Standing in another's man grave

27

By the end of the day, they felt numb. Ogilvie said he was willing to stay another hour by himself, manning the phone. Clarke shook her head.

‘We all need a break. I’ve asked one of the uniforms to take over until nine. After that, the switchboard will make a note of numbers and say we’ll call them back in the morning. Good work, though, everybody — I mean it.’

These would normally have been Page’s words, but he was at Fettes HQ, attending yet another briefing. Clarke rubbed tension from her forehead as she walked over to the wall map. Rebus was standing in front of it, looking thoughtful.

‘There’ll be more to do tomorrow,’ he advised, ‘with a bit of luck.’

‘The e-fits of the three women? You really think we’ll get sightings?’

‘It would be nice to think so.’ He turned towards her. ‘So what do you make of it?’

She studied the map. ‘How many votes does that make for Edderton?’

‘Four and counting.’

‘Must be just about the whole population.’

Rebus managed a smile. ‘Three for Lochgair, but it’s way over on the west here.’ He tapped the map. ‘Next to Loch Fyne.’

‘And a couple for Durness,’ Clarke added. The map was studded with drawing pins, and a further cluster had been added to the wall beneath the map’s bottom edge.

‘Offerings from England?’ Clarke surmised.

‘And Wales and Northern Ireland.’

She puffed out her cheeks and expelled a blast of air. ‘Isn’t this the sort of thing profilers are supposed to be good at?’

‘Don’t start.’

‘I’m just saying.’ She gave a weary smile. Then, studying the map again: ‘You’re still thinking the A9?’

‘Or just off it.’

‘So that’s — what? — six suggested locations.’

‘Six and counting.’

She nodded slowly, glancing behind her to ensure no one else in the team was close enough to hear. All the same, she lowered her voice. ‘What if it doesn’t mean anything? We narrow it down, maybe even convince ourselves we’ve got the right spot. . what if it tells us nothing?’

‘Then we try something else.’

‘What, though?’

‘Have a bit of faith, Siobhan. If you can say at the end that you put in the hours and tried your damnedest. .’

‘I’m sure the family will send us a nice Thank You card.’

‘They might and they might not.’ Rebus placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Whatever you do tonight, make sure it’s a long way from this.’

She nodded her agreement. ‘Same goes for you,’ she told him.

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I might even have a nice wee drive out into the country. .’

A couple of city pubs first, though. There was a different face on the door at the Gimlet. He was on his phone and didn’t seem to sense any threat in Rebus. The pub itself was busy, same barmaid as on his previous visit. He gave her a wink of recognition but didn’t stay for a drink. His second watering hole of choice was even less gentrified. The Tytler sat in the middle of a housing scheme in the north of the city, half of which was due to be torn down. The Tytler’s clients looked similarly ready to have a demolition notice slapped on them. Again Rebus chose not to linger; a quick word with the monosyllabic barman and he was off again. A longer drive this time, heading west out of the city into the badlands of West Lothian. Broxburn, Bathgate, Blackburn and Whitburn. Tribal towns; ex-mining communities. Jo-Jo Binkie’s was the name above the door of a converted art deco cinema on a main street predominated by closed businesses and For Sale signs. Three hulking doormen gave him their best stare. They all bore armbands on their coats identifying them as SECURITY, and earpieces with a thin cord which disappeared into the space between neck and collar.

‘All right, pal?’ one of them asked Rebus. Plenty of scar tissue on the man’s face, and a nose that had been broken at least once.

‘Fine,’ Rebus said, making to pass him. But a hand stopped him.

‘Meeting someone?’ the doorman enquired.

‘Maybe.’

‘See, it’s Couples’ Night, so unless it’s a threesome you’re after. .’

‘Old folks’ home is down the road,’ one of the other bouncers added. ‘They might do a bit of dancing there.’

Rebus broke into a smile. ‘Mind if I steal that one for my book?’

‘What book would that be?’

‘I’m calling it Fuds Say the Funniest Things.’

The young man moved closer. ‘Fud, am I? Maybe we should go round the back and find out. .’

The third bouncer, who looked the most experienced, had kept his counsel thus far, but now he patted his young colleague on the back.

‘Easy there, Marcus. Our friend’s a police officer.’

Rebus stared Marcus down. ‘He’s right, you know. And the reason I’ve got to the age I have is that I never start a fight I can’t win. Little tip for you there. . wee man.’

Rebus turned his attention to the leader of the group.

