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I.RANKIN. STANDING IN ANOTHER MAN'S GRAVE.
Из серии  'REBUS IS BACK'

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It was, as Rebus had explained to James Page, a no-brainer (something such as a decision that is very easy or obvious).

     'You've got the engine here, running beautifully. Me, I'm by way of a spare light bulb in the glove box. I'm the part you can afford to be without.'

     And Page had agreed, despite Clarke's protestations, which was why Rebus had filled his Saab with petrol and hit the road (leave a place or begin a journey) north again.

Perth with its roundabouts (a place where three or more roads join and traffic must go around a circular area in the middle, rather than straight across), then Pitlochry and the roadworks, and on to House of Bruar (the House of Bruar sits like a castle at the foot of the spectacular Bruar Falls, and is widely acknowledged as Scotland's most prestigious independent shop with wide range of clothing), where he stopped for lunch.

His parking bay was right outside the menswear shop, and he glanced at the window display, deciding that he was still not ready for strawberry - coloured cords (trousers made of corduroy, a thick cotton material with raised parallel lines). A sign at the Drumochter Summit (the Pass of Drumochter is the main mountain pass between the northern and southern Scottish Highlands. The A9 road passes through here) informed him he was 1,516 feet (462 meters) above sea level. The mountains either side of him looked forbidding (unfriendly, likely to be unpleasant or harmful), yet hill- walkers had set out for the day - their cars parked in lay-bys (a place at the side of a road where a vehicle can stop for a short time) - or else were returning to their vehicles, cheeks ruddy (red), breath visible in the air. At Aviemore, he signaled right, deciding on a detour through the town. There wasn't much to it, but it was bustling (full of busy activity). Loch Garten (a large Highland freshwater loch near Boat of Garten) was signposted.  He recalled taking his daughter there thirty years before. The RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) had built a hide, complete with telescopes and binoculars, but there had been no sign of the famous ospreys (a fish-eating hawk) - just an empty nest.

How old would Sammy have been? Five or six. A family driving holiday. These days he had to call her Samantha, on those rare occasions when he called her at all. She preferred sending her father texts, rather than actually engaging in a conversation. Rebus couldn't blame her, not when the conversations - his fault - almost ended up in another petty (not important) disagreement. He had told Nina Hazlitt

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that he couldn't know  what she'd been going through, but more than once he had almost lost Sammy.

     He had to wait at the T- junction before he could rejoin the A9, losing count of the number of lorries and vans he was now going to be tailing, some of which he was sure he had overtaken (pass, to come from behind another vehicle and move in front) on a stretch of dual carriageway (is a class of highway with dual carriageways for traffic traveling in opposite directions separated by a central reservation or median) many miles back. He had to remind himself that he was in no rush. He had plenty of CDs with him, and a box of chewing gum purchased at the petrol station. A spare packet of cigarettes and a half-litre bottle of Irn Bru (is a Scottish carbonated soft drink, Scotland's national drink).

When he passed a turn-off (a road that leaves another road to go in a different direction) to the Tomatin distillery (a single malt Scotch whisky distillery in the village of Tomatin), he gave it a little salute, having done the same for Dalwhinnie (a distillery located in Highland village of Dalwhinnie, produces Single malt Scotch whisky)   fifty miles or so back. Despite Inverness being only ten miles away now, and the road mostly dualled, it seemed to take an age to reach it's outskirts. Culloden battlefield (Battle of Culloden was the final confrontation of the 1745 Jacobite Rising) was nearby - another site they'd visited on that holiday. It had been a bleak place (empty and not attractive place) with a small visitors' centre in a building no bigger than a bothy (a hut or small cottage). Sammy had kept saying how bored and cold she was.

     The four p.m. news was on the car radio as Rebus entered Inverness.

Traffic here was more congested still, and he made no friends by getting himself into the wrong lane then trying to get out of it again so he wasn't forced into the city centre. He crossed the Kessock Bridge (is a cable-stayed bridge across the Beauty Firth, between village of North Kessock and the city of Inverness) on the Black Isle (is a peninsula within Ross and Cromarty), then another bridge across the Cromarty Firth, where he had to salute another distillery - Glen Ord (the only remaining single malt Scotch whisky distillery on the Black Isle). He knew this route from the fold-out map, but had bought another map before leaving Edinburgh. There seemed to be four huge construction platforms in the water to the right. Rain was falling, and the windscreen wipers provided a hypnotic rhythm. It took a moment for him to realise the sound reminded him of: waking up to the stylus (a small, pointed devise on a record player which picks up the sound signals stored on a record) still plying its course around an album's run-out groove. Alness (is a town in Ross and Cromarty, it is lying near the Cromarty firth) was fourteen miles south of Tain (is a royal burg and post town in the area of Cross and Cromarty) and boasted (to have or own something to be proud of) Dalmore distillery (32 km. north of Inverness), while Tain itself had Glenmorange. At the next roundabout he left the A9 for the A836, signposted towards Bonar Bridge (is a village on the north bank of the Kyle of Southerland, Kyle of Southerland is a river estuary, a wide part of river at the place where it joins the sea), Ardgay (is a village in the Highland council area) and Edderton (is a village near Tain).

