Standing in another's man grave

47

Late in the afternoon they reconvened at Northern Constabulary HQ in Inverness. Dempsey was due to host a press conference at the top of the hour, but wanted her team to hear the news first. The mood was solemn. Photographs were handed round. According to the pathologist’s report, all five corpses were women, but only one was readily identifiable. Rebus stared at the face of Annette McKie. Her eyes were closed and bits of earth still clung to her eyelashes, hair and ear lobes.

‘Manual strangulation,’ Dempsey was intoning. ‘We may even get lucky and come up with a thumbprint. You’ll see signs of bruising to the neck, especially around the voice box. Large hands, the pathologist says. Judging by decomposition and insect activity, victim has been deceased for between twenty and twenty-five days.’ She looked up at the room. ‘Three weeks today since she was abducted, so I think it’s fair to say she wasn’t kept alive for long.’ Dempsey returned to her notes. ‘From the visual evidence, I’m prepared to name the victim as Annette McKie, but the family are on their way from Edinburgh to make the formal identification.’

‘Did the other victims die the same way?’ someone asked, interrupting Dempsey’s flow. She glowered at the miscreant.

‘No way of telling. Deterioration is too advanced. All the pathologist would say is that she can’t see initial signs of stab wounds or gunshots on any of them. Regarding Annette McKie, there’s probable sexual activity, but as yet no indications of forced penetration. Pathologist’s got a mountain ahead of her, however, and we can’t expect a full report for a few more days. We have the particulars of the missing women provided by our friends at Lothian and Borders, and those will be useful in the preliminary stages. I have to stress that we don’t know for sure who the other victims are. I don’t want any of you jumping to conclusions.’

There were nods and grunts of acknowledgement. Clarke had raised her hand. Dempsey considered for a moment before deciding to grant permission for a question.

‘Who’s ID’ing Annette McKie?’

‘One of her brothers, I think. Apparently her mother’s in bits. Probably been watching the live feed on TV.’ The mention of TV caused her to glance at her watch. ‘I need to get ready to face the jackals,’ she said. ‘We can have another confab after. Meantime, thinking caps firmly on heads. I want constructive ideas — as many as you can throw at me. Now, back to your posts, everybody.’

As the meeting broke up, Page lunged forward, ready to press his case for inclusion in the media conference. Rebus turned to face Siobhan Clarke.

‘We don’t have “posts”, do we?’

She looked around the room. ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘we don’t.’

‘Nor do we have a place to sleep tonight — unless we risk the hotel.’

‘Another good point.’

‘And the pair of us still need boots of some kind.’

She couldn’t deny it: her shoes were caked with mud from earlier. ‘Are you suggesting a shopping trip?’

‘And maybe a quick visit to the tourist office — check out the bed-and-breakfast situation.’

Clarke was staring towards Page. Page was smiling at Dempsey, bowing his head in gratitude. He was in. ‘We’ll only be an hour,’ Rebus pressed her.

‘Fine,’ Siobhan Clarke said through gritted teeth.

They were walking back into Northern Constabulary HQ with the address of a willing guest house when the press pack’s interest was aroused. A car was arriving, a white Range Rover Sport with tinted rear windows. Frank Hammell was driving, Darryl Christie in the passenger seat, his attention focused on the screen of his phone. A few photos were taken, TV cameras hoisted to shoulders, but otherwise they were allowed some room and a bit of respect as they parked in the bay allotted to them and got out. No one thrust a microphone into their faces while demanding to know their reaction to the news. Rebus ended up holding the door open for Hammell and Christie, neither man seeming to recognise him, perhaps because they were avoiding all eye contact.

While the two men gave their names at the reception desk, Rebus and Clarke flashed their respective IDs and preceded them into the body of the building.

‘Dempsey must be meeting them here,’ Clarke said in an undertone.

‘Nicer than the mortuary.’

‘That’s still where they’ll end up, though. .’

True, Rebus thought. He had been present dozens of times as relations and friends — mums and dads; partners; lovers — watched the uncovering of the sheeted figure. They would blink away tears, maybe utter a gasp or a choking sound, and be asked to verify the identity of the person lying coldly inert in front of them. Never a task to be relished, and Rebus had always proved hopeless afterwards, not quite finding the right words, the comforting phrase. They usually all wanted the same reassurance: that he or she hadn’t suffered.

It would have been quick. That was what you were supposed to say, no matter how untrue. Smashed-in skulls, cigarette burns, broken fingers and gouged eyes. . It would have been quick.

‘What do we do now?’ Clarke was asking.

‘Let’s see what the boss thinks.’

She glanced at him. ‘Told you you’d run out of song titles sooner or later.’

Page was on his phone in the teeming inquiry room. When he spotted Clarke and Rebus, he ended the call and made his way towards them.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.

‘Buying boots,’ Clarke answered. ‘And finding rooms for tonight so we’re well away from the media scrum. How did the press conference go?’

‘She did well.’ The praise sounded grudging. Page fixed Rebus with a look. ‘She wants you to brief the team.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s traced the timeline all the way back to you and your missing persons. That’s what she needs from you: the details of all those cases.’

‘Two of them we only just found out about.’

‘The other three, then. I’ve already briefed on Annette McKie.’

‘We’re one body short,’ Clarke added. ‘Six A9 victims, five recovered.’ It was her turn to look at Rebus. ‘Are you going to tell them you think Sally Hazlitt’s still alive?’

‘I probably should,’ Rebus determined. Then, to Page: ‘When’s this briefing scheduled for?’

‘About five minutes from now.’

‘I suppose if we hadn’t turned up in time, you’d have been happy to fill my shoes?’

Page opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

‘I need to go for a slash,’ Rebus said into the silence. Then, to Clarke: ‘You going to tell him Hammell and Darryl have arrived?’

Clarke was doing just that as Rebus made his exit. As he headed down the corridor, however, he came face to face with Frank Hammell and Darryl Christie as a uniform led them towards Dempsey’s office.

‘For a retired crock,’ Hammell said, placing him eventually, ‘you don’t half get about a bit.’

Rebus focused his attention on Darryl, who was only now looking up from his phone. ‘Sorry about your sister,’ he offered. ‘How’s your mum doing?’

‘How do you think she’s doing?’ Hammell snarled. Rebus ignored him.

‘What about you, Darryl? You all right?’

The young man nodded. ‘What happens now?’ he asked calmly.

‘You’ll be taken to the hospital for the identification.’

‘And you’re sure it’s her?’

Rebus nodded slowly. Darryl’s mouth twitched and he lowered his eyes to the screen of his phone again, fingers busy texting.

‘Some bastard’s going to pay big time,’ Hammell spat.

‘This probably isn’t the place to be saying that,’ Rebus warned him.

‘It’s true, though.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘And none of your lot better find themselves in my way.’

A door opened further along the corridor. Dempsey stood there, wondering what was taking her visitors so long.

‘Is everything all right?’ she called out.

Hammell had time for one last glare in Rebus’s direction before shouldering past him and walking towards her. Rebus held a hand out towards Darryl Christie, but the young man ignored it, attention focused on his phone as he followed Hammell into Dempsey’s office.