove past — no one he knew inside. ‘Maybe because Frank Hammell has friends there, meaning we’d go on thinking it was him behind it and not his spotty wee lieutenant.’
Clarke nodded her understanding.
‘Something I wanted to ask you,’ Rebus went on.
‘What?’
‘Fox told me he was easing off for the time being — you didn’t have a word with him, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Says he wants me back in CID so he can nab me good and proper.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Have you signed the forms?’
‘There’s still a good chance I’ll fail the physical.’
‘Hard to disagree.’
‘Thanks a bunch.’
Another car: driven by a young woman.
‘Will Magrath pass by here?’ Clarke asked.
‘Depends where he’s been working.’
‘Assuming he’s started back to work in the first place.’
‘I didn’t say the plan was perfect.’ Rebus checked the time. Daylight was fading fast. When he looked up again, he saw the black Mercedes M-Class.
‘Clickety-click,’ he told Clarke, turning away so his face wouldn’t be visible to anyone in the approaching vehicle. Clarke had her own head angled forward, as if fussing with the Audi’s stereo.
‘Four of them, I think,’ she said as she straightened up again, peering into the rear-view mirror.
‘Darryl in the passenger seat,’ Rebus confirmed.
‘Not a bad start.’ She exhaled, releasing some of the tension. ‘They’re even a bit early.’
‘They need time to scope the place out.’
‘If Christie’s the cautious sort, he’ll be looking for traps.’ She was starting the ignition.
‘What’s your thinking?’
‘Move the car a bit further along, maybe tuck ourselves down a side road. We know what we’re on the lookout for — a huge black Merc heading south.’
‘You’re worried they’ll come back and spot us?’
‘Yes.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. It didn’t take long to find what they needed. They parked again, facing the main drag, and Clarke switched the engine off, before changing her mind and switching it on again.
‘A bit of warmth,’ she explained, turning the heater up.
‘Good idea.’ The dashboard gave the outside temperature as five degrees. There would be a frost later — the skies were clear, a couple of stars already visible. Rebus held his hands in front of the air vent, rubbing them together.
Twenty minutes later, they both spotted Magrath’s van, the name prominent on its side.
‘Headed for the lock-up,’ Rebus stated.
‘There’s still time for a change of strategy,’ Clarke argued. ‘Confront them then and there.’
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘We need him scared, remember.’
‘My way’s less risky.’
‘Just don’t lose them.’
‘Are you saying my driving’s not up to it?’
Rebus gave her a look, then focused on the road. A couple of minutes for Kenny Magrath to reach the lock- up. . bundled into the car. . They’d want to be quick. But what if someone from the pub had stepped out for a cigarette? Or a bus full of inquisitive locals was passing? Rebus had seldom known time to creep so slowly. And just as he was about to open his mouth and say something to that effect. .
‘Van!’ Clarke called out. Heading back the way it had come, MAGRATH on its side. The shape behind the steering wheel was not Kenny Magrath — too short, too wiry. The black Merc was only a few seconds behind, its occupants hard to discern. Clarke began to follow, keeping her distance. When a delivery lorry came up behind her, she slowed to let it overtake. She’d studied the road map, knew there were few options for the Merc. There were manoeuvres the driver could make to check he wasn’t being followed — slowing to a near stop; pulling over and biding his time; doubling back and finding a different route. But right now the Audi was hidden from view by the delivery lorry.
The first real decision came at Munlochy; the Merc stayed on the A832.
‘Next it’ll be the Tore roundabout,’ Rebus said. ‘Then the A9 south.’
‘If your hunch is right,’ Clarke cautioned.
‘So little faith.’ Rebus managed the beginnings of a smile, but Clarke knew he was nervous — it wasn’t her driving that was making him grip the passenger-side door handle.
When they reached the dual carriageway, the convoy followed the signs to Inverness. Rebus craned his neck to see what was happening past the lorry.
‘They’re leaving it for dead,’ he informed Clarke, so she signalled and moved out to overtake. The Mercedes had passed the van but seemed to want to stay close to it.
‘They could be strangling Magrath right now, you know,’ Clarke commented.
‘They could,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Might have nothing but a corpse on our hands at the other end.’
‘We might at that.’
