Standing in another's man grave

14

Rebus had brought the MisPer files with him to Gayfield Square. He made sure Page saw him lugging them to Siobhan Clarke’s desk. It took three trips, the Saab parked out front with its POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign prominent.

‘Thanks for the help,’ Rebus said to the room at large. He was sweating, so removed his jacket and draped it over Clarke’s chair. A female officer came across to ask him about the boxes.

‘Missing persons,’ he explained. ‘Three of them, between 1999 and 2008. All last seen on or around the A9, just like Annette McKie.’

She lifted the lid of the topmost box and peered inside. She stood a little over five feet tall, short dark hair in what Rebus might have called a pageboy cut. She reminded him of an actress — maybe it was Audrey Hepburn.

‘I’m John,’ he said.

‘Everybody knows who you are.’

‘Then I’m at a disadvantage.’

‘Detective Constable Esson. But I suppose you can call me Christine.’

‘You always seem to be glued to your computer,’ he told her.

‘That’s my job.’

‘Oh?’

She placed the lid back on the box and gave him her full attention. ‘I’m our link with the online community.’

‘You mean you send e-mails?’

‘I contact networks, John. Missing persons networks. I’ve been posting on Twitter and Facebook, plus updating the L and B website.’

‘Asking for sightings?’

Esson nodded. ‘Making sure her photo is disseminated as widely as possible. An ask can circulate the globe in seconds.’

‘These networks,’ Rebus asked, ‘would they have details of historic cases?’

Esson looked at the boxes again. ‘Might well have — want me to check?’

‘Could you do that?’

‘Give me their names and dates of birth, photos if you have them. .’ She paused. ‘I thought your theory was they’re all dead?’

‘As of now that’s all it is — a theory. Worth challenging, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Sure.’

‘Names, DoBs, photos?’

She nodded. ‘And anything else relevant: distinguishing marks; where they were last seen. .’

‘Got it,’ Rebus said. ‘And thanks.’

She accepted this with the beginnings of a blush and retreated to her desk. Rebus found a pad of paper and began to write down a few salient details about Sally Hazlitt and the others. Twenty minutes later he took the information, along with a selection of photos, over to Esson. She seemed bemused.

‘Ever heard of e-mail?’

‘Is there something wrong with my handwriting?’

She smiled and shook her head, then read out a line from his notes on Zoe Beddows. ‘“Liked the men”?’

‘I’m sure you can find a way of rephrasing it.’

‘I certainly hope so.’ She studied the photographs. ‘I’ll scan these in as best I can. Nothing a bit more high-res?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Oh well.’

‘I see you’ve met Christine,’ Siobhan Clarke said, approaching the desk. She had a bag slung over one shoulder and a laptop tucked under her other arm. ‘Don’t let her challenge you to one of her shoot-em-up games. She’s lethal.’

Esson was blushing again as Rebus followed Clarke to her own little parcel of land.

‘How was Pitlochry?’ he asked.

‘Fine.’

‘The police station?’

‘Serviceable.’ Clarke looked over towards Esson. ‘Thing about playing games online,’ she went on, ‘you get to know people.’

‘Annette McKie played online games,’ Rebus commented.

‘And Christine’s been in touch with dozens of people she played with. If any of them hear a peep from their friend Zelda, Christine will know about it. .’ She broke off and stared at the boxes. ‘Well done you, by the way. Though now they’re here. .’ She made show of scanning the office for a spare desk.

‘Is there another room we could use?’ Rebus suggested.

‘I’ll look into it.’ She shrugged herself free of her coat and sat down heavily, before noticing his jacket draped over the chair.

‘Let me get that,’ Rebus said.

‘No, leave it.’ She was opening the laptop. ‘Got the interviews on here,’ she explained. ‘Audio only.’

‘Was there someone there from Tayside Police?’

‘An inspector, all the way from Perth. We didn’t exactly hit it off.’

‘But you spoke to everyone you needed to?’

She nodded and rubbed her eyes, the fatigue obvious.

‘Want me to get you a coffee?’ Rebus suggested.

She looked at him. ‘So it’s true what they say — there is a first time for everything.’

‘And a last, if you’re going to have a go at me.’

‘Sorry.’ She allowed herself a yawn. ‘The two Poles work the night shift. Stefan Skiladz did the translating. Both were involved in petty crime in their younger days, back in the homeland. Gang stuff. Fights and pilfering. They swear they’ve kept their noses clean since coming here. I’ll run their names through the system, just to be sure. I already ran a check on Skiladz, and he was telling us the truth — never a hint of back-pedalling since he got out of jail.’

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re leaving the interesting stuff till last?’

She looked up at him. ‘Maybe I will take that coffee,’ she said.

Rebus obliged. On his return, he saw that she was busy on her desk computer. She accepted the mug with a nod of thanks.

‘Thomas Robertson,’ she said, ‘works the day shift. Doesn’t like nights; prefers to spend them in the watering holes of Pitlochry. There’s a particular barmaid he’s keen on, though he didn’t say if the feeling is mutual. He told me he was in trouble just the once, resisting arrest after a fight with a girlfriend outside a club in Aberdeen.’

‘And?’

‘He wasn’t telling the whole truth.’ She tapped a fingernail against the computer screen and angled it a little so Rebus could have a better view. Robertson had been charged with attempted rape, the victim someone he’d met that night, the assault happening in an alleyway behind the club. He’d served two years in HMP Peterhead, and had been out of prison less than twelve months. Rebus did a quick calculation in his head. Zoe Beddows had vanished in June 2008, only a couple of months prior to Robertson’s arrest.

‘What do you think?’ Clarke was asking.

‘What does he say about Annette McKie?’

‘Denies seeing her. Says they were working flat out that afternoon. He doubts he’d have noticed a supermodel strolling past.’

Rebus was looking at Robertson’s mug shot: short black hair, plenty of stubble, and a scowl. Dark-brown eyes, chiselled features.

‘I think we need to talk to him again, a bit more formally,’ Clarke was saying. ‘And maybe have a team search the area around the roadworks. It’s a mix of woodland and fields, plus a stretch of river.’

‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff,’ Rebus commented. He realised Christine Esson was standing just behind him, holding out some sheets of paper. He took them from her.

‘Two essays,’ she explained. ‘Both looking at where killers choose to leave their victims. Bit of light reading for you.’

‘Any chance of you giving me the gist?’

‘I’ve not looked at them, just printed them off. Plenty more like them out there if you’re interested.’

Rebus was about to tell her that he really wasn’t, but he noticed the look Clarke was giving him.

‘Very helpful,’ he said instead.

‘Thanks, Christine,’ Clarke added, as Esson returned to her desk. Then, to Rebus: ‘She’s like that.’

‘There’s about thirty pages here, half of it equations.’

Clarke took the two documents from him. ‘I know one of the authors — by reputation, I mean. I wonder if James has considered bringing in a profiler. .’

‘And maybe a ouija board at the same time.’

‘Times have changed, John.’

‘For the better, I’m sure.’

She made to hand the essays back to him, and he wrinkled his nose.

‘You take first look,’ he said. ‘You know how much I value your opinion.’

‘Christine gave them to you.’

Rebus looked over to Esson’s desk. She was watching. He managed a smile and a nod as he placed the printouts on top of one of the storage boxes.

‘Want to come with me while I tell James the news?’ Clarke asked.

‘Not really.’

‘I suppose I should have asked you what you’ve been up to.’

‘Me? Not much.’ Rebus paused. ‘Apart from dropping you in it with the Complaints. So I should probably say sorry for that. .’

Clarke stared at him. ‘Tell me,’ she said.