Bits of twine . . .
A few shredded remains of a carrier bag . . .
A mouse skeleton . . .
Some feathers . . .
It was desperate stuff. If the team had looked full of energy at the start, they were now a lot more sombre, pessimism setting in. Rebus had lost sight of the dog handler, but he found him again: already halfway across the field, heading for the line of trees beyond. He was passing another of the search teams as it headed back. One of the officers bent down as if to stroke Ruby, but then straightened up – warned off, Rebus reckoned. Ruby had been trained for work, not play.
There were mutterings at the food car. Phones were being checked for messages, held high in the air as a signal was sought.
‘Better luck tomorrow,’ someone commented.
‘As long as the weather holds.’
Rebus asked about the forecast.
‘Grim,’ he was told.
‘Maybe sleet,’ another voice added. Then: ‘Are you from Edinburgh?’
Rebus nodded.
‘I hate that place,’ the cop said. ‘Cannot bloody stand it.’
‘I’m guessing you’re from Inverness.’
The man scowled at Rebus. ‘Hate that place, too. Dingwall’s good enough for me.’
‘Isn’t it time for your meds, Bobby?’ someone else enquired, causing a few tired smiles.
Half an hour later, the message came through from HQ: call it a day. Dempsey would not be coming back. Someone was given the task of locking the Portakabin.
‘We’re leaving the evidence here overnight?’ Rebus asked.
‘If you can call it evidence. The Chief will take a look at it in the morning and decide what to do.’
‘How much more ground still to cover?’
‘Plenty.’
Rebus watched the teams prepare their escape. There were mutterings from those whose vehicles were stuck the wrong side of the Portakabin – long detours lay ahead of them. Cars had to be manoeuvred past other cars. One got stuck, muddy tyres spinning, and had to be pushed off the verge. As the last patrol car reversed down the lane, the four officers inside gave Rebus a little wave. They were talking about him, breaking into grins. Rebus didn’t bother waving back. The dog-handling van was still there, about twenty yards separating it from Rebus’s Saab. These were the only two vehicles left. Dusk had descended, and Rebus could see about two thirds of the field. There was no sign of Ruby and her colleague. He leaned against his car and smoked a cigarette, stubbing it out afterwards into the Saab’s ashtray – didn’t want to leave anything behind that could be misread as a clue. Not that this seemed to have occurred to the search teams. Crusts of bread and bits of sweetcorn were scattered on the roadway next to where the food car had been. There was even a discarded plastic water bottle in the ditch. Rebus picked it up and threw it on to his passenger seat.
A waste of time, maybe, but all the same . . .
Another fifteen minutes or so and it would be pitch black – no street light of any kind out here. He could already pick out a few stars in the sky, and the temperature was dropping. He sounded his horn three times, in the hope that the dog handler would get the message. When he heard a whistle, he reckoned it was in response, but it came again, and again after that – more urgently. It wasn’t the sort of sound you made when you were communicating with your dog, and it was followed by a shout from somewhere the other side of the field. Rebus couldn’t see anything. He knew from the search team’s footwear that the field was far from dry. No torch in his Saab, meaning he’d only have the light from his phone’s screen if he happened to get lost.
Another cry.
‘Bollocks,’ Rebus said to himself, setting out through the gate.
The field contained dips and shallow hollows, and this was where it was most treacherous. Rebus felt himself sink up to his ankles. He cursed again but kept moving, breathing heavily. A fence separated the field from the trees beyond. It was the best part of four feet in height, topped with a strand of barbed wire. Rebus peered beyond it.
‘You there?’ he called out.
‘Here,’ the dog handler said.
‘Where?’
A thin beam of light appeared. The woods were deeper than Rebus had expected. Ruby and her master were somewhere within. Rebus looked at the fence, then to left and right, seeking a stile or another gate. Seeing neither, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the barbed wire, easing one leg over the fence, then the other. His trousers snagged on something and he heard them tear. One jagged tine had pierced coat and trouser leg both.
