The New Ian Rankin Novel

  ‘He’s got enough work, though?’

  ‘Oh, yes. No complaints there.’

  ‘Always local jobs?’

  She looked at him, trying to fathom the reason for the question. Rebus tried out his smile again.

  ‘Sorry, just me being nosy,’ he said.

  ‘Kenny has built a name for himself.’ She poured tea from a pot and handed him the mug. There was a plate of shortbread, too, but he shook the offer away.

  ‘He’s in demand?’

  ‘Always.’ She took a sip of her own tea. Rebus’s father would have called it a ‘sergeant major’s special’ – the colour of mahogany and giving a tannic coating to the inside of the mouth. He studied some of the photographs.

  ‘See much of your son and daughter?’

  ‘When we can. It’s easier with Joanne.’

  ‘She’s in Inverness?’ Rebus guessed.

  Mrs Magrath nodded. ‘Though actually, Kenny saw Brendan a few weeks back.’

  ‘And Brendan’s in Glasgow?’ Rebus checked.

  ‘I couldn’t go – had to visit a friend in Raigmore.’

  ‘Quite a hike from here to the west, isn’t it?’ Rebus sympathised. He’d done that drive himself, after all. A9, then M80, Sally Hazlitt waiting for him at journey’s end.

  And if you needed petrol, you might leave the road at Pitlochry . . .

  ‘A few weeks back, eh?’ he added. ‘Can you be more specific, Mrs Magrath?’

  ‘Being nosy again?’ Her tone had grown cool.

  ‘Hard to switch off sometimes.’

  ‘It was a Satur—’

  She heard the van before he did. It was pulling up outside.

  ‘A Saturday?’ Rebus prompted. Same day of the week Annette was abducted. ‘Just over three weeks ago, would that be, Mrs Magrath?’

  ‘Kenny has a system – he’ll tell you so himself. Leaves here early, lunch with Brendan, then he can start home and miss the football traffic.’

  The motor revved once before juddering to a stop.

  ‘That’s good,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I must remember that.’ Leave Glasgow just after three . . . reach Pitlochry between half past four and five . . .

  An unoiled van door creaked open, then slammed shut. Mrs Magrath was on her feet when the front door rattled open.

  ‘I’ve only got ten minutes,’ a male voice boomed out. Kenny Magrath walked into the room, doing a double-take when he saw there was a stranger there.

  ‘This is Detective Rebus,’ his wife began to explain.

  ‘I know who he is – just had Gregor nipping my ear about him.’ A finger was pointed at Rebus. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

  His wife looked from one man to the other. ‘What’s going on?’

  Kenny Magrath’s eyes were burning into Rebus’s. He was taller and broader than his brother, and maybe ten years younger. A thick head of hair only now beginning to go silver at the temples. Chiselled face and deep-set eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. Rebus stood his ground, happy to continue the staring contest. He had risen to his feet and was sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, showing he was in no hurry to be anywhere else. The fingers of his right hand grazed the guitar pick.

  ‘I’m asking you to leave.’ Magrath gestured towards the door. Then, to his wife: ‘Maggie, call the police.’

  ‘But he is the police.’

  ‘Not according to Gregor.’

  Maggie Magrath looked at Rebus, feeling cheated and let down by the visitor.

  ‘I’m attached to the Edderton inquiry,’ Rebus stated, eyes never leaving Magrath’s.

  ‘He’s from Edinburgh,’ Magrath told his wife. ‘Got no business being here, barging into people’s homes . . .’

  Rebus was about to explain that he’d been invited in, but didn’t want to get Maggie Magrath into any extra bother. ‘We need to talk,’ he told Magrath.

  ‘No we don’t.’ Magrath took a step towards him.

  ‘I still don’t know what this is about,’ his wife was complaining.

  ‘It’s about all those dead women, Mrs Magrath,’ Rebus obliged.

  Magrath bared his teeth and took another step forward. ‘You want me to throw you out?’

  Rebus knew that a struggle would make a mess of Maggie Magrath’s impeccable room. His eyes were fixed on Magrath’s.

  ‘Maybe we should talk outside.’

  ‘We’re not talking anywhere!’ Magrath clamped his fingers around Rebus’s forearm.

  ‘Let go of me,’ Rebus said quietly.

  ‘Answer me first.’

  ‘I’m going,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Just as soon as you take your hand away and save me breaking it.’

  ‘That sounds like a threat.’ Magrath released his grip on Rebus’s arm and stepped away from him. ‘Best walk out of here while you still can.’

  ‘Now who’s making threats?’

  ‘Not me,’ Magrath told him. ‘And I’ve got my wife as witness.’

  Maggie Magrath couldn’t look Rebus in the face, and he realised suddenly that she knew – knew or had had her suspicions. ‘Just go,’ she said, her voice cracking.

