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

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By the end of the day, they felt numb (not able to feel any emotions or to think clearly). Ogilvie said he was willing to stay another hour by himself, manning the phone (answering phone calls). Clarke shook her head.

     'We all need a break. I've asked one of the uniforms to take over (to start doing a job or being responsible for something) until nine. After that, the switchboard will make a note of numbers and say we'll call them back in the morning. Good work, though, everybody - I mean it.'

     These would normally have been Page's words, but he was at Fettes HQ, attending yet another briefing.  Clarke rubbed tension from her forehead as she walked over to the wall map. Rebus was standing in front of it looking thoughtful.

     'There'll be more to do tomorrow,' he advised, 'with a bit of luck.'

     'The e-fits of the three women? You really think we'll get sightings (the act of catching sight of something)?'

     'It would be nice to think so.' He turned towards her. 'So what do you make of it (to have an impression or understanding)?'

     She studied the map. 'How many votes does that make for Edderton (is a village near Tain, lying on the shores of Domoch Firth)?'

     'Four and counting.'

     'Must be just about the whole population.'

     Rebus managed a smile. 'Three for Lochgair (is a village on the coast of Loch Gair, a small inlet on the west of Loch Fyne. The A83 road runs through the village), but it's way over on the west here.' He tapped the map. 'Next to Loch Fyne.'  

     'And a couple for Durness (a village and civil parish in the north-west Highlands of Scotland),' Clarke added. The map was studded with (covered or filled with a lot of something) drawing pins, and a further cluster had been added to the wall beneath the map's bottom edge.

     'Offerings from England?' Clarke surmised (to guess something).

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     'And Wales and Northern Ireland.'

     She puffed out her cheeks and expelled (to force air or liquid out of something) a blast of air.

     'Isn't this a sort of thing profilers are supposed to be good at?'

     'Don't start.'

     'I'm just saying.' She gave a weary smile. Then, studying the map again: 'You are still thinking the A9?'

     'Or just off it.'

     'So that's - what? - six suggested locations.'

     'Six and counting.'

     She added slowly, glancing behind her to ensure no one else in the team was close enough to hear. All the same, she lowered her voice. 'What if it doesn't mean anything?’

We narrow it down, maybe even convince (to persuade someone or make someone certain) ourselves we've got the right spot… what if it tells us nothing?'

     'Then we'll try something else.'

     'What, though?'

     'Have a bit of faith, Siobhan. If you can say at the end that you put in (to spend time at a location or job) the hours and tried your damnedest (utmost, best) …'

     'I'm sure the family will send us a nice Thank You card.'

     'They might and they might not.' Rebus placed a hand on her shoulder. 'Whatever you do tonight, make sure it's a long way from this.'

     She nodded her agreement. 'Same goes for you,' she told him.

     'Absolutely,' he said. 'I might even have a nice wee (small, little) drive out into the country…'

A couple of city pubs first, though. There was a different face on the door of the Gimlet. He was on his phone and didn't seem to sense any threat in Rebus. The pub itself was busy, same barmaid as on his previous visit. He gave her a wink of recognition but didn't stay for a drink. His second watering hole of choice was even less gentrified (to renovate so as to make it conform to middle-class aspirations). The Tytler sat in the middle of the housing scheme in the north of the city, half of which was due to be torn down (demolish). The Tytler's clients looked similarly ready to have a demolition notice

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slapped on them. Again Rebus choose not to linger (to proceed slowly); a quick word with the monosyllabic (very brief, a word which has only one syllable) barman and he was off again. A longer drive this time, heading west out of the city into the badlands (any deeply eroded barren area) of West Lothian (a council area and historical county of central Scotland). Broxburn (a town in West Lothian, located 12 miles or 19 km. west of Edinburgh), Bathgate (a town in West Lothian, on the M8 motorway 5 miles or 8 km. west of Livingston), Blackburn (a town local to both Bathgate and Livingston, two of the largest towns in the county) and Whitburn (is a small town in West Lothian, halfway between two largest cities, being about 27 miles or 43 km. east of Glasgow and 23 mile or 37 km. west of Edinburgh). Tribal towns; ex-mining communities.