‘Bastard,’ he said under his breath. He sank up to his ankles again, almost losing a shoe as he pulled himself up a low bank and into the woods.
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Here,’ the dog handler said, shining the small torch again. ‘Can you go fetch a team?’
‘They’ve all gone.’ Rebus could see both dog and man. Ruby was seated on the damp ground, tail wagging, tongue lolling. ‘What is it?’ Rebus asked, trying to catch his breath. In answer, the handler directed the torch to a spot just beyond Ruby. The dog turned her head in the same direction, licking her chops. The earth had been disturbed, and Rebus knew what it was he was being shown.
An all-too-human hand, jutting up from the makeshift grave.
‘Christ,’ he hissed.
‘Thing is,’ the officer said, playing the torch over the clearing, ‘I don’t think Ruby’s done yet – not by a long chalk.’
44
The diesel thrumming of the generators. Half a dozen arc lamps illuminating proceedings. Officers reeling out lengths of crime-scene tape. A mud track led from the lane into the trees. This track was now out of bounds, bordered by the blue-and-white-striped tape. A vehicle must have been used; doubtful the bodies had been dragged or carried all the way.
‘Has to be all-wheel drive,’ Rebus had posited to Clarke. ‘Mind you, that probably accounts for three quarters of the cars in these parts.’
She had nodded, staring at him.
‘What?’ he had asked.
‘I just can’t believe you were here.’
To which he had offered only a shrug.
Page was in consultation with Dempsey. He had done well to borrow boots from somewhere. Rebus’s own shoes needed drying out – either that or chucking away. Clean socks wouldn’t be a bad idea either, and as for his trousers . . .
‘You bleeding?’ Clarke asked as he checked the damage.
‘Just a scratch.’
‘Might need a tetanus shot.’
‘Tot of whisky’ll do me fine.’
They were discussing anything but what lay in front of them. Ruby had located three bodies so far, and was now on a break, her handler having fetched a bowl and a bottle of water from the van. The scene-of-crime team had arrived and were busy. A doctor had been found, and a couple of evidence officers were busy with video cameras.
‘So how was your day?’ Rebus made show of asking Clarke.
‘Oh, you know, just the usual.’ She folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to stay warm.
‘Checked into the hotel yet?’
‘Seems all right.’ She shuffled her feet. They were standing well away from the three graves, there being not enough overshoes and the like to go round. Trace evidence again; the ‘integrity of the locus’ had to be maintained – Page had used those exact words when explaining to Clarke why she’d have to stay this side of the tape for now. Rebus hadn’t merited any such apology, or even an acknowledgement of his existence.
Even though he’d been the one to call it in.
Or maybe because he’d been the one to call it in.
Dempsey had thanked him, though, Rebus reminding her that it was Ruby’s result more than his.
‘Sore point,’ Clarke had said to him afterwards. ‘As I was hearing at HQ, not much love lost between Northern Constabulary and their neighbours in Grampian . . .’
She was looking at her phone now, r
eciting the time. ‘Ten fifteen.’
‘Feels later,’ Rebus offered.
‘How long have you been out here?’
Rebus didn’t like to think. Instead he moved aside to let more SOCOs through. They ducked beneath the tape, dressed in their hooded white overalls and elasticated shoe covers, making a rustling sound as they walked. They carried cases and folded plastic sheets. The mortuary van had yet to arrive. It would bring the body bags. But nothing was being moved just yet.
Rudimentary tents had been erected over only two of the graves, someone having been dispatched to Inverness for more.
‘This is interminable,’ Clarke said, shuffling her feet again.
‘We could sit in the car,’ Rebus offered. She dismissed this with a firm shake of the head. ‘If Page needs you, he’ll know where to find you.’
‘He’ll find me right here,’ she stated.
