60

‘What are you doing here?’ Gillian Dempsey asked.

‘Trying to see you,’ Rebus said. He’d been waiting for her outside Northern Constabulary HQ for over an hour. ‘I got the front desk to buzz up to you.’

‘I’ve been rather busy.’ She was walking towards her car. Her driver already had the rear door open for her. Dempsey was trying to control the sheaf of papers tucked under her arm while still hanging on to her shoulder bag and briefcase. The few journalists waiting on the pavement seemed to know better than to expect any of their questions to be answered. They were kept at a distance anyway, courtesy of two uniformed officers who had somehow merited their thankless task.

‘They wouldn’t let me in,’ Rebus went on, walking beside Dempsey. ‘My ID wasn’t good enough.’

‘We’ve had our fair share of gawpers,’ Dempsey explained. ‘Even a few reporters trying their luck.’

‘Including your nephew?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking. She stopped and gave him a hard stare.

‘What is it you want, Rebus?’

‘I think I’m on to something.’

‘So write it up and Page can run it by me.’

‘We need to cut a few corners here.’

‘Why?’

‘Because otherwise we’re giving him time to dispose of any evidence.’

She thought for a moment. ‘In other words, he knows you suspect him?’

‘Sorry about that.’

Dempsey sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Get in the car,’ she said. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got to say.’

Rebus didn’t know the destination or how long he might have, so he spoke quickly, making a few mistakes which he then had to go back and correct. Dempsey sat next to him, the armrest pulled down between them. Classical music was playing softly — her choice rather than the driver’s, Rebus reckoned. She asked the occasional question, and only met his eyes when he’d finished talking.

‘That’s it?’ she said. ‘That’s all you’ve got?’

‘I’ve had worse hunches.’

‘Oh, I can believe that.’ She started checking messages on her phone. ‘But we’re up to our eyes. People are screaming for a result, and we’ve had every lunatic on the planet phoning us to assist — either shopping themselves or some neighbour they don’t like. There are spiritualists who are in touch with the victims, and ghost-hunters who just need access to the site for a night. Every last shred has to be logged and added to the pile, and now you come riding back into town with a hunch?’

She shook her head slowly, then gave a laugh that only came, Rebus suspected, because the alternative would have been a bellow of frustration and rage.

‘It’s pretty straightforward,’ Rebus reasoned. ‘Search his home, garage and van. Check CCTV at the Pitlochry petrol station for the day Annette McKie disappeared. Then interview him concerning his whereabouts on the days the other women were abducted.’

‘Well, I’m glad one of us has it all figured out.’

‘Killers usually live in the vicinity of their disposal sites.’

‘You got that from your friend Clarke.’

‘Kenny Magrath knows Edderton.’

She studied him, as if for the very first time. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said. ‘Exhausted and hung-over. When was the last time you can truthfully say you were thinking straight? Head lucid, no jumble or muddle?’

‘Are we talking about me or you?’

‘We’re talking about you.’

‘Because I can see how a case like this would grind you down until you just wanted it all to go away.’

‘I’ve got work to do, Rebus. Actual work — not just jumping to conclusions. Don’t forget, we may still be one body short — despite that previous “hunch” of yours about Sally Hazlitt.’

‘Sally Hazlitt’s alive,’ Rebus stated. ‘I met up with her in Glasgow.’

‘What?’

‘She was running away from her father’s attentions. As of now, she’s still running.’

‘Why am I only hearing this now?’

‘Because it doesn’t change the facts. There’s a killer out there and I’ve just given you a name.’

‘I need more than a name! I’ve got dozens of names! How dare you not tell me about meeting that girl!’

‘You should have asked for the files,’ he couldn’t help snapping back at her.

Her face darkened further as she turned towards her driver. ‘Alex, stop the car! At once!’ Then, to Rebus: ‘This is where you get out.’

The car had screeched to a halt. Rebus made no effort to open the door.

‘I’m telling you,’ he ploughed on, ‘the longer you leave this, the more stupid you’re going to look.’

‘Alex,’ Dempsey said, her tone alerting her driver to what was needed. He got out and came round to Rebus’s side of the car, hauling open the door.

‘Bring him in,’ Rebus was saying as Dempsey’s man gripped him by his lapels. He shared a final few seconds of eye contact with her before finding himself on the pavement, the driver slamming the door closed. Rebus bent a little so he could peer in, but Dempsey was facing the other way.

‘Cheers, Alex!’ Rebus called out, giving the driver a little wave. ‘Mind how you go!’ The car signalled and moved off again, easing into the stream of traffic, leaving Rebus standing by the side of a busy arterial road.

Somewhere on the outskirts of Inverness, with no idea how to get back to his Saab.

‘Nicely played yet again, John,’ he muttered to himself, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.

In the end, it was a thirty-five-minute walk, with just the one fellow pedestrian issuing a set of erroneous directions. .

The lock-up was easy to find — he just went to the pub and asked. The pub was on a sharp bend in the road at the northern end of Rosemarkie, at the top of the lane leading down to the beach and the homes of both Magrath brothers. The lock-up was directly across from it, next to a modern bungalow, a low brick wall separating the two. There was a gravel parking area in front, and that was where Rebus’s Saab ended up. The wooden doors to the garage were held fast by a padlock. There was just the one window, protected on the outside by chicken wire and with what looked like a polythene carrier bag pinned to the inside, blocking prying eyes. Rebus returned to his car and switched the CD player back on. Nothing to do but wait. He had purchased supplies at the pub — two packets of cheese and onion crisps and two small bags of salted peanuts. He still had a half-full bottle of water on the passenger seat. There was very little traffic. As far as he knew, the road led only to Cromarty. He checked the map and saw that it was the A832. With his finger he traced the route back to the A9, and from there all the way south to Perth. Then back up again, this time staying on the A9 until the Dornoch Firth, heading inland towards Tongue. His finger rested there as he remembered the view from Samantha’s house, and the interior visible through the living room window, giving him hints and clues to her life. Durness and Laxford and Colaboll and Lairg, then Edderton. Rebus pressed the palm of his hand against the Saab’s steering wheel.

‘A lot of ground we’ve covered, old-timer,’ he told the car.

When the CD ended, he tried the radio, but the signal came and went, leaving the choice of ceilidh music or nothing. So he swapped John Martyn for some early Wishbone Ash and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes.

When he woke up, it was to absolute silence. His neck was stiff as he angled his head towards his watch. He couldn’t read the dial, so he switched on his phone instead. Two in the morning. The pub was in darkness. He took a slug of water and got out, walking over to the lock-up and relieving himself against its side wall. Back in the Saab, he checked his phone for messages, but there weren’t any. He rubbed some feeling back into his arms and legs. The temperature was not going to drop as far as zero tonight: too much cloud cover. He stared at the padlock on the door in front of him for a while, then felt his vision blurring and closed his eyes again.

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