“If this works out, I might chip in a clock for your mantelpiece. On the other hand, if it doesn’t…”

Darryl Christie ended the call without bothering to finish the threat. Rebus stared at his phone until the screen went blank.

“Well?” Siobhan Clarke said. She was standing in the living room, hands cupped around a mug of coffee. Rebus rose from his chair and poured himself a drink, then thought better of it and pushed it aside. Instead he lit a cigarette, heading to the sash window and pulling it open so Clarke couldn’t complain.

“Promising,” he decided, blowing smoke through the gap. “No more than that.”

“Did he mention which forest?”

Rebus shook his head. “But he knows about the one his old boss used from time to time. And it’s perfect—not much more than forty-five minutes from the Black Isle. He won’t want to be riding around roads he doesn’t know with someone he’s just abducted—not when there’s a wife at home readying to call the police.”

“And the van?”

“I’m guessing dumped in a loch or sent for scrap.”

“Why not make it look like an accident? Van goes off the road with Magrath at the wheel?”

“Too much can go wrong—any half-decent scene-of-crime unit would smell something.”

Clarke lowered herself onto the sofa. Rebus’s map was there, a circle drawn around a wooded area just outside Aviemore. “He won’t go rushing up there tonight?”

“Darryl’s the careful sort—he’s going to spend time mulling it over.”

“Meaning he might still get cold feet?”

“Always a possibility.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“No.”

“And you don’t think he’ll touch Mrs. Magrath?”

“He’s not the type. He’ll look for the flaws in the plan, maybe try to work out if there’s any other way.”

“How many men will he take?”

“Two or three—one of them to drive away the van.”

“Do we need reinforcements? I could ask Christine or Ronnie…”

Rebus was shaking his head. “I feel bad enough letting you get involved.”

“As if you had a choice.” She was smiling at him above the rim of the coffee mug.

“Remember: you’re the only cop here. If Fox and his crew ever get wind of this…”

“I’d be scuppering my chances of joining the Complaints.”

“You want to work for Fox?”

“He told me I’d be good at it—I think he meant it in a kind way.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you fancy it?”

“I’d have to take a vow of silence, wouldn’t I?”

“About me, you mean?” Rebus blew another stream of smoke out of the window.

“The stuff I could tell them…”

“True enough,” he said, stubbing out the cigarette on the ledge before flicking it into the void.

68

On Monday, they were in position by three thirty, parked on Rosemarkie’s narrow main street, Clarke’s Audi tucked in between two other vehicles, pointing south. Rebus’s reasoning: after grabbing Magrath, this was the way they would come—unless they wanted to end up in Cromarty.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Clarke had replied. The shop windows were illuminated, and locals walked past carrying bags of groceries. Rebus and Clarke had checked out Magrath’s workshop, but there was nowhere to park that wasn’t conspicuous. Rebus was passing the time explaining to Clarke that it was Darryl Christie who had abducted Thomas Robertson.