The New Ian Rankin Novel

  ‘That’s what we were thinking.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t. I asked the men.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All of them,’ Soames confirmed. ‘Time she was in the area, it would have been the day crew.’

  ‘The night crew’s Portakabin has windows, though,’ Rebus countered. ‘Did you ask them too?’

  ‘No,’ Soames admitted. ‘But I will, if you like. Give me a number and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Be easier if you did it just now.’

  ‘Some might still be asleep.’

  ‘Wake them up.’ Rebus paused. ‘Please.’

  Soames thought for a moment before making his decision. He pressed his palms against the tabletop and started rising to his feet.

  ‘And while we’re waiting,’ Rebus added, ‘maybe we could have a word with Stefan . . .’

  When Soames had closed the door, Clarke moved closer to the heater, warming her hands.

  ‘Can you imagine it? Working all hours and in all weathers?’

  Rebus was doing a circuit of the room, examining health and safety notices pinned to a corkboard, letters and forms piled high next to the dictionary. There was a phone charger but no phone. The calendar showed a photo of a blonde model atop a bright red motorbike.

  ‘It’s a job,’ he commented. ‘These days, that’s something.’

  ‘So what’s your thinking?’

  ‘There’s no way she could walk past here without being spotted.’

  Clarke nodded. ‘Maybe she took a detour across the field at the back.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘To avoid the wolf-whistles.’ She looked at him. ‘It still happens.’

  ‘You’d know better than me.’

  ‘Yes, I would.’ She looked around the room. ‘What do you think they do here between shifts?’

  ‘I’m guessing booze, card games and porn.’

  ‘You’d know better than me,’ Clarke was echoing as the metal door shuddered open. A grizzled man in his early forties stood there, eyes hooded and with a week’s worth of stubble on his chin and cheeks. His gaze met that of Rebus.

  ‘Hiya, Stefan,’ Rebus said to him. ‘Keeping your nose clean, I hope?’

  Stefan Skiladz had lived in Scotland for more than half his life, spending three of those years in prison for a serious assault after a day’s heavy drinking at a friend’s flat in Tollcross. Rebus had been CID at the time and had given evidence in court, Skiladz having pleaded not guilty despite the blood on his clothing and his fingerprints on the kitchen knife.

  Clarke listened to Rebus explain all of this as the three of them sat around the table. When he had finished, Skiladz broke the silence with a question:

  ‘What the hell is this all about?’

  Clarke responded by pushing the photo of Annette McKie across the table towards him.

  ‘She’s gone missing. Last seen in Pitlochry getting ready to hitchhike north.’

  ‘So what?’ Skiladz had picked the photo up, his face showing no emotion whatsoever.

  ‘Your guys must go into Pitlochry,’ Rebus answered. ‘Someone has to do the tobacco-and-vodka run.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘So maybe they took pity on her.’

  ‘And dropped her here? Better to wait for someone to take her further.’ Skiladz looked up from the photograph. ‘No?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Could you keep the photo, show it around?’ Clarke suggested.

  ‘Sure.’ He took another look. ‘Pretty girl. I have a daughter, not so very different.’

  ‘Has that helped keep you out of trouble?’

  Skiladz stared at Rebus. ‘I stopped with the drink. I got my head together.’ He tapped a blackened finger to his brow. ‘And I stopped getting into arguments.’

  Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Any of the other lads got form?’

  ‘Trouble with the law, you mean? Why would I tell you?’

  ‘Because then we wouldn’t have to come back here with immigration officers and maybe the tax man too. And while we checked every person’s ID and history, we’d make sure your name was mentioned in dispatches . . .’

  Skiladz’s eyes drilled into Rebus. ‘You were a bastard back then, too. Just not so fat and old.’

  ‘Hard to disagree.’

  ‘So what’s your answer?’ Clarke added.

  Skiladz turned his attention towards her. ‘One or two,’ he said eventually.

  ‘One or two what?’

  ‘Have had some trouble in the past.’