‘Well, I’m going for a cigarette.’ She nodded and he left her to it, emerging on to the road and lighting up. Looking back, he saw the long shadows of the players as they moved around the clearing. One of the generators was really making a hellish racket, but it was better than silence, better than overhearing snatches of the discussions the SOCOs would be having.
It was a lonely spot. He couldn’t help wondering if they’d been brought here alive, bound and gagged perhaps, or in a stupor. Or maybe already dead. Trace evidence again – there had to be some of it in the vehicle. Fibres of clothing; strands of hair; maybe even saliva or blood.
Did they arrive here in daylight or at night? He guessed the latter. But a car left on the lane at night would look suspicious to anyone happening to drive past – another reason to take it into the woods.
Where it might have left tyre tracks, scrapings of paint against a trunk or branch.
The forensic team would get busy in the morning; they needed daylight for their work.
A cordon had been put in place at both ends of the road, diversion signs posted. When a man approached on foot, Rebus tensed. His shoes and trouser bottoms were soaked, meaning he’d got past the guards by crossing the fields.
Journalist.
He had his phone out, held in front of him to film what he saw. Rebus covered his face with his hand.
‘Put that bloody thing away unless you want a night in the cells,’ he barked. ‘Then turn yourself around and bugger off the way you came.’
‘Can I quote you on that, officer?’ He was young, with fair curly hair spilling from the hood of a green Barbour jacket.
‘I mean it.’ Rebus checked and saw that the phone had been lowered.
‘Big operation,’ the reporter said, rising up on to his tiptoes to peer over Rebus’s shoulder. ‘SOCOs and everything. I’m guessing that means you’ve found something.’
‘You’ll know when everybody else does,’ Rebus growled.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
Rebus turned in the direction of the voice. DCS Dempsey was striding towards him.
‘Pond life,’ Rebus explained, but her eyes were on the young man.
‘Might have guessed you’d be first out of the traps, Raymond.’
‘Anything you’d care to share, DCS Dempsey?’ He was busy with his mobile’s touch screen, turning it from camera to tape recorder.
‘There’ll be a press conference in the morning.’
‘Too late for our early edition. Throw me a bone here, will you? The internet’s killing us.’
Dempsey gave a theatrical sigh. ‘There seem to be human remains, but we don’t know much more than that. Now off you go.’
When the reporter tried asking a further question, she shooed him away. He gave a lopsided grin. ‘See you at Mum’s on Sunday, then?’
She nodded, avoiding eye contact with Rebus. The reporter was already on the phone to his newsroom, having turned back the way he’d come.
‘Is Raymond his first name or his last?’ Rebus enquired.
‘First,’ Dempsey confided. ‘And before you say anything, he’s my nephew. Doesn’t mean he gets special treatment.’
‘I thought he just did.’ She made no response. ‘Well,’ Rebus went on, ‘I hope he’s got sharp elbows – when word gets out, there’s going to be a media scrum.’ They stood in silence for a moment. ‘How many are we up to?’ he asked eventually.
‘Five, I think. Four in an advanced state of decay.’
‘And the other?’
‘I wouldn’t bet against it being Annette McKie.’
Rebus watched as Page and Clarke emerged from the woods, Page removing his shoe protectors. Clarke was stony-faced as she checked her phone for a signal. Page looked pale and queasy. He turned away and dry-heaved, hand clamped to his mouth to muffle the sound. Rebus offered him what water was left in his bottle. Page accepted it with a nod of thanks. Clarke had got through and was talking to either Esson or Ogilvie, letting them know the game plan had just changed.
‘I need to get back to Inverness,’ Dempsey announced. ‘Gee up some pathologists and see what can be done before morning.’ She studied the three Edinburgh detectives. ‘You lot should get your heads down – big day in front of all of us . . .’ She started walking towards her car, shoulders slumped. Page was offering Rebus’s water back to him.
‘It’s yours now,’ Rebus said. Clarke had ended her call.