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He had a phone number for a local farmer and punched it into his mobile.

     'Five or ten minutes,' he told the man, ending the call.

     And five or ten minutes was all it took. The farmer's name was Jim Mellon, and he was waiting with his venerable (deserving respect because of age) Land Rover. He signaled for Rebus to park by the side of the road.

     'We'll take mine,' he called out, having decided that the Saab might not be up (not very good to be doing something) to the task (a definite piece of work assigned to).

     Rebus got out and locked the car, the farmer smiling at what he probably saw

as a 'townie (a person who lives in a town) precaution'. He was younger than Rebus had expected - clean-shaven, fair-haired (blond) and handsome. 

     'I appreciate (used when you are thanking someone) you doing this,' Rebus said. 'And thanks for taking the trouble to get in touch in the first place.'

     'You said on the phone I wasn't alone?'

     Rebus nodded his agreement. 'A few others are of the same mind as you.'

     'Well, let's see what you think.' Mellon gestured towards the Land Rover. 'Not allergic to dogs, are you?'

     In the back of the vehicle sat a collie - Rebus guessed a sheep dog. Intelligent eyes, and not about to demean (to cause someone to become less respected) itself by looking for a pat (to touch someone or something gently) from a stranger. The engine started with a roar and they headed up the narrow muddy road, past a sign warning them that if its lights were flashing, the snow gates (driving in the blizzard can be deadly) ahead were closed.

     'How often do vehicles use this route?' Rebus asked.

     'A few times a day,' Mellon speculated. 'Not much up here.'

     'It's signposted to Aultnamain (is a village approximately 8 miles from the Royal Burg of Tain).’

     'Not much there either - but we 're headed that far.'

He was turning on to a single-track road, punctuated by passing places. It was tarmacked (black material used for building roads), but with grass sprouting through cracks in the surface. Only a minute or two later, he brought them to a juddering (to shake violently) stop and pulled on the hand brake. 'I'd say this is it (this is the time, place or thing that we have been looking).'

     Rebus opened his door and got out. The sky was darker now,

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but not too dark. Mellon was pointing out (to select or indicate someone or something) the direction to him. Rebus gazed (to look steadily, intently, and with fixed attention), then held up (to use someone or something as an example) the photo, his eyes moving between the image and the real thing.

     'Could have been taken at any time, mind,' Mellon cautioned.

     Rebus knew what the man meant: there was probably little in this landscape that had changed in a hundred years or more.

     'The thing is,' Rebus said, 'This time of day, she couldn't have been much further north than Pitlochry. By the time she got here, it would have been pitch black (completely black). 

     'Then the photo can't have been taken here, can it?'

     But Rebus wasn't so sure. He got out his own phone and snapped (to take a lot of photographs quickly) the view. It wasn't professional quality, but he started sending it to Clarke anyway. His phone, however, had other plans.

     'No signal,' Rebus commented.

     'It's usually pretty (almost) good. You just have to find the right spot.

     'So even if the photo was taken here…'

     'She might have had trouble sending it.' The farmer nodded his understanding. 'Do you have other locations that could fit the bill (to be suitable for a particular purpose)?'

     'One or two.'

     'Any of them near where she was last seen?'

     'They're not as good a match as this.' Rebus was looking around. Some would call it a peaceful spot, others a lonely one. The wind was whistling (to make a long sound while moving quickly) around them. Rebus didn't quite know what he was looking for, other than a sense of the why and

the who : why here, and who had chosen it?

     'I didn't suppose you've seen anything suspicious?' he asked Mellon. 'Any strangers stopping for longer than usual?'

     The farmer plunged his hands into the pockets of his Barbour (a type of coat, often dark green, that protects the wearer against wind and is made of a special cotton that is waxed).

'Nothing like that. And I have asked around, everybody says the same.'

     'Tyre tracks where there shouldn't be any?'

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     The farmer shook his head.

     'And at the top of the road?'

     'Left at the junction brings you back to Alness (is a town and civil parish in Ross and Cromarty, Highland) eventually.'

     'And if you turn right?'

     'You join the road to Bonar Bridge (is a village on the north bank of the Kyle of Southerland, Kyle of Southerland is a river estuary, a wide part of river at the place where it joins the sea).'

     'What are the chances of a stranger finding this road, Mr. Mellon?'

     The man shrugged. 'It's on the maps. I dare (to be brave enough) say satnav has it too.'

     Rebus was taking a couple more photos, but it was getting too dark for them to be of any use. He just felt he should be doing something. 

     'You've come a long way,' the farmer said. 'There's tea at the house if you want it.'

     'Thanks, but I've got a few miles ahead of me.'

     'And have you seen enough?'

     Rebus surveyed the horizon - as much of it as he could make out (to discern or see). 'I think so.'

     'You reckon the poor lassie's (a girl) out here somewhere?' 

     'I don't know,' Rebus admitted.

     Back at the Land Rover, the dog gave him what could have been taken for a sympathetic look.

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