#Rankin. "Standing in another man's grave" BookHelper&Co.

Standing in another man's grave.

Prologue.

RIP Jackie Leven (Rest In Peace). 

Jackie Leven - Scottish songwriter and folk music singer, 1950-2011.

I  (1, number of Roman system).

He'd made sure he wasn't standing too near the open grave. Closed ranks of the other mourners between him and it.

The pall-bearers (pallbearer- a person who helps to carry a coffin) had been called forward by number rather than name - six of them, starting with the deceased's son. Rain wasn't quite falling yet, but it had scheduled and appointment. The cemetery was fairly new (less than very), sited on the south-eastern outskirts of the city. He had skipped (avoided) the church service, just as he would skip the drinks and sandwiches after. He was studying the backs of heads: hunched shoulders (bended into a rounded shape), twitches (uncontrolled movements), sneezes (when liquid come out of your nose and mouth in a way you cannot control) and throat-clearings. There were people here he new, but probably not many. A gap appeared between two of the mourners and he caught a glimpse of the graveside. The edges of the grave itself had been covered with sheets of green cloth, as if to mask the hard facts (when it is true/real and not imaginary) of the matter.  Words were being uttered (said) but he couldn't catch all of them. There was no mention of the cancer. Jimmy Wallace had been 'cruelly taken', leaving a widow and three children, plus five grandkinds. Those kids would be down the front somewhere, mostly old enough to know what was going on. Their grandmother had given voice to a single piercing (sound that is high, loud and unpleasant) wail (long, high cry) and was being comforted (the state of feeling better after feeling sad).

Christ (Jesus), he needed a cigarette.

How well had he known Jimmy Wallace? Hadn't seen him in four or five years, but they'd worked in the same cop shop (police station) a decade or more back. Wallace was uniform rather than CID (Criminal Investigation Department- the part of UK police that does not wear uniform), but the sort of guy you'd talk to anyway. Jokes and gossip and the occasional snippet (a small and interesting piece of information) of useful information.

He'd retired six years ago, which was around the same time the diagnosis appeared, along with the chemo (chemotherapy) and hair-loss.

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Born with his trademark humour…

Maybe so, but better to be miserable and alive. He could feel the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, knew he could back away (to move backwards away from something or someone) a few yards, maybe hide himself behind a tree and spark up. The thought reminded him of schooldays, when there had been dike sheds blocking the view from the headmaster's (someone who is in charge of a school) window. Teachers occasionally arrived and asked for a light, or a cigarette, or the whole damned pack.

A well-known figure in the local community...

Well known for criminals he'd helped put away (to send someone to prison), too.

Maybe a few of the old-timers had come to pay their respects. The coffin was being lowered into the grave, the widow giving cry again, or perhaps it was one of the daughters. A couple of minutes later it was all over.  He

knew there would be a mechanical digger hidden nearby.

It had dug the hole and would be used to fill it in again. The mound of earth had been covered with more of the green baize (material made from wool) cloth. All very tasteful. The majority of the mourners didn't linger (to take a long time to leave). One man, face heavily lined, mouth permanently drooping (hanging down as from exhaustion), stuffed his hands into the pockets of his black woolen coat and approached with the smallest nod of recognition.

'John', he said.

'Tommy', Rebus replied, with another nod.

'Got to be us one of these days, eh?'

'Not yet, though.'

The two men started walking toward the cemetery gates.

'Need a lift (a free journey in another person's car)?'

Rebus shook his head. 'Car's outside.'

'Traffic's a nightmare - as per (as usual).'

Rebus offered a cigarette, but Tommy Beamish told him he 'd stopped a couple of years back. 'Doctor advised me they stunt your growth (to stop something from developing to kill a person) .'

Rebus lit up and inhaled. 'How long have you been out of the game now?' he asked.

'Twelve years and counting. One of the lucky ones. Too

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many like Jimmy - get the gold watch, and soon after they're on a slab (a broad flat square or rectangular piece of wood).'

     'A cheery prospect.'

     'Is that why you keep working? I heard you were in Cold Case (a criminal investigation that has not been solved after a considerable time but remains on the books, police departments are opening Cold Case units whose job is to re-examine cold case files).'

