Was he heading home? He wasn’t sure. First he drove to Rosemarkie and cruised past the lock-up. Kenny Magrath’s van was parked in front, and Rebus stopped, getting out to peer through its windows again. It looked exactly the same as before, except for a Tupperware box and a Thermos—lunch prepared by Maggie, at a guess. A leftover sandwich was visible through the plastic. The lock-up itself still boasted its padlock. Rebus walked around the vehicle. It was small, with thin tires, their tread reduced through use. Could a van like this have been driven into the woods at Edderton without getting stuck? Rebus checked for damage but didn’t find any, just a bit of mud. The van was only a year or so old, judging by the number plate. He was walking around it again, checking more closely for nonexistent scrapes and scuffs, when the forensics team arrived. There were four of them—two in a Ford Transit and two in a Vauxhall Astra. One of them recognized Rebus from the Portakabin at Edderton. He jutted out his chin and gave a twitch of the head, as much acknowledgment as Rebus was going to get.

Before anyone else could ask who he was or demand ID, Rebus garnered all the authority he could muster and explained that they would find the lock-up well organized and with few obvious hiding places.

“You might want to check the perimeter,” he added. “If he’s kept any trophies, I doubt they’re going to be under your noses.”

“Why do you say that?” he was asked.

“I was here with him earlier. He seemed perfectly relaxed about a search of the place.”

The questioner nodded his understanding.

“Have all the warrants been signed?” Rebus inquired, receiving another nod for his efforts. “Both brothers’ homes?”

“That’s right.”

“I think you might want to add the green Land Rover sitting outside Gregor Magrath’s place. Not sure who it belongs to, but strikes me it should be checked. More of an all-terrain vehicle than this.” Rebus gestured towards the van.

“Why don’t you arrange that, then?” the team leader asked.

“Not my job,” Rebus explained, retreating to the Saab.

63

63

He was back at Whicher’s. Now that the initial fuss about the bodies had died down, they had rooms available, but Rebus wasn’t sure he would be staying. Instead, he sat in the lounge, plugged in his phone for a recharge, and ordered a helping of steak pie and chips, along with a pot of tea.

During a trip to the toilets, he had a wash and studied himself in the mirror. He looked like a man who had slept in his car. At reception, they handed him a pack containing toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and shaving cream, and he returned to the toilets for a patch-up job.