  She got up and found a pad of lined paper, placing it in front of him, making sure not to obscure the photograph lying there.

  ‘Write them down,’ she said.

  ‘This is crazy.’

  She held out a pen and made him take it from her. When she retrieved the pad a minute later, it contained three names.

  ‘Day shift?’ she asked.

  ‘Only the first.’

  ‘Thomas Robertson,’ she read out. ‘Doesn’t sound very Polish.’

  ‘He’s Scottish.’

  The door opened again. Bill Soames was standing there. He watched as Clarke tore the sheet from the pad, folded it in half and slipped it into her pocket.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, turning to close the door. ‘No one saw her.’ Then, laying a hand on Skiladz’s shoulder: ‘Everything all right, Stefan?’

  ‘Can I go now?’ Skiladz asked Rebus.

  ‘Ask her, not me.’ Rebus indicated Clarke. She nodded at Skiladz and he got up to leave.

  ‘What’s been going on?’ Soames asked.

  Rebus waited until Skiladz was outside. ‘Mr Skiladz has been helping us with our inquiries,’ he told Soames. ‘Necessitating another visit.’ He rose and held out his hand for Soames to take.

  Soames looked as though he had questions, but Rebus was already opening the door. Clarke shook Soames’s hand and asked a final question of her own.

  ‘How far do we have to drive before we can start heading south again?’

  ‘A bit over half a mile, if you don’t mind doing a U-turn on a dangerous bend.’

  ‘I don’t mind that in the slightest.’ Clarke gave him a smile as she made to follow Rebus.

  Back in the car, she asked him for his thoughts.

  ‘We can’t just barge in and interview them,’ he obliged. ‘Tayside Constabulary need to be told.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So you talk to Tayside in the morning and come back later in the day. That way everything’s above board.’

  ‘You don’t want to be involved?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘I’m just the hired help.’

  ‘Earning your keep so far.’

  ‘Maybe let Communication Breakdown know that.’

  Clarke smiled. ‘What about Stefan Skiladz?’

  ‘Worth doing a background check, but I doubt anything will come up.’

  She nodded to herself and started the car. ‘I might have to buy you a pint when we get back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘What makes you think I don’t have plans?’

  ‘You’re not the type,’ she answered, signalling to pull out, always supposing a gap would eventually emerge in what looked like a solid convoy of lorries.

  11

  Rebus let her buy him two drinks in the end. Afterwards, he walked her back to her car and turned down the offer of a lift home.

  ‘It’s hardly on your route,’ he explained.

  ‘So you’re either going to take a taxi or keep on drinking.’

  ‘Flexing those sleuthing muscles of yours, eh?’

  ‘Today went pretty well. But if you start coming into Gayfield Square with the sweat of the previous night’s ale on you . . .’

  ‘Understood.’ He gave her a mock salute, then watched until the Audi disappeared from view. The town was quiet, with plenty of cabs plying for the largely non-existent trade. Rebus held up a hand and waited. Twenty minutes later he was paying the driver his money, addin
g a quid as a tip, and stepping on to the pavement outside a pub called the Gimlet. It was situated next to a busy roundabout off Calder Road, one of the main routes into the city from the west. The area was a mix of commercial and residential – car showrooms, low-rise industrial units; but also two-storey terraces with the usual array of satellite dishes pointing up at the sky.

  The Gimlet dated back to the 1960s. It was a squat, free-standing box of a place, with a sandwich board outside advertising quiz and karaoke nights and a cheap all-day breakfast. Rebus hadn’t been there in years. He wondered if it still operated as a glorified bazaar for shoplifters and housebreakers.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ he told himself.

  There was music blaring from loudspeakers, and a glamorous blonde on the TV reading out the sports news. Half a dozen sullen drinkers examined Rebus as he made for the taps. He studied the available beers, then checked the glass-fronted chiller.

  ‘Bottle of IPA,’ he decided. The barmaid was young, with tattooed arms and an array of facial piercings. Rebus reckoned she had chosen the soundtrack, whether the punters liked it or not. As she poured his beer, he asked if Frank was coming in.