Rebus nodded slowly. They were almost at the gates now.

The first of the cars was passing them, family members in the black, eyes fixed on the road ahead. He couldn't think what else to say to Beamish. Different ranks, different cop shops.

He tried to conjure up (to make a picture or idea appear in mind) the names of colleagues they might both have known.

     'Ach, well…' Perhaps Beamish shared his difficulty. He was holding out his hand. Rebus shook it. 'Till the next time, eh?'

     'So long as it's not one of us in the wooden suit.'

     With a snort, Beamish was gone, turning his collar up against the falling rain. Rebus stubbed the cigarette out (to stop a cigarette from burning by pressing the burning end against a hard surface) beneath his heel, waited a couple of moments, then headed for (to go in the direction of) his car.

     The traffic in Edinburgh was indeed a nightmare.

Temporary lights (temporary traffic lights i.e. road works), road closures, diversions. Long tailbacks (a line of vehicles that have stopped or are moving only very slowly, because of an accident or other problem on the road in front of them) everywhere. Most of it to accommodate the construction of a single tramline between airport and city centre.  While stationary (not moving), he checked his phone for messages, unsurprised to find there were none. No urgent cases required his attention: he worked with the long dead, murder victims forgotten for the world at large (generally). There were eleven investigations on the books (belong to organization) of the Serious Crime Review Unit.  They went as far back as 1966, the most recent dating from 2002. Where there were graves to visit, Rebus had visited them. Families and friends still left flowers at a few (some, a small number), and the names on any cards had been jotted into his notebook and added to the file - to what end he wasn’t entirely sure.

When he turned on the car's CD player, Jackie Leven's voice - deep and visceral (based on deep feeling and emotional reaction) - emerged from the speakers. He was singing about standing in (to take person's place at an event) another man's grave. Rebus's eyes narrowed. For a moment he was back in the cemetery,

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content to be staring at heads and shoulders. He reached over

(to reach above or beyond) to the passenger seat and managed to wrest (to get something with effort or difficulty) the lyric booklet (booklets which come inserted into the Compact Disc case) from its case. The track was called 'Another Man's Rain.' That was what Jackie was singing about: standing in another man's rain.

     'Time to get your ears checked,' Rebus muttered to himself. Jackie Levin was dead, too. A year or so younger than Rebus. They shared a Fife (an administrative area and historic county of Scotland) background. Rebus wondered if his school had ever played the singer's at football - almost the only time kids from different schools might meet. It wouldn't have mattered: Rebus had never been picked for the first team, consigned (to send) instead to offering encouragement from the frozen sidelines (if you do something from the sidelines, you are not actively involved in something) as tacklers and goals went in and insults were traded (insult each other or say rude things to each other). 

     'And standing in every bastard's rain,' he said aloud. The horn was sounding from the car behind. Its driver was in a hurry. He had meetings waiting for him, important people he was letting down (to disappoint someone by failing to do what you agreed to do). The world would crash and burn if this traffic didn't start moving. Rebus wondered how many hours of his own life he had wasted like this. Or sitting on surveillance (the careful watching of a person or place, especially by the police). Or filling in forms, requisitions (the act of officially asking or taking something), and time sheets (a document on which workers record the number of hours they have worked). When his phone pinged with a message, he saw it was from his boss.

     Thought you said 3!

Rebus glanced at his watch. It was five minutes past the hour. Twenty more minutes would see him at the office, more or less. In days gone by (passed by) , he might have had a siren and flashing light.  He might have pulled out (to remove from fixed position or to move away) into the oncoming lane (lane that's going in the other direction you are) and trusted to the fates that he wouldn't end up in A&E (Accident and Emergency: the part of hospital where people go when they injured and need treatment quickly). But these days he didn't even have a proper warrant card (a card that is proof of identification and authority carried by police officers), because he wasn't a cop. He was a retired cop who happened to work for Lothian and Borders Police (is an area in south east Scotland along with Scottish borders) in a civilian capacity. His boss was the only member of the unit who was still a serving officer. A serving officer and not at all happy about his latest posting (a job, often within the same organization that you are working for, which involves going to a different town) nursing the geriatrics (someone who is old and weak). Not happy either about the three p.m. meeting and Rebus's tardiness (slow and late in happening or arriving).