  ‘One way or another, we’ll talk,’ Rebus told Kenny Magrath, making for the doorway.

  ‘Like hell we will!’ the man responded.

  Outside sat the small white van with the name on the side: MAGRATH. There were windows in the back but they’d been painted over. Nothing in the front but a few loose tools and an out-of-date tabloid newspaper. Rebus tapped the details of the licence plate into his phone’s notebook before retracing his steps towards the seafront and his Saab.

  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 t
o 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.

  61

  A fist on the near-side window woke him. It was growing light outside and he turned his head to see Kenny Magrath’s face inches from him. Magrath was opening the door of the Saab.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’ the man snarled.

  ‘Stopping you moving anything.’

  ‘Moving what?’

  ‘Evidence.’

  ‘You’re off your damned head.’

  ‘Seven in the morning – what else would you be doing here?’

  ‘Picking up what I need,’ Magrath explained. ‘Got a forty-minute drive ahead of me.’ He stared at Rebus for a moment longer, then shook his head slowly and walked over to the padlock, digging in his pocket for the key. ‘Take a look,’ he called out. ‘I won’t even ask for a search warrant, with you not being a cop and all.’ The door was flung open; Magrath disappeared inside and switched on the light. Rebus got out of the car, stretching his spine while checking to left and right. Nobody else about. Not a single living soul. He walked to the doorway and stopped there. One wall consisted of home-made shelves filled with plastic tubs containing electrical parts: sockets, switches, fuses, junction boxes. A workbench stretched the length of the wall opposite, the one with the window above it. Either side of this window, tools hung from nails and hooks. There were broken appliances spread out on the bench, their components neatly arranged in what Rebus guessed was the order of dismantling. Magrath was stuffing packets of screws, washers and rawl plugs into his jacket.

  ‘Getting a good butcher’s?’ he asked. ‘Open the drawers if you like. And there are cardboard boxes and biscuit tins under the bench – you won’t want to miss those.’

  ‘Look at me,’ Rebus said quietly. Magrath turned his head towards him. ‘Have you heard the story of Dennis Nilsen?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘They found human remains in the drains on his street. Moment he answered his door to CID, the detective knew.’ Rebus paused. ‘That was in London, but when I saw you yesterday, the same thing happened. I know, Kenny. I saw it in your eyes. Bear that in mind.’ He paused again. ‘So if you’re going to use that screwdriver, this might be your only chance . . .’

  Magrath looked down at his hand, and the tool clenched in it. He placed it back on the surface of the bench, taking his time.

  ‘I can see you’re methodical,’ Rebus went on, eyes sweeping the garage. ‘Y
ou’re neat and you’re careful. Explains why you’ve stayed off the radar all these years – that and having a brother who’s tried his damnedest to keep an eye on you. But you’re on the radar now, Kenny. Dead centre and with nothing else near you on the screen.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘You’re thinking about them right now – especially Annette McKie. She’s freshest in your mind. You’re feeling your fingers around her throat.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ Magrath looked around him, as if wondering if he’d forgotten anything. He pressed a hand to each of his bulging pockets, then moved towards Rebus. Rebus stepped back, so that Magrath could switch the light off and lock the door again.

  ‘Did you tell Gregor, or did he somehow work it out? Maybe back when you were kids he saw the warning signs.’

  ‘What signs?’

  ‘Pulling the legs off frogs maybe; tying fireworks to the tails of cats and dogs . . .’

  Magrath shook his head. ‘That’s not me – go ask him.’

  ‘Maybe I will. It’s about time he got this off his conscience. Same with your wife.’

  ‘You leave Maggie out of this!’

  ‘Bit late for that.’

  ‘So help me I’ll . . .’ Magrath was just about keeping his rage in check. When he took a deep breath and exhaled, it sounded like a growl. Rebus stood his ground, awaiting the man’s next move. Magrath seemed to consider his options, and ended up turning away, striding towards his parked van.

  ‘Where are you going, Kenny?’

  No answer.

  ‘You were in Pitlochry, weren’t you?’

  Magrath was getting into the van, avoiding eye contact. Rebus walked towards him slowly. The key was turned in the ignition; Magrath commenced a three-point turn. A minibus coming around the corner from the direction of Cromarty had to brake hard to avoid crashing into him. There were a handful of schoolkids in the back. The driver sounded his horn, but Magrath ignored him, the van roaring off in the direction of Fortrose. Rebus lit a breakfast cigarette and decided he’d done what he could. Two minutes later he was parking outside Gregor Magrath’s cottage. The wind had dropped and there were the usual dog-walkers on the beach. Rebus caught a glimpse of something out to sea that could have been a dolphin or a seal. He thumped on Magrath’s door and waited. Magrath came out to the porch and studied Rebus through the window.