‘I saw photos at Gregor Magrath’s house,’ he explained. ‘Are they still at home?’
‘They’re in their twenties.’ She had relaxed a little. ‘One’s in Inverness, the other Glasgow. So you’ve been talking to Gregor?’
‘Not officially. I work with one of his old colleagues. The colleague told me to drop by and say hello.’
She seemed to have made up her mind about him. Taking a step back into the hall, she asked if he wanted to come in.
‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘No trouble,’ she said. ‘Kenny said he’d be home around one for a pit stop. The kettle’s already on. .’
The house was bright and well furnished. Plenty of framed photos on the living room walls, mostly of the offspring in every stage of development from cradle to graduation. Rebus tried not to look as though he was snooping.
‘Does your husband work from a shop?’ he asked.
‘More a sort of shed — just somewhere he can store all his bits and pieces.’
‘That’s near here, is it?’
She nodded. ‘Opposite the pub.’ She paused. ‘Sorry, I didn’t seem to catch your name.’
‘Rebus,’ he said.
‘Rebus?’
‘It’s Polish, if you care to go back far enough.’
‘Lots of Poles in Scotland just now. Kenny’s noticed it in the building trade.’
‘He’s got enough work, though?’
‘Oh, yes. No complaints there.’
‘Always local jobs?’
She looked at him, trying to fathom the reason for the question. Rebus tried out his smile again.
‘Sorry, just me being nosy,’ he said.
‘Kenny has built a name for himself.’ She poured tea from a pot and handed him the mug. There was a plate of shortbread, too, but he shook the offer away.
‘He’s in demand?’
‘Always.’ She took a sip of her own tea. Rebus’s father would have called it a ‘sergeant major’s special’ — the colour of mahogany and giving a tannic coating to the inside of the mouth. He studied some of the photographs.
‘See much of your son and daughter?’
‘When we can. It’s easier with Joanne.’
‘She’s in Inverness?’ Rebus guessed.
Mrs Magrath nodded. ‘Though actually, Kenny saw Brendan a few weeks back.’
‘And Brendan’s in Glasgow?’ Rebus checked.
‘I couldn’t go — had to visit a friend in Raigmore.’
‘Quite a hike from here to the west, isn’t it?’ Rebus sympathised. He’d done that drive himself, after all. A9, then M80, Sally Hazlitt waiting for him at journey’s end.
And if you needed petrol, you might leave the road at Pitlochry. .
‘A few weeks back, eh?’ he added. ‘Can you be more specific, Mrs Magrath?’
‘Being nosy again?’ Her tone had grown cool.
‘Hard to switch off sometimes.’
‘It was a Satur-’
She heard the van before he did. It was pulling up outside.
‘A Saturday?’ Rebus prompted. Same day of the week Annette was abducted. ‘Just over three weeks ago, would that be, Mrs Magrath?’
‘Kenny has a system — he’ll tell you so himself. Leaves here early, lunch with Brendan, then he can start home and miss the football traffic.’
The motor revved once before juddering to a stop.
‘That’s good,’ Rebus was saying. ‘I must remember that.’ Leave Glasgow just after three. . reach Pitlochry between half past four and five. .
An unoiled van door creaked open, then slammed shut. Mrs Magrath was on her feet when the front door rattled open.
‘I’ve only got ten minutes,’ a male voice boomed out. Kenny Magrath walked into the room, doing a double-take when he saw there was a stranger there.
‘This is Detective Rebus,’ his wife began to explain.
‘I know who he is — just had Gregor nipping my ear about him.’ A finger was pointed at Rebus. ‘You’re not welcome here.’
His wife looked from one man to the other. ‘What’s going on?’
Kenny Magrath’s eyes were burning into Rebus’s. He was taller and broader than his brother, and maybe ten years younger. A thick head of hair only now beginning to go silver at the temples. Chiselled face and deep-set eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. Rebus stood his ground, happy to continue the staring contest. He had risen to his feet and was sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, showing he was in no hurry to be anywhere else. The fingers of his right hand grazed the guitar pick.
‘I’m asking you to leave.’ Magrath gestured towards the door. Then, to his wife: ‘Maggie, call the police.’
‘But he is the police.’
‘Not according to Gregor.’
Maggie Magrath looked at Rebus, feeling cheated and let down by the visitor.
‘I’m attached to the Edderton inquiry,’ Rebus stated, eyes never leaving Magrath’s.
‘He’s from Edinburgh,’ Magrath told his wife. ‘Got no business being here, barging into people’s homes. .’
Rebus was about to explain that he’d been invited in, but didn’t want to get Maggie Magrath into any extra bother. ‘We need to talk,’ he told Magrath.
‘No we don’t.’ Magrath took a step towards him.
‘I still don’t know what this is about,’ his wife was complaining.
‘It’s about all those dead women, Mrs Magrath,’ Rebus obliged.
Magrath bared his teeth and took another step forward. ‘You want me to throw you out?’
Rebus knew that a struggle would make a mess of Maggie Magrath’s impeccable room. His eyes were fixed on Magrath’s.
‘Maybe we should talk outside.’
‘We’re not talking anywhere!’ Magrath clamped his fingers around Rebus’s forearm.
‘Let go of me,’ Rebus said quietly.
‘Answer me first.’
‘I’m going,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Just as soon as you take your hand away and save me breaking it.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’ Magrath released his grip on Rebus’s arm and stepped away from him. ‘Best walk out of here while you still can.’
‘Now who’s making threats?’
‘Not me,’ Magrath told him. ‘And I’ve got my wife as witness.’
Maggie Magrath couldn’t look Rebus in the face, and he realised suddenly that she knew — knew or had had her suspicions. ‘Just go,’ she said, her voice cracking.
‘One way or another, we’ll talk,’ Rebus told Kenny Magrath, making for the doorway.
‘Like hell we will!’ the man responded.
Outside sat the small white van with the name on the side: MAGRATH. There were windows in the back but they’d been painted over. Nothing in the front but a few loose tools and an out-of-date tabloid newspaper. Rebus tapped the details of the licence plate into his phone’s notebook before retracing his steps towards the seafront and his Saab.
60
‘What are you doing here?’ Gillian Dempsey asked.
‘Trying to see you,’ Rebus said. He’d been waiting for her outside Northern Constabulary HQ for over an hour. ‘I got the front desk to buzz up to you.’
‘I’ve been rather busy.’ She was walking towards her car. Her driver already had the rear door open for her. Dempsey was trying to control the sheaf of papers tucked under her arm while still hanging on to her shoulder bag and briefcase. The few journalists waiting on the pavement seemed to know better than to expect any of their questions to be answered. They were kept at a distance anyway, courtesy of two uniformed officers who had somehow merited their thankless task.
‘They wouldn’t let me in,’ Rebus went on, walking beside Dempsey. ‘My ID wasn’t good enough.’
‘We’ve had our fair share of gawpers,’ Dempsey explained. ‘Even a few reporters trying their luck.’
‘Including your nephew?’ Rebus couldn’t help asking. She stopped and gave him a hard stare.
‘What is it you want, Rebus?’
‘I think I’m on to something.’
‘So write it up and Page can run it by me.’
‘We need to cut a few corners here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because otherwise we’re giving him time to dispose of any evidence.’
She thought for a moment. ‘In other words, he knows you suspect him?’