Standing in another's man grave

43

Mid afternoon. Neither Page nor Clarke had put in an appearance. From her texts, it seemed to Rebus that this was not Clarke’s favoured strategy, but Page had lined up a series of meetings, presumably so he could listen to his own voice, and Clarke had felt obliged to stick with him.

Sandwiches and bottles of water had appeared from somewhere. They filled the back of a patrol car, its doors wide open so people could help themselves. No hot drinks, though Mellon had offered to see what he could do. The Portakabin contained little more than a table and a couple of chairs. There was an Ordnance Survey map of the area on the table, the whole scene reminding Rebus of that first trip to the roadworks outside Pitlochry. A generator was on its way, so that the structure could have both lighting and heat. Another half-hour or so and the search would be called off for the day. Light was fading — at least thirty minutes earlier than in Edinburgh. Rebus was sipping water when the van arrived. It parked at the rear of the line of vehicles. There was no sign of the officer on clipboard duty. A uniform emerged from the driver’s seat and nodded a greeting towards Rebus. Rebus got a bit closer so he could read the writing on the van’s side.

Grampian Police Canine Unit.

The back had been opened and a cage unlocked. A dappled springer spaniel emerged and began a keen examination of the road surface.

‘Long way from home,’ Rebus commented.

‘Northern doesn’t have anyone like Ruby,’ the officer explained.

‘You’ve driven here from Aberdeen?’

The man nodded, his attention focused on the dog.

‘Left it a bit late.’ Rebus studied the sky.

‘Ruby’s not using her eyes, though. Means she can work that bit longer. You in charge?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘DCS Dempsey’s the one you need, but she’s had to head back to Inverness.’

‘Maybe I’ll just get started, then.’ The dog handler looked like he came from farming stock: plenty of girth and a ruddy face, black hair swept back from his forehead. The gate to the field stood open, and Ruby was itching to explore, but she wasn’t going anywhere until given permission.

‘Don’t you need. .?’

‘What?’

‘A bit of cloth or something belonging to the MisPer?’

‘That’s not Ruby’s speciality,’ the officer said.

‘So what is?’

‘She’s a cadaver dog.’ He gave a signal to the spaniel and she bounded across the field in front of him. One of the search teams was arriving back from the hunt, meagre gatherings in their evidence bags. They headed for the Portakabin, so they could record what they’d found and leave the bags on the table. When they went over to the food car, Rebus took a look at their haul. A rusty bottle top, crisp bags and chocolate wrappers, an old paint can, half a brick. .

Bits of twine. .

A few shredded remains of a carrier bag. .

A mouse skeleton. .

Some feathers. .

It was desperate stuff. If the team had looked full of energy at the start, they were now a lot more sombre, pessimism setting in. Rebus had lost sight of the dog handler, but he found him again: already halfway across the field, heading for the line of trees beyond. He was passing another of the search teams as it headed back. One of the officers bent down as if to stroke Ruby, but then straightened up — warned off, Rebus reckoned. Ruby had been trained for work, not play.

There were mutterings at the food car. Phones were being checked for messages, held high in the air as a signal was sought.

‘Better luck tomorrow,’ someone commented.

‘As long as the weather holds.’

Rebus asked about the forecast.

‘Grim,’ he was told.

‘Maybe sleet,’ another voice added. Then: ‘Are you from Edinburgh?’

Rebus nodded.

‘I hate that place,’ the cop said. ‘Cannot bloody stand it.’

‘I’m guessing you’re from Inverness.’

The man scowled at Rebus. ‘Hate that place, too. Dingwall’s good enough for me.’

‘Isn’t it time for your meds, Bobby?’ someone else enquired, causing a few tired smiles.

Half an hour later, the message came through from HQ: call it a day. Dempsey would not be coming back. Someone was given the task of locking the Portakabin.

‘We’re leaving the evidence here overnight?’ Rebus asked.

‘If you can call it evidence. The Chief will take a look at it in the morning and decide what to do.’

‘How much more ground still to cover?’

‘Plenty.’

Rebus watched the teams prepare their escape. There were mutterings from those whose vehicles were stuck the wrong side of the Portakabin — long detours lay ahead of them. Cars had to be manoeuvred past other cars. One got stuck, muddy tyres spinning, and had to be pushed off the verge. As the last patrol car reversed down the lane, the four officers inside gave Rebus a little wave. They were talking about him, breaking into grins. Rebus didn’t bother waving back. The dog-handling van was still there, about twenty yards separating it from Rebus’s Saab. These were the only two vehicles left. Dusk had descended, and Rebus could see about two thirds of the field. There was no sign of Ruby and her colleague. He leaned against his car and smoked a cigarette, stubbing it out afterwards into the Saab’s ashtray — didn’t want to leave anything behind that could be misread as a clue. Not that this seemed to have occurred to the search teams. Crusts of bread and bits of sweetcorn were scattered on the roadway next to where the food car had been. There was even a discarded plastic water bottle in the ditch. Rebus picked it up and threw it on to his passenger seat.

A waste of time, maybe, but all the same. .

Another fifteen minutes or so and it would be pitch black — no street light of any kind out here. He could already pick out a few stars in the sky, and the temperature was dropping. He sounded his horn three times, in the hope that the dog handler would get the message. When he heard a whistle, he reckoned it was in response, but it came again, and again after that — more urgently. It wasn’t the sort of sound you made when you were communicating with your dog, and it was followed by a shout from somewhere the other side of the field. Rebus couldn’t see anything. He knew from the search team’s footwear that the field was far from dry. No torch in his Saab, meaning he’d only have the light from his phone’s screen if he happened to get lost.

Another cry.

‘Bollocks,’ Rebus said to himself, setting out through the gate.

The field contained dips and shallow hollows, and this was where it was most treacherous. Rebus felt himself sink up to his ankles. He cursed again but kept moving, breathing heavily. A fence separated the field from the trees beyond. It was the best part of four feet in height, topped with a strand of barbed wire. Rebus peered beyond it.

‘You there?’ he called out.

‘Here,’ the dog handler said.

‘Where?’

A thin beam of light appeared. The woods were deeper than Rebus had expected. Ruby and her master were somewhere within. Rebus looked at the fence, then to left and right, seeking a stile or another gate. Seeing neither, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the barbed wire, easing one leg over the fence, then the other. His trousers snagged on something and he heard them tear. One jagged tine had pierced coat and trouser leg both.

‘Bastard,’ he said under his breath. He sank up to his ankles again, almost losing a shoe as he pulled himself up a low bank and into the woods.

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘Here,’ the dog handler said, shining the small torch again. ‘Can you go fetch a team?’

‘They’ve all gone.’ Rebus could see both dog and man. Ruby was seated on the damp ground, tail wagging, tongue lolling. ‘What is it?’ Rebus asked, trying to catch his breath. In answer, the handler directed the torch to a spot just beyond Ruby. The dog turned her head in the same direction, licking her chops. The earth had been disturbed, and Rebus knew what it was he was being shown.

An all-too-human hand, jutting up from the makeshift grave.

‘Christ,’ he hissed.

‘Thing is,’ the officer said, playing the torch over the clearing, ‘I don’t think Ruby’s done yet — not by a long chalk.’