  ‘Frank who?’

  ‘Hammell – this is still his place, isn’t it?’

  ‘No idea.’ She threw the empty bottle into a bucket with more force than was strictly necessary. Rebus handed her a twenty-pound note, which she checked beneath an ultraviolet scanner, prior to opening the till.

  ‘How about Darryl?’ Rebus tried again.

  ‘Are you from the papers?’ She placed his change on the bar top rather than handing it to him. It comprised a few coins, plus three of the ropiest-looking fivers Rebus had seen in quite some time.

  ‘Guess again,’ he said.

  ‘He’s a cop,’ one of the drinkers called out. Rebus turned to face the man. He was in his sixties and nursing a glass of dark rum. There were three empties in front of him.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Rebus asked.

  The man shook his head. ‘I’m right, though.’

  Rebus took a mouthful of beer. It was too cold, and a bit flat. A door to the left of him was rattling open. A sign explained that it led to the beer garden as well as the toilets. The man who walked in was coughing as he pocketed his pack of cigarettes. He was well over six feet tall, shaven-headed, and wearing a black three-quarter-length coat over dark trousers and polo-neck.

  Stood to reason the Gimlet would have someone manning the premises. Rebus’s arrival had coincided with a break, that was all. The man stared hard at him, knowing him for a stranger and sensing the atmosphere in the room.

  ‘Problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Cop,’ the barmaid answered.

  The doorman stopped a foot or so from Rebus and studied him from top to toe. ‘Too old,’ he offered.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. I was hoping to talk to Frank or Darryl.’

  ‘Is it to do with Annette?’ one of the other drinkers asked. The doorman warned him off with a look before turning his attention back to Rebus.

  ‘There are official channels,’ he said, ‘and you’re not following them.’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was speaking to one of Frank’s legal team.’ Rebus took another sip of beer and put the glass down, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. Without saying any more, he headed for the door, letting it swing shut after him. As he had guessed, the beer garden was a rectangle of cracked concrete with weeds growing through. No tables or chairs, just empty aluminium kegs and beer crates. The walled enclosure was topped with plenty of razor wire, stray ribbons of polythene snagged in it. Rebus lit his cigarette and walked in a circle. There was a high-rise block in the distance, a couple staging a shouting match on one of its balconies. The traffic at the roundabout would be oblivious. Just another small scene in a world full of them. Rebus was wondering if the door behind him would open. Someone might want a quiet word or a boxing match. He looked at his watch and his phone, just passing the time. With the cigarette reduced to little more than butt, he flicked it on to the concrete, where it joined dozens of others. Then he opened the door and went back inside.

  There was no sign of the golem. Presumably he was back at his post. The barmaid was eating a bag of crisps. Rebus saw that his beer was no longer where he had left it.

  ‘Thought you’d finished,’ she took pleasure in explaining.

  ‘Can I buy you one?’ he asked.

  She didn’t manage to conceal her surprise, but eventually shook her head.

  ‘Pity,’ Rebus said, nodding towards her piercings. ‘I wanted to see if you leak when you drink.’

  Out front, the doorman was busy speaking into his phone. ‘He’s right here,’ he said when he spotted Rebus. He handed the phone to him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Donny’s not convinced you’re a cop.’

  ‘Officially, I’m not. But I’m on secondment to the team investigating Annette’s disappearance.’

  ‘Any way you can prove that?’

  ‘Talk to DI Clarke. Either her or DCI Page. Who am I speaking to, by the way?’

  ‘Darryl Christie.’

  Rebus remembered him from the press conference: spiky-haired and whey-faced. ‘Sorry about your sister, Darryl.’

  ‘Thanks. So what’s your name, then?’

  ‘Rebus. I was CID but now I work cold cases.’

  ‘So how come Page and his lot need you?’

  ‘That’s something you’d have to ask them.’ Rebus paused. ‘You don’t sound enamoured . . .’