‘Will the restaurant still be open at the hotel?’ she asked.
Rebus shook his head. ‘A sandwich in the bar if you’re lucky. Crisps on the side.’
‘Can you pair stop talking about food?’ Page requested, angling his head away from them as another wave of nausea struck.
45
Almost two a.m.
Page had retired an hour back, and Esson and Ogilvie soon after. The original plan had been for the pair of them to head to Edinburgh at day’s end, but Clarke hadn’t wanted either of them nodding off at the wheel. Neither had seemed to mind. They had interviewed the parents of the Golspie and Fort Augustus victims, gleaning not very much in the process.
‘It was weird seeing Jemima’s bedroom,’ Esson had said. ‘It really is exactly as she left it. Some people just can’t let go, can they?’
Reception had doled out little toothbrush sets for both Esson and Ogilvie, and found them a couple of rooms at ‘the last-minute rate’. Rebus guessed the place might be busier next day, depending on how many news channels decided to cover the story. He was nursing his fourth whisky of the night.
‘You thawed out yet?’ he asked Clarke.
‘Almost.’
‘I’ve half a mind to head back out there,’ Rebus told her.
‘What good would it do?’ She was staring at her phone’s screen, using the hotel wi-fi to scour the internet for mentions of Edderton.
‘None,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’d just be in everyone’s way. On the other hand, I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.’
‘Four’s not enough any more?’ She gestured towards his whisky glass.
‘Never has been. This is just taking the edge off.’
She picked up a shred of lettuce from the plate in front of her. The sandwiches, crisps and cherry tomatoes had been dispatched, though Rebus had abstained, with the complaint that he’d already eaten his own weight in white bread that day.
‘This is just beginning, isn’t it?’ Clarke speculated. ‘Totally different case now.’
‘Nothing’s really changed,’ Rebus countered. ‘We’ve got confirmation, that’s all.’
‘You always knew it would turn out like this?’
‘It was a possibility – we all knew that, whether we said so or not.’
‘You’ve worked more of these cases than I have: where do we go from here?’
‘Local interviews; crime-scene analysis; appeals for information . . .’
‘What sort of person are we looking for?’
‘Isn’t that a question for one of your profiler chums?’
‘I don’t have any profiler chums. And it’s out of my hands anyw
ay.’
Rebus looked at her. ‘I’m not convinced our pal Page is up to the task. You might need to be at his shoulder.’
‘James will be fine. He’s just not been to many murder scenes.’
‘He’s an office manager, Siobhan – could be CID or a company selling fitted kitchens. This needs someone a bit different.’
‘DCS Dempsey’s at the head of the table.’
‘That’s a definite bonus. But even she won’t have covered something like this before.’
‘And you have? You’re asking me to get you an invite into the boardroom?’
‘More or less.’
‘That might make it a bit crowded – unless you want me left outside?’
He shook his head. ‘I just need to be there.’
‘Won’t always be possible, John.’ She finished her orange juice and checked the time. ‘What’s the breakfast like?’
‘Substantial.’
‘I forgot to ask when they start serving . . .’
‘Seven.’
She gave a tired smile. ‘It’s like sitting with the Michelin guide.’ Then she rose to her feet, bidding him good night.
He sat for the length of one final drink, adding it to his tab. His phone was on the table in front of him. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. He could call Nina Hazlitt. Or Frank Hammell. Or Darryl Christie. By morning the news would be out there, broken by Dempsey’s nephew. No, he decided eventually – give them one last night of unknowing, one last sleep sprinkled with hope. When he tried getting to his feet, the backs of his legs ached: too much standing around in the cold. There were some books on a shelf in the bar area, and he asked if it was all right to borrow one.
‘That’s what they’re there for, sir.’
The one he picked – for its title more than anything – was Cracking the Code. He took it upstairs to bed with him, the barman’s last words echoing in his head:
Pleasant dreams . . .
46