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What's the rush? Rebus texted back, just to be annoying (to make someone feel angry). Then he turned up the music, repeating the same track as before. Leven still seemed to be standing in another man's grave.

     As if rain wasn't bad enough...

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II

He shook himself free of his overcoat and let it drip across the floor of the office to the hook on the far wall.

     'Thanks for taking the trouble,' Cowan said.

     'Apologies, Danny.'

     'Daniel,' Cowan corrected him.

     'Sorry, Dan'

     Cowan was seated on one of the desks, his feet not quite reaching  the floor, exposing a pair of red paisley-pattern socks (Paisley is the largest town in the west of central Lowlands of Scotland and serves as the administrative centre for the Renfrewshire council area. Paisley pattern or Paisley design is a type of ornamental device known as a 'cone') above gleaming black leather shoes. 

He kept polish and brushes in the bottom drawer of the desk. Rebus new this because he'd opened the drawer one day  when Cowan was out of the room, having already checked the two drawers above it.

     'What are you looking for?' Elaine Robison had asked.

     'Clues (a sign or some information that helps you to find the answer to the problem),' Rebus had replied.

     Robison was standing in front of him now, handing him a mug of coffee. 'How did it go?' she asked.

     'It was a funeral,' Rebus answered, placing the mug to his lips.

     'If we can get started,' Cowan snapped (to say something suddenly in an angry way). The grey suit didn't look right on him. Its shoulders seemed over-padded (a layer of soft material used for protection or to give shape) and the lapels too wide. He pushed a hand defiantly (not willing to accept criticism or disapproval) through his hair.

     Rebus and Robison took their seats alongside Peter Bliss, whose breathing sounded laboured (needing a lot of effort, often because someone is tired) even when at rest. But he'd had the same wheeze (a high, rough noise made when someone cannot breathe easily) twenty years ago, and maybe the twenty before that, too. He was just a shade (slightly) older than Rebus and had been in the unit longer than any of them. He sat with his hands clasped across his prodigious (extremely great in amount) stomach, as if daring

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the universe to spring on him ( to tell or ask someone something when they do not expect it) something he hadn't seen before. He'd certainly seen plenty like Detective Sergeant Daniel Cowan, and had told Rebus as much on Rebus's first day with the unit: ' Thinks we’re beneath his station (position). Reckons (think or believe) he's too good, and the bosses know it and have stunted (to prevent from growing or developing) him here to take him down a peg or three (to show someone that they are not as important as they thought they were).' 

     Prior to retirement, Bliss had reached the rank of detective inspector - same as Rebus. Elaine Robison had been a detective constable, and blamed the lack of higher achievement on the fact that she'd always put family before career.

     'Quite right too,' Rebus had told her, adding (after he'd known her a few more weeks) that his own marriage had lost its fight with the job early on.

     Robison had only just turned fifty. Her son and daughter had left home, graduated from college and moved south for work. There were framed portraits of them on the desk, alongside other photos showing Robison herself posing at the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge (is one of Australia's most well-known and photographed landmarks) and seated at the controls of a light airplane. 

She had recently started to dye (to change the colour), not that Rebus saw anything wrong in that.  Streaked gray (to have long noticeable lines of different colour), she would still have looked ten years younger than her age and might even pass for thirty-five - same as Cowan.

     Cowan, he reckoned (think or believe), had arranged the chairs.

They sat in a straight line in front of his desk, so that they all had to look up at him.

     'Wearing those socks for a bet, Danny?' Rebus asked from behind the mug.

     Cowan deflected (to prevent something from being directed at you) to comment with a thin smile. 'Do I hear right, John? You've applied for rejoin?' He waited for Rebus to acknowledge (to accept) the truth of this. The retirement age had been raised, meaning those of Rebus vintage (a group of people who were active during the same particular period) could reapply. 'Thing is,' Cowan continued, leaning forward a little, 'they'll come to me for a reference (a statement of a person's good qualities, written by someone who knows the person well, that is to send to a future employer). Way you are going, it won't be a fan letter.'

     'You can have my autograph anyway.' Rebus assured him.

                                                       

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