  ‘I would be if Page spent as much time grafting as he does on his skincare regime.’

  ‘I’d probably be wise to offer no comment.’

  Darryl Christie made a snorting noise. He didn’t sound like an eighteen-year-old. Or rather, he sounded like an eighteen-year-old who had grown up fast and self-confident.

  ‘Does Frank Hammell share your concerns about the investigation?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I just reckon he’s a man who has his own ways of getting to the bottom of things.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I think he should share whatever he finds. Might hamper the eventual trial otherwise.’ Rebus paused again. ‘Of course, Mr Hammell’s probably of the opinion a proper trial won’t be necessary, not when he can act as judge and jury.’

  Rebus waited for Darryl Christie to say something. He had turned his back on Doorman Donny and walked with the borrowed phone towards the roundabout, watching the traffic negotiate its way in and out of town. Eventually he spoke into the silence.

  ‘Frank Hammell’s a man with enemies, Darryl. You know that as well as I do. Is that what he’s thinking – one of them’s got their hands on Annette?’ More silence. ‘See, my feeling is, he’s wrong to head that way, and I don’t want you and your mum following him.’

  ‘If you know anything, spit it out.’

  ‘Maybe I should talk to him first . . .’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Will you let me give you my number, just in case?’ There was another pause on the line, before Darryl Christie told Rebus to go ahead. He recited his mobile number and spelled out his name. ‘Frank might have heard of me.’

  Christie took a moment to form his next question. Rebus watched the passing parade of headlamps while he waited.

  ‘Are your lot going to find my sister?’

  ‘We’ll do our damnedest, that’s the only promise I can make.’

  ‘Just don’t hold it against her.’

  ‘Hold what against her?’

  ‘That Frank Hammell’s dating our mother.’

  ‘That’s not the way it works, Darryl.’

  ‘Prove it, then. Get busy.’

  The line went dead. Rebus got another cigarette going, while he replayed the conversation. There was steel to the kid, but brains, too. And plenty of concern for his sister. Rebus pressed a few buttons until the screen presented him with the number of
the last call. He took out his own phone and entered the details into his contact list under the name Darryl. When the cigarette was done, he headed back to the Gimlet and returned the phone to Doorman Donny.

  ‘That took a while.’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Finished talking to your boss ages ago. Phoned one of those premium chatlines after. Enjoy your next bill . . .’

  Part Two

  I see the dead men shuffling in their bones

  Young girls laughing on their mobile phones . . .

  12

  What was it about Cafferty?

  Even in a busy mid-morning café, customers kept their distance. Rebus had found them a corner table. The table next to it, once vacated, stayed empty. People might head towards it, then glance up at the hulking figure in the black leather jacket and change their minds.

  ‘Turn-up for the books,’ Cafferty had said. ‘You asking me for a drink.’ He had then demolished a flat white and requested another with the complaint that the cups were like something out of a doll’s house.

  He was pouring sugar into this second coffee when Rebus asked him about Frank Hammell.

  ‘Hammell? Shorter fuse than I like to see on a man. Never a great one for realising that actions have consequences.’

  ‘I forget, did he ever work for you?’

  ‘Back in the day.’ Cafferty’s phone, which had been sitting on the table, began to vibrate. He checked who the caller was but didn’t answer. ‘Is this about the missing girl?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘Saw Hammell on TV,’ Cafferty continued. ‘That’s some reward he’s put up.’

  ‘Why do you think he did it?’

  Cafferty considered this. He knew what Rebus meant: a man like Hammell could get information without needing to pay for it. ‘He loves her,’ he answered eventually. ‘The mother, I mean. This is his way of showing it. You know he put the frighteners on her husband?’

  Rebus shook his head.

  ‘That’s why the poor sod scarpered to New Zealand.’

  ‘Australia, I heard.’

  ‘Same difference – other side of the planet. That’s how far he needed to be from Frank Hammell.’

  ‘What about the missing girl’s brother?’

  Cafferty thought for a moment. ‘Enlighten me.’