‘Who is it you want to see?’ the man asked. Shaven head; neat moustache/beard combo peppered with grey. He too was a survivor.

‘Mr Hammell,’ Rebus told him.

‘He knows you’re coming?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Might not want to see you, then.’

‘Maybe if you tell him it’s about Annette.’

The doorman chewed this over, at the same time working the gum in his mouth.

‘Does Mr Hammell know you?’

Rebus nodded.

‘Okay then. Follow me.’

Inside the foyer lay an acre of red carpet. There were tiny twinkling lights set into the ceiling, and the old box office was where you still paid your entrance money. Behind two sets of swing doors, Rebus could hear pounding dance music and a few drunken female whoops. The doorman had stopped long enough at a narrow stairwell in one corner to unhook a red rope. The sign next to it said STAFF ONLY. They climbed to the balcony area, the walls throbbing from the sound system.

‘That Marcus needs a bouncer of his own,’ Rebus commented.

‘It’s turning into a young man’s game, same as everything else.’

Emerging at the top of the stairs, Rebus saw that some of the old cinema seating remained, rows of plush velour awaiting an audience that would never come. A mirror ball was working hard at entertaining the dancers below. Red and blue lights pulsed. The doorman led Rebus past the back row of seats to an office, where he knocked and entered without waiting to be asked, stranding Rebus on the door’s other side. Half a minute later, he was back, leaving the door open this time and signalling for Rebus to go in.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus said. ‘I mean it.’ The doorman nodded, aware that he was now owed a favour, something he could tuck away in his back pocket for the future.

The office surprised Rebus by being large, bright and modern. Pale wooden furniture, ochre-coloured leather sofa. There were framed publicity shots for old films on the walls, including many Rebus had seen in his youth.

‘Found them when we bought the place,’ Frank Hammell explained. ‘Hundreds of them left to rot in the roof space. I think they were supposed to be insulation.’ He had come from behind his desk to shake Rebus’s hand. He held on to it and asked if there was news.

‘Not much,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Mind if we sit?’

Hammell took one end of the sofa and Rebus the other. Tonight Hammell was wearing stonewashed denims with brown brogues. A silver-tipped belt strained in combat with the gut it encircled. White short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. He ran a meaty hand through his hair.

‘Rob’s a gent,’ he told Rebus, nodding towards the door.

‘Certainly seems to have a bit more grey matter than Doorman Donny at the Gimlet.’

‘Brains and brawn don’t always mix. It’s getting harder to find good guys.’ Hammell gave a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Anyway, I leave the hiring and firing to Darryl. So what brings you here, Rebus?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me where Thomas Robertson is.’

‘Mind if I ask you a question first?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Who the hell is Thomas Robertson?’

Rebus tried staring him out, but Hammell seemed to have played the game before. ‘He’s someone we were questioning,’ he eventually decided to explain.

‘Okay.’

‘And now he’s gone missing.’

‘You think he’s the one who took Annette?’

‘No, but I’m pretty sure you think he did.’

Hammell stretched out both arms, palms upwards. ‘Never heard of him till you walked in,’ he protested.

‘He was part of a road crew working north of Pitlochry. Drove into town and that’s the last anyone saw of him.’

‘So he’s a fugitive?’

‘He’s not been charged with anything.’

‘How come he ended up on your radar, then?’

‘He has a bit of previous.’

‘Abduction?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Assault.’

‘And now you’ve questioned him and let him go?’

‘We searched his sleeping quarters. Didn’t find anything linking him to Annette.’

Hammell was thoughtful. ‘How exactly am I supposed to have known about him?’

‘There was some gossip on the internet.’

‘Only net that interests me is the away team’s at Tynecastle.’ He paused. ‘I saw on the news. . photos of those other women. And the picture Annette sent. . Is there anything I can tell Gail, just something to chase the gloom?’

‘We’ve had plenty of suggestions. Tomorrow or the day after, we’ll be checking the shortlist personally.’

‘No sightings of Annette, though? Her picture’s been everywhere. .’

Rebus didn’t say anything to this. Hammell got up and walked behind his desk, opening a drawer and bringing out a bottle of vodka.

‘Want one?’

When Rebus shook his head, Hammell lifted a single glass from the drawer and poured an inch into it.

‘How’s Annette’s mother doing?’ Rebus asked.

‘How do you think?’

There was no knock at the door. It just opened, and a young man Rebus recognised as Darryl Christie was standing there. He saw that Hammell had a visitor and began to mutter an apology.

‘The two of you should meet,’ Hammell said, gesturing for the young man to come in. Rebus reckoned Christie merited standing up for.