Jo-Jo Binkie's was the name above the door of a converted art deco (a style or decoration which was especially popular in the 1930's and uses simple shapes and lines) cinema on a main street predominated (to be the largest or the most important) by closed businesses and For Sale signs.

Three hulking (a large, heavy, awkward person) doormen gave him their best stare. They all bore armbands (a piece of material that person wears around the arm as a sign of something, for example an official position) on their coats identifying them as a SECURITY, and earpieces (an earphone) with a thin cord which disappeared into the space between neck and collar.

     'All right, pal?' one of them asked Rebus. Plenty of scar tissue (a connective tissue that forms a scar) on the man's face, and a nose that had been broken at least once.

     'Fine,' Rebus said, making to pass him. But a hand stopped him.

     'Meeting someone?' the doorman enquired.

     'Maybe.'

     'See, it's Couples' Night, so unless it's a threesome (three people as a group) you're after…'

     'Old folks' home (nursing or rest home) is down the road,' one of the other bouncers (someone whose job is to stand outside a bar) added. 'They might do a bit of dancing there.'

     Rebus broke into smile. 'Mind if I steal that one for my book?'

     'What book would that be?'

     'I'm calling it Fuds (Idiots) Say the Funniest Things.'

     The young man moved closer. 'Fud, am I?' Maybe we should go round the back and find out…'

     The third bouncer, who looked the most experienced, had kept his counsel (advise) thus far (until now), but now he patted his young colleague on the back.

     'Easy there, Markus. Our friend's a police officer.'

     Rebus stared Marcus down (look at someone until they look away). 'He's right, you know. And the reason I've got to the age I have is that I never start a fight I can't vin. Little tip for you there...wee man.'

     Rebus turned his attention to the leader of the group.

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     Who is it you want to see?' the man asked. Shaven head: neat moustache/beard combo peppered with gray (having gray or white hair usually because of age). He too was a survivor.

     'Mr. Hammell,' Rebus told him.

     'He knows you are coming?"

     'Not exactly.'

     'Might not want to see you, then.'

     'Maybe if you tell him it's about Annette.'

     The doorman chewed this over (to think about or discuss something carefully for a long time), at the same time working the gum in his mouth.

     'Does Mr. Hammell know you?'

     Rebus nodded.

     'Okay then. Follow me.'

     Inside the foyer lay an acre (4,047 square meters) of red carpet. There were tiny (extremely small) twinkling lights set into the ceiling, and the old box office was there you still paid your entrance money. Behind two sets of swing doors (a door that can be opened in both directions), Rebus could hear pounding (repeated heavy pulsation) dance music  and a few drunken female whoops (exclamation). The doorman had stopped long enough at a narrow stairwell (a vertical shaft around which a staircase has been built) in one corner to unhook a red rope. The sign next to it said STAFF ONLY. They climbed to the balcony area, the walls throbbing (to vibrate) from the sound system. 

     'That Marcus needs a bouncer of his own,' Rebus commented.

     'It's turning into a young man's game, same as everything else.'

     Emerging at the top of the stairs, Rebus saw that some of the old cinema seating remained, rows of plush (expensive) velour (a material similar to velvet that has a soft surface) awaiting an audience that would never come. A mirror ball was working hard at entertaining the dancers below. Red and blue lights pulsed. The doorman led Rebus past the back row of seats to an office, where he knocked and entered without waiting to be asked, standing Rebus on the door's other side. Half a minute later, he was back, leaving the door open this time and signaling for Rebus to go in.

     'Thanks,' Rebus said. 'I mean it.' The doorman nodded,

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Aware that he was now owed a favour, something that he could tuck away (to put something in a private, safe place) in his back pocket for the future.

     The office surprised Rebus by being large, bright and modern. Pale wooden furniture, ochre-coloured (having a yellowish-orange colour) leather sofa.

There were framed publicity shots (a photograph) for old films on the walls, including many Rebus had seen in his youth. 

     'Found them when we bought the place,' Frank Hammell explained. 'Hundreds of them left to rot (to decay) in the roof space. I think they were supposed to be insulation (material that is used to stop heat).' He had come from behind his desk to shake Rebus's hand. He held on to it and asked if there was news.

     'Not much,' Rebus conceded. 'Mind if we sit?'

