Cafferty shrugged. ‘Fly-tipping, you might call it.’
‘You mean getting rid of the bodies?’
‘Ever driven the A9? Moorland and forest, logging tracks leading to the middle of nowhere.’ Cafferty paused. ‘Beautiful scenery, mind.’
‘Some women have gone missing down the years — you wouldn’t know anything about that?’
Cafferty shook his head slowly. ‘I could ask around, though — if you want me to.’
There was silence in the room for a moment. ‘I’ll think about it,’ Rebus said eventually. Then: ‘If you did me a favour, would that be us square?’
Cafferty made to place a hand on Rebus’s shoulder, but Rebus shied away.
‘Let’s get that drink,’ he said, ushering his visitor back towards the landing.
4
It was ten thirty by the time he returned to his flat. He filled the kettle and made a mug of tea, then returned to the living room, switching on just the one lamp and the stereo. Van Morrison: Astral Weeks. His downstairs neighbour was old and deaf. Upstairs was a group of students who never made much noise except for the occasional party. Through the living room wall. . well, he’d no idea who lived there. He’d never needed to know. The area of Edinburgh he called home — Marchmont — had a shifting population. A lot of the flats were rentals, most of them short lets. Cafferty had made this point in the pub. Everybody used to look out for everybody else. . Say you did end up on that floor of yours, how long would it be before anyone came calling?
Rebus had argued that it had been no better in the old days. He’d been inside plenty of flats and houses, the inhabitant dead in bed or in their favourite chair. Flies and odour, plus bills piling up behind the door. Maybe someone had thought to knock, but they hadn’t done much more than that.
Everybody used to look out for everybody else. .
‘I bet you used lookouts, too, didn’t you, Cafferty?’ Rebus muttered to himself. ‘When you were burying the bodies. .’ He was staring at the map as he sipped his tea. He had driven the A9 infrequently. It was a frustrating road, only some of it dualled. Lots of tourists, many of them hauling caravans, with regular bends and blind summits making passing difficult. Lorries and delivery vans, struggling up the inclines. Inverness was just over a hundred miles north of Perth, but it could take two and a half, maybe three hours to drive. And when you got there, to cap it all, you were in Inverness. One radio DJ Rebus listened to called the place Dolphinsludge. There were certainly a few hardy dolphins in the Moray Firth, and Rebus didn’t doubt that sludge figured too.
Aviemore. . Strathpeffer. . Auchterarder. . and now Pitlochry. He’d ended up telling Cafferty some of the story, adding the caveat about coincidence being a strong possibility. Cafferty had given a thoughtful pout, swirling the whisky in his glass. The pub had been quiet — funny how people tended to finish their drinks and move on whenever Cafferty entered an establishment. The barman hadn’t just removed the empties from their chosen table but given it a bit of a wipe, too.
And the first two rounds had been on the house.
‘I doubt I can help much,’ Cafferty had admitted.
‘I didn’t say I was asking for help.’
‘All the same. . If it was villains going AWOL, people who might well have fallen out with people they shouldn’t have. .’
‘Far as I can tell, these were just ordinary women — civilians, you might call them.’
Cafferty had begun to outline the sorts of punishment he felt might be deserved, should a single culprit come to light, and had ended by asking Rebus how he felt whenever people got less than they deserved — less of a jail sentence; less of a punishment.
‘Not part of my remit.’
‘All the same. . Think of the number of times you saw me walk free from court, or not even make it that far.’
‘It rankled,’ Rebus had admitted.
‘Rankled?’
‘As in: pissed me off. Royally pissed me off. And made me that bit more determined it wasn’t going to happen next time.’
‘Yet here we are, sitting enjoying a drink.’ Cafferty had clinked his glass against Rebus’s.
Rebus hadn’t said what he was thinking: give me half a chance, I’d still put you away. Instead, he had finished his whisky and risen to fetch another.
Side one of Astral Weeks had finished, and what was left of the tea had grown cold. He sat down and took out his phone and the card Nina Hazlitt had given him, punching in her number.
‘Hello?’ It was a man’s voice. Rebus hesitated. ‘Hello?’ A little louder this time.
‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘Is this the right number? I was looking for Nina Hazlitt.’
‘Hang on, she’s here.’ Rebus listened as the phone was handed over. He could hear a TV playing in the background.
‘Hello?’ Her voice this time.
‘Sorry to be calling so late,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s John Rebus. From Edinburgh.’
He heard an intake of breath. ‘Have you. .? Is there any news?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Rebus had taken the plectrum from his pocket and was playing with it in his free hand. ‘I just wanted you to know I hadn’t forgotten about you. I’ve pulled the files and I’m taking a look.’
‘On your own?’
‘For the moment.’ He paused. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening. .’
‘It was my brother answered the phone. He’s staying with me.’
‘Right,’ Rebus said, not knowing what else to add. The silence lengthened.
‘Sally’s case is reopened, then?’ Nina Hazlitt’s voice was a mix of hope and fear.
‘Not officially,’ Rebus stressed. ‘Depends what I turn up.’
‘Anything so far?’
‘I’m only just getting started.’
‘It’s nice of you to go to the trouble.’
Rebus wondered if the conversation would have been so stilted without the presence of her brother. Wondered too why the hell he had phoned her out of the blue — late at night, when the only reason for calling could be that there was news of some kind, something that couldn’t wait until morning. Filling her with momentary hope.
False hope. .
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you get on.’
‘Thanks again. And call any time, please.’
‘Maybe not quite so late, though, eh?’
‘Any time,’ she repeated. ‘It’s nice to know something’s happening.’
He ended the call and stared at the paperwork in front of him.
‘Nothing’s happening,’ he muttered to himself, placing the plectrum back in his pocket and rising to fix the final drink of the evening.
5
The officer’s name was Ken Lochrin, and he had been retired for three years. Rebus had been given his telephone number after a bit of pleading. Lochrin’s name was in the Zoe Beddows file. He seemed to have done a lot of work on it. His handwriting and signature cropped up over two dozen times. Having introduced himself, Rebus spent the first five minutes discussing retirement itself, swapping stories and explaining how SCRU worked.
‘Me, I miss the job not one jot,’ Lochrin had said. ‘Complete pain in the posterior by the time I emptied my desk.’
‘Bit frustrating not to get a result on Zoe Beddows?’
‘It’s a lot worse when you feel you’re getting close — that never happened with her. Gets to the point where you have to move on — unless cold cases is your job, of course. So you’re part of this new Crown Office initiative?’
‘Not exactly. I’m in a smaller team based in Edinburgh.’
‘Then how come Zoe’s turned up on your radar?’
‘This kid who went missing on her way to Inverness.’
‘Zoe was four years ago, though.’
‘All the same. .’ Rebus liked it that Lochrin used Beddows’s first name. It meant she’d become a person to him rather than a case number.
‘I did wonder about that myself, actually.’
‘What?’ Rebus prompted.