‘Thomas Redfern?’ Clarke added.
‘Aye.’ Redfern didn’t seem to have any gum in his mouth, but he sounded as though he did.
‘You’re in Annette’s class?’
Redfern nodded.
‘You all right talking here?’
The boy shrugged and stuffed his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
‘I’ve already told the polis-’
‘We know that,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘We just need to clear a few things up.’
‘Have you still got that photo?’ Rebus asked. ‘The one Zelda sent?’
‘Aye.’
‘Mind if I see it?’ Rebus held out his hand. Redfern produced a phone from the top pocket of his blazer and switched it on.
‘Sorry we had to pull you out of class,’ Clarke said.
The boy gave a snort. ‘Double chemistry.’
‘You can always walk the long way back.’
He had found the photograph. He turned the phone around so they could see its screen. Rebus lifted it from between his fingers. He didn’t think it was blurred enough to have been taken from a moving vehicle, or even from behind glass. He got a sense that the photographer had been standing up, and was probably around his height.
‘How tall is Zelda?’ he asked.
‘Bit shorter than me.’ Redfern was indicating his own shoulder.
‘Around five six?’ Rebus nodded to himself.
‘She could be standing on a rock or something,’ Clarke suggested.
‘No message with it?’ Rebus asked the boy.
‘No.’
‘Did she often send you stuff?’
‘A text now and then — if there was a party maybe.’
‘Did you know she was going to Inverness?’
‘She told everyone.’
‘Nobody else from the school was invited?’
‘Timmy was, but her parents wouldn’t let her go.’
‘The girls knew about the party from the internet?’
‘Some guy they talked to on Twitter,’ Redfern confirmed. ‘Year older but still at school. We all told her. .’
‘Told her what?’ Clarke asked.
‘To be careful. People online, you know. .’
‘Not always what they seem?’ Clarke nodded her understanding. ‘Well, we’ve checked, and he’s a sixteen- year-old called Robert Gilzean.’
‘Aye, the other polis told me.’
While Clarke kept Redfern talking, Rebus flicked through some of the other photos on the phone. Kids making faces, kids making hand gestures, kids blowing kisses. None showed Annette McKie.
‘How well do you know Zelda, Tom?’
He gave another shrug.
‘Were you at primary school together?’
‘No.’
‘So you’ve been in the same class for. . what. . three years?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Ever been to her house?’
‘Couple of parties. She seemed to spend most of the time in her bedroom.’
‘Oh aye?’
Redfern almost blushed. ‘Online games