     Hammell one end of the sofa and Rebus the other.

Tonight Hammell was wearing stonewashed (a new piece of clothing, especially made from denim washed together with small pieces of stone in order to make it lose some colour and look older) denims with brown brogues (a strong leather shoes, usually worn by men, often with a pattern in the leather).

A silver-tipped belt strained (pressure) in combat with the gut (a person's stomach when it is large)  it encircled.  White short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. He ran a meaty (large and having a lot of flesh) hand through his hair.

     'Rob's a gent (a gentleman),' he told Rebus, nodding towards the door.

     'Certainly seems to have a bit more grey matter (brain, a person's intelligence) than doorman Donny at the Gimlet.'

     'Brains and brawn (big muscles) don't always mix. It's getting harder to find good guys.' Hammell gave a dismissive wave (showing that you do not think something is worth considering) of the hand. 'Anyway, I leave the hiring and firing to Darryl. So what brings you here, Rebus?'

     'I was hoping you could tell me where Thomas Robertson is.'

     'Mind if I ask you a question first?'

     'Go ahead.'

     'Who the hell is Thomas Robertson?'

     Rebus tried staring him out (to look at a person fixedly until his gaze is turned away), but Hammell seemed to have played the game before. 'He's someone we were questioning,' he eventually decided to explain.

     'Okay.'

     'And now he's gone missing.'

     'You think he's the one who took Annette?'

     'No, but I'm pretty sure (almost sure) you think he did.'

     Hammell stretched out both arms, palms upwards.

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'Never heard of him till you walked in,' he protested.

     'He was part of a road crew (a group of people who work together) working north of Pitlochry.

Drove into town and that's the last anyone saw him.'

     'So he's a fugitive (a person who is running away and hiding from the police)?'

     'He's not been charged with anything.'

     'How come he ended up (to finally be in a particular situation) on your radar, then?

     'He has a bit of previous.'

     'Abduction (kidnap)?'

     Rebus shook his head. 'Assault (a violent physical attack).'

     'And now you've questioned him and let him go?'

     'We searched his sleeping quarters (accommodation). Didn't find anything linking him to Annette.'

     Hammell was thoughtful. 'How exactly am I supposed to have known about him?'

     'There was some gossip on the internet.'

     'Only net that interests me in the way team's at Tynecastle (Tynecastle FC are an association football team).' He paused. 'I saw on the news … photos of those other women. And the picture Annette sent… Is there anything I can tell Gail, just something to chase the gloom (feelings of unhappiness)?'

     'We've had plenty of suggestions. Tomorrow or the day after, we'll be checking the shortlist personally.'

     'No sightings (an occasion on which something is seen) of Annette, though? He picture's been everywhere …'

     Rebus didn't say anything to this. Hammell got up and walked behind his desk, opening a drawer and bringing out a bottle of vodka.

     'Want one?'

     When Rebus shook his head, Hammell lifted a single glass from the drawer and poured an inch into it.

     'How's Annette's mother doing?' Rebus asked.

     'How do you think?'

     There was no knock at the door. It just opened, and a young man Rebus recognized as Darryl Christie was standing there. He saw that Hammell had a visitor and began to mutter (to speak indistinctly in low tones) an apology. 

     'The two of you should meet,' Hammell said, gesturing

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for the young man to come in. Rebus reckoned Christie merited (to earn, deserve or be worth something) standing up for.

     'We spoke on the phone,' he explained, extending his hand. 'I'm John Rebus.'

     'Is it to do with Annette?'

     'Just a progress report,' Hammell reassured him.

     'Nothing to worry about.'

     Christie's phone buzzed and he checked the message on the screen. He was a handsome (a good-looking) enough lad, and his tailored suit looked brand new (completely new, especially not yet used). A suit was an interesting choice. It belonged to the world of grown-ups (if you say that someone is grown-up, you mean that they are adult and behave in a responsible way), of serious business.

Hammell dressed sloppily because he could afford to: no one was going to misjudge him, whatever he chose to wear. Darryl had to work that bit harder. In denims, there was always the chance he would be mistaken for a nobody.

     'What's this I hear about photographs?' Christie asked.