‘We spoke on the phone,’ he explained, extending his hand. ‘I’m John Rebus.’

‘Is it to do with Annette?’

‘Just a progress report,’ Hammell reassured him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Christie’s phone buzzed and he checked the message on the screen. He was a handsome enough lad, and his tailored suit looked brand new. A suit was an interesting choice. It belonged to the world of grown-ups, of serious business. Hammell dressed sloppily because he could afford to: no one was going to misjudge him, whatever he chose to wear. Darryl had to work that bit harder. In denims, there was always the chance he would be mistaken for a nobody.

‘What’s this I hear about photographs?’ Christie asked.

‘Your sister sent one,’ Rebus explained. ‘Or at least, one was sent from her phone. Same thing with a missing person from a few years back. Right now, that’s about as much as we have.’

‘Plus a suspect who’s gone AWOL,’ Hammell interrupted. ‘We’ve not got him locked in the cellar, have we, Darryl?’

‘Not last time I looked.’ Christie’s phone buzzed again, alerting him to a new message.

‘Always the fucking texts,’ Hammell complained. ‘Take him to a show or the best restaurants, he hardly looks up from that bloody phone.’

‘It’s how business gets done,’ Christie muttered, his fingertips busy on the touchscreen.

Hammell wrinkled his nose and caught Rebus’s eye. ‘People like you and me, we prefer things face to face. That was all you had in the old days. Tonight you could have phoned me, but you came in person.’ He nodded his approval. ‘Sure you won’t take that drink?’

‘I’m fine,’ Rebus said.

‘You could offer me one,’ Darryl Christie commented.

‘But then I’d have to pour you into a cab at the end of the night.’

Christie ignored this. He waved his phone in his employer’s direction. ‘I have to deal with this,’ he said, turning and exiting the room.

‘Not even a word of goodbye, eh?’ Hammell shook his head in mock despair. ‘He’s a good kid, though.’

‘How long have you known his mother?’

‘Didn’t you ask me that already?’

‘I don’t recall you answering.’

‘Maybe because it’s still none of your business.’

‘Line of work I’m in, every little detail counts. You knew Darryl’s dad?’

‘Derek was a mate.’ Hammell offered a shrug.

‘Any truth in the rumour you ran him out of town?’

‘Is this coming from your mouth or your pal Cafferty’s?’

‘I’ve told you, he’s not my pal.’

Hammell poured himself another generous shot of vodka. Rebus could smell it. Wasn’t the worst aroma in the world. .

‘Cafferty’s finished anyway. Game over.’ Hammell tipped the glass and drained it.

‘Can you tell me what Annette’s like?’ Rebus asked. ‘Or is that none of my business either?’

‘Annette’s a proper little madam — always needs to get her own way.’

‘I was thinking that,’ Rebus said, nodding his agreement. ‘Her bussing it to Inverness. .’

‘One of my guys would have driven her!’ Hammell growled.

‘You suggested as much?’

‘But she had to do it her way — and see where that got her!’ Hammell made an exasperated sound and started refilling the glass again.

‘You blame her?’

‘If she’d just listened to reason, none of this would be happening.’ He paused, stared down into his glass, swirling its contents. ‘Look, you know me, right? You know who I am. . It annoys me that I can’t do anything to help.’

‘You put up the reward.’

‘And all that’s done is flushed out every nut job and greedy bastard in a four-hundred-mile radius.’

‘I doubt you could be doing anything we’re not. It only gets problematic if you decide to go your own way.’

‘I’ll say it one more time: I don’t know anything about this guy Robertson. But if you need a hand getting him back. .’ Hammell fixed Rebus with a look.

‘I don’t think that’s necessary — or wise.’

Hammell gave a shrug. ‘The offer’s there. And how about that bonus? Bankers can’t be the only ones, eh?’ He had reached into one of the pockets in his jeans and produced a fat wad of what looked like fifty-pound notes.

‘No,’ Rebus said.

‘Aye,’ Hammell stated, reckoning he knew the truth of it. ‘Cafferty already pays you a big enough retainer.’

Rebus decided it was time to go, but Hammell had other ideas.

‘I’d been told you’re like him, and it’s true. You could almost be brothers.’

‘Now I’m feeling insulted.’

Hammell smiled. ‘Don’t be. It’s just that one like Cafferty has always seemed too many.’ He stared into his drink before lifting it to his lips. ‘Shame you didn’t leave well alone in that hospital when you had the chance.’