Having returned to the guest house, Rebus stayed in his room long enough to give his phone a bit of a charge and check the quickest route to Aberdeen. The A96 seemed to be the answer. It was a trip of a hundred miles, though, which caused him to hesitate. On the other hand, as soon as he was well enough, there was nothing to stop Robertson doing a runner. Tonight might be Rebus’s only chance. As he crept down the stairs and out of the three-storey house, he wondered how he was going to break the news to the sleeping Saab.
It was well after eleven when he reached Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. He hadn’t been to the city in years and didn’t recognise any landmarks along the route. Oil was Aberdeen’s core business, and the industrial units he passed all seemed to be oil-related. He got lost a couple of times before chancing on a sign that pointed him towards the hospital. He parked in the area reserved for ambulances and headed inside. The reception area was claustrophobic, and whoever manufactured beige paint had made a killing here. The bleary-eyed front desk sent him to the lifts, and he emerged a couple of floors up, pushing open the doors to the ward and explaining to the only duty nurse around that he was a police officer and needed to talk to a patient called Robertson. There were eight beds, seven of them filled. One man was awake, plugged into headphones and with a book held in front of him. The others all seemed to be asleep, one of them snoring loudly. There was a light over Thomas Robertson’s bed, and Rebus switched it on, illuminating the pulpy face. Eyes blackened; chin gashed and sporting thick black stitches. The nose – presumably broken – had been strapped. There was a folder at the foot of the bed, and Rebus opened it. One broken toe, two broken fingers, one cracked rib, a tooth missing, damage to the kidneys . . .
‘Someone did a job on you, Tommy,’ Rebus said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. There was a jug of water on the cabinet next to the bed, and he poured himself a glass, gulping it down. His head was throbbing from the drive, palms tingling after so long at the steering wheel. He opened the cabinet and reached in for Robertson’s wallet. Credit cards and driving licence, plus forty pounds in cash.
No mugging, just as Ormiston had said. Rebus replaced the wallet. Handkerchief, small change, belt, watch – this last with its face smashed. He closed the cabinet again and leaned forward, so his mouth was inches from Robertson’s ear.
‘Tommy?’ he said. ‘Remember me?’ He reached out a finger and pressed it against the sleeping man’s temple. Robertson’s eyes fluttered and he gave a low moan. ‘Tommy,’ Rebus repeated. ‘Time to wake up.’
Robertson did so with a jolt, which quickly turned into a wince of pain, his whole body seeming to spasm.
‘Evening,’ Rebus said by way of greeting.
It took Robertson a few moments to get his bearings. He licked dry lips before fixing his puffy eyes on his visitor.
‘Who are you?’ he asked in a dry croak.
Rebus refilled the glass with water and held it to Robertson’s lips so he could sip.
‘The cop shop in Perth,’ Rebus reminded him. ‘I was the one standing by the wall.’ He placed the glass back on the cabinet.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve just got a couple of questions about Frank Hammell.’
‘Who?’
Rebus described Hammell and waited. Robertson blinked and tried to shake his head.
‘No?’ Rebus said. ‘So maybe he’s telling the truth for once when he says he doesn’t know you either. Thing is, though, somebody did this.’
‘I was jumped, that’s all there is to it.’ There was a lot of sibilance when he spoke, the air whistling through the freshly made gap where a tooth used to be.
‘Jumped?’
‘Some wee bastards.’
‘Wee bastards who didn’t bother taking any of your stuff? And this happened down by the docks?’
‘Docks?’
‘Where do you think you are, Tommy?’ Rebus gave a thin smile. ‘You don’t know, do you? They lifted you from behind the pub in Pitlochry and took you somewhere. Kept you there until they were sure you had nothing to do with Annette McKie – that’s a bit of news for you, by the way: they’ve found her body in some woods up past Inverness. Four other bodies next to her. So you’re off our list of contenders. Might explain why you’re here rather than in a shallow grave somewhere.’
Rebus saw that he’d hit a chord. Robertson’s eyes were suddenly fearful.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ Robertson said, trying to shake his head. ‘I keep telling you – I got jumped.’
‘And which city did you get jumped in, Tommy? No, you were brought here and dumped here.’ Rebus paused. ‘Anyway, Hammell’s probably finished with you now. But as a wee insurance policy, you need to tell me it was him.’
‘How many times do I have to say it? I’ve never heard of the guy.’
The nurse was standing at the foot of the bed. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked in a stage whisper.
‘I need to sleep,’ Robertson told her.
‘Of course you do.’
‘Am I due another painkiller?’
‘In two hours.’
‘If I had it now, maybe I’d sleep through till morning.’
The nurse had placed a hand on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘You have to be leaving now, before you wake the other patients.’
‘Five more minutes.’
But she was shaking her head.
‘Off you go,’ Robertson said.
‘I can come back tomorrow.’
‘Come back as often as you like. I’ll tell you the exact same thing you heard tonight.’ Robertson focused his attention on the nurse. ‘It isn’t right I’m being grilled like this. Not when I’m in so much pain . . .’
‘I’ve driven a long way to see you, you little shite-bag.’
‘You’re leaving right now,’ the nurse said, tightening her grip on Rebus’s shoulder. ‘Or I’ll have you forcibly removed.’
Rebus debated whether it was worth standing his ground. Instead, he got to his feet.
‘I’ll see you around,’ he told Robertson, pressing down on the back of the man’s hand, the hand with the two strapped fingers. Robertson let out a wail loud enough to silence the snorer and wake the other patients.
‘He might be needing that medication early after all,’ Rebus informed the nurse, before making for the lifts.
That night, in a hotel room provided and paid for by Northern Constabulary, Darryl Christie sat at a desk with his laptop plugged in and his phone charging. He had already spoken to his mother and brothers, plus a neighbour who was keeping an eye on all three of them. Afterwards, he had called his father, telling him about the identification without bothering to add that Frank Hammell had also been present. Eventually it was the turn of Morris Gerald Cafferty.
‘How are you holding up?’ Cafferty asked.
‘Never mind that. This blows a hole in your notion that it has anything to do with Frank.’
‘Granted.’
‘So why am I even talking to you?’
‘Because whatever happens, you’re still a kid with ambition.’
‘I’m not a “kid”. And all that stuff you told me about Frank’s enemies – what made you think I wouldn’t rank you among them?’
‘Abduction’s not my style, Darryl. Nobody innocent ever gets hurt.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Other people might disagree, but I like to think I have standards.’
‘I’m not sure that squares with some of the stories about you.’
‘Stories told by Hammell, no doubt.’
‘Not just Frank, though. Lots of disappearances; lots of the wrong people ending up behind bars . . .’
‘These are changed days, Darryl.’
‘Exactly my point. You belong in the history books, Cafferty.’
‘Easy, son . . .’
‘I’m not your son – I’m not your son and I’m not a kid!’
‘Whatever you say, Darryl. I know you’re under a l
ot of strain and all.’
‘You don’t know the first thing about me.’
Christie ended the call and ignored the phone when Cafferty tried ringing back. He busied himself with his laptop, slotting home the memory stick, Cafferty’s words echoing in his head.
Nobody innocent ever gets hurt . . .
Tell that to Thomas Robertson.
49
‘You don’t look like you slept much,’ Clarke said next morning at breakfast.
Rebus was last down, having managed a rudimentary shave and a shower under a dribble of tepid water.
‘Where’s Page?’ he asked.
‘Already gone to HQ.’ Clarke was trying not to bristle.
‘I take it your services were not required.’
The owner of the guest house had started clearing the other two tables. She wore a blue check apron over her stylish clothes, and had made an effort with her make-up, not forgetting plenty of perfume. When she apologised that they were out of bacon, Rebus said he’d be happy with coffee and toast.
‘Porridge? A poached egg, maybe?’
‘Toast will be fine.’
When she had gone, Clarke held up a newspaper so Rebus could read the front page splash:
A9 KILLER – MASS GRAVE FOUND
‘It’s all over the radio too,’ she added. ‘Even managed to rustle up a few people who said they wouldn’t be using that particular route for the foreseeable . . .’
‘Do you get the feeling it’s going to be another long day?’
‘Reckon you’ll manage without a nap at some point?’
‘Me? I’m as chipper as they come.’
She had some flyers sitting on the table next to her, and Rebus started sifting through them.
‘Dolphin-watching?’
‘Mrs Scanlon says you don’t need to pay – there’s a place called Chanonry Point where they practically come to the shore.’
‘Reckon we’ve got time to play tourists?’
‘That depends on our dear leader.’
The landlady had returned with his coffee – just the one small cup. Rebus stared at it.
‘Better bring the rest of the pot, Mrs Scanlon,’ Siobhan Clarke advised.
Brigid Young’s mother and sister lived in Inverness, and were filmed by the TV cameras as they left home to make the drive to Edderton, the mother carrying a small wreath and a framed photo of her missing daughter. Zoe Beddows’s family had decided not to make the trip north, not until they had absolute confirmation that she had been found. A DNA swab had already been taken from her father. Nina Hazlitt had texted Rebus to say she was on the road and would Rebus meet her when she arrived? He hadn’t replied as yet. A television had been set up in the inquiry room so the team could keep up to date. The room itself was half empty – some were at Edderton, others at the mortuary or the forensic lab. Someone had pointed out Raigmore Hospital to Rebus – it was right around the corner from Northern Constabulary HQ. Phones drip-fed updates from all three locations. Looking out of the office window, Rebus could see a couple of camera crews and a posse of print journalists, plus curious locals with nothing better to occupy their time. Darryl Christie had formally identified his sister, and he too was on his way to Edderton, in the passenger seat of Hammell’s Range Rover. One of the news channels had blown the budget on a helicopter, and it tracked the car’s progress, cutting now and then to aerial shots of Edderton itself and the woods where the SOCOs and search teams were still at work. Ruby and her handler were on their way back to Aberdeen, services no longer deemed necessary. On the TV, Rebus saw the Portakabin, then the field he’d stumbled across in the dark. Between the treetops could just be made out the canopies covering the graves. There was no journalist on the helicopter itself, the running commentary coming from the studio anchor.
‘And we’re going now to our man at the scene, Richard Sorley. Richard, what’s happening there?’
Rebus watched as the action shifted to the police cordon. The reporter held his microphone to his face, jostling for position as Hammell’s car arrived and was let through the barrier, two stony-faced figures in the front. Its wheels spun as it moved off again, kicking up stones, the camera following its route up the single-track road. Back to the helicopter pictures as the Range Rover found its way blocked by a line of parked police vans. The two men got out. As usual, Darryl Christie seemed glued to his phone. Hammell appeared to give the helicopter the finger before plunging his hands into his pockets, striding in the direction of DCS Gillian Dempsey. She then led the way towards the track into the woods, the figures disappearing from view. Rebus realised Siobhan Clarke was standing next to him.
‘Is Page out there?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Where else would he be?’
The studio anchor was back in business, announcing that he now had Nina Hazlitt on a video link. Her face appeared on a screen behind him. She was adjusting an earpiece. The caption had her location as Inverness.
‘She’s outside Raigmore,’ Clarke said, identifying the backdrop, as Hazlitt began explaining to the anchor that she was readying to provide her own DNA to help investigators establish that her daughter Sally was among the victims. When the anchor reminded her that she had been the first to spot that the missing persons were linked by the A9, she nodded so briskly that her earpiece slipped out and she had to push it back in.
‘I feel vindicated, Trevor,’ she announced. ‘Until recently I was dismissed as a crank by every police force I approached. I want once more to thank John Rebus, a retired detective inspector in Edinburgh, for pushing my case.’
‘Isn’t that nice?’ Clarke said.
Rebus just grunted. One of the other officers in the room mimed a burst of applause.
‘And you can bugger off too,’ Rebus told him.
At the end of the interview, Nina Hazlitt removed the earpiece and handed it to a member of the news crew, before turning towards the doors of the hospital and walking through them, head held high.
‘She’s loving this,’ Clarke commented. ‘Maybe a bit too much.’
‘She’s waited a long time for the attention,’ Rebus retorted. The camera seemed to want to follow her inside, but a member of the hospital’s security team had other ideas. The studio anchor announced that they were returning to Edderton, where the helicopter was watching the white Range Rover reverse down the lane.
‘Didn’t take them long,’ Clarke said.
‘Not much to see.’
Another cut: this time to the cordon and Richard Sorley. The reporter craned his neck to watch as the Range Rover arrived at a spot where it could do a three-point turn. When it reached the crime-scene tape, it stopped and both Hammell and Christie got out. Hammell was dressed in his usual jeans and open-necked sports shirt with a gold chain around his neck. Darryl Christie was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, black tie, every inch the dignified bereaved. Blood had risen to Hammell’s face and he was ready to talk to anyone who would listen.
‘Whoever did this,’ he told the reporters, ‘they’re going to hell. Whether they believe in it or not, that’s where they’re headed.’ He stared straight into the lens of the camera. ‘I’d like to see them swing from a fucking scaffold . . .’
At which point the sound feed was muted so that only the pictures remained. The anchor’s voice apologised to viewers before beginning a commentary based on what Hammell was saying.
‘Mr Hammell,’ he intoned, ‘a close friend of the family and understandably upset by his visit to the crime scene . . .’
Rebus was watching closely. The incandescent Hammell was the focus of the camera’s attention, but over his shoulder could be seen glimpses of Darryl Christie, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. When someone tried asking him a question, he simply shook his head. Hammell was now stabbing a finger towards the camera, as if he had the culprit himself in front of him.
‘Wish I could lip-read,’ Clarke was saying.
More microphones were being thrust in front of Hammell,
but he was beginning to run out of steam. When Darryl Christie placed a hand on his arm, Hammell acknowledged him with a nod and the pair of them headed for the car. The studio had handed back to Richard Sorley, who was talking about ‘the extraordinary tirade we’ve just witnessed here’. The Range Rover’s horn sounded as it drove past the cordon and the scrum of journalists, slaloming before picking up speed along the main road.
‘I’m going to have to interrupt you, Richard . . .’
And they were back outside Raigmore Hospital again as Nina Hazlitt emerged, teary-eyed and trembling with emotion, the gist being: her DNA was not required at this time and she would be contacted at some later date.
‘How does that make you feel?’ she was asked by the reporter with the microphone.
‘Absolutely livid. I’ve placed my faith in the Scottish justice system and this feels like a slap in the face, not just to me but to all the relatives out there . . .’
‘Something tells me you’ll be getting another text,’ Clarke commented to Rebus. A small box had appeared at the top of the screen, showing Dempsey and James Page being driven away from Edderton in the back of a large black saloon car.
‘Is there anything we should be doing?’ one of the officers in the room asked.
‘Look busy when they get here,’ someone else suggested.
Five minutes later, Rebus’s phone sounded. It was Nina Hazlitt, pretty much on cue. Clarke watched him as he shook his head slowly and let the call go to messaging. He stared from the window, but saw no sign of her. After three quarters of an hour, Dempsey and Page arrived. Dempsey gathered her team together and gave them an update. A stray pubic hair had been found on Annette McKie’s body. A comparison was under way, but it didn’t appear to be one of her own. DNA had been gathered from the families of Jemima Salton, Amy Mearns, Zoe Beddows and Brigid Young.
‘Not Sally Hazlitt?’ Clarke interrupted.
Dempsey shook her head. ‘Pathologist doesn’t think any of the bodies goes back that far. She’s not even sure about 2002, when Brigid Young disappeared. If we end up with a body lacking a match, we’ll bring Sally Hazlitt back into the running.’