     'Your sister sent one,' Rebus explained. 'Or at least, one was sent from her phone. Same thing with a missing person from a few years back. Right now, that's about as much as we have.'

     'Plus a suspect who's gone AWOL (absent without permission),' Hammell interrupted. 'We've have not got him locked in the cellar, have we, Darryl?'

     'Not last time I looked.' Christie's phone buzzed again, alerting (to warn someone) him to a new message.

     'Always the fucking texts,' Hammell complained. 'Take him to a show or the best restaurants, he hardly looks up from that bloody phone.'

     'It's how business gets done,’ Christie muttered, his fingertips busy on the touchscreen.

     Hammell wrinkled his nose (to show that you dislike something) and caught Rebus's eye.

'People like you and me, we prefer things face to face. That was all you had in the old days. Tonight you could have phoned me, but you came in person.'  He nodded his approval. 'Sure you won't take that drink?'

     'I'm fine,' Rebus said.

     'You could offer me one,' Darryl Christie commented.

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     'But then I'd have to pour (to flow) you into a cab at the end of the night.'

     Christie ignored this. He waved his phone in his employer's direction. 'I have to deal with this,' he said, turning and exiting the room.

     'Not even a word of goodbye, eh?' Hammell shook his head in mock (imitation or pretend) despair (no hope and that you can nothing to improve). 'He's a good kid, though.'

     'How long have you know his mother?'

     'Didn't you ask me that already?'

     'I don't recall you answering.'

     'Maybe because it's still none of your business.'

     'Line (the type of job someone does) of work I'm in, every little detail counts. You knew Darryl's dad?'

     'Derek was a mate (a friend).' Hammell offered a shrug.

     'Any truth in the rumour you ran him out of town (to force someone to leave a town)?' 

     'Is this coming from your mouth or your pal (a friend) Cafferty's?'

     'I've told you, he's not my pal.'

     Hammell poured himself another generous shot of vodka. Rebus could smell it. Wasn't the worst aroma in the world…

     'Cafferty's finished anyway. Game over.' Hammell tipped the glass and drained it.

     'Can you tell me what Annette like?' Rebus asked. 'Or is that none of my business either?'

     'Annette's a proper (showing standards of behavior) little madam - always needs to get her own way.'

     'I was thinking that,' Rebus said, nodding his agreement.

'Her bussing it to Inverness…'

     'One of my guys would have driven her!' Hammell growled (to make a low, rough sound).

     'You suggested as much?'

     'But she had to do it her way - and see where that got her!' Hammell made an exasperated (angry, annoyed) sound and started refilling the glass again.

     'You blame her?'

     'If she'd just listened to reason, none of this would be happening.' He paused, stared down into his glass, swirling (to move quickly with twisting, circular movement) 

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its contents. 'Look, you know me right? You know who I am… It annoys me that I can't do anything to help.'

     'You put up the reward.'

     'And all that's done is flushed out every nut job (a person that is crazy) and greedy bustard in a four-hundred-mile radius.'

     'I doubt you could be doing anything we're not. It only gets problematic if you decide to go your own way.'

     'I'll say it one more time: I don't know anything about this guy Robertson. But if you need a hand getting him back …' Hammell fixed Rebus with a look.

     'I don't think that's necessary - or wise.'

     Hammell gave a shrug. 'The offer's there. And how about that bonus? Bankers can't be the only ones, eh?' He had reached into one of the pockets in his jeans and produced a fat wad (a roll or bundle of banknotes, a large quantity of money) of what looked like fifty-pound notes.

     'No,' Rebus said.

     'Aye,' Hammell stated, reckoning he knew the truth of it.  'Cafferty already pays you a big enough retainer (an amount of money that you pay to someone so as to be sure that that person can work for you when you need them to).'

    Rebus decided it was time to go, but Hammell had other ideas.

     'I'd been told you're like him, and it's true. You could almost be brothers.'

     'Now I'm feeling insulted.'

     Hammell smiled. 'Don't be. It's just that one like Cafferty has always seemed too many.' He stared into his drink before lifting it to his lips. 'Shame you didn't leave well alone (avoid trying to change something,  to allow something to stay as it is because doing more might make things worse) in that hospital when you had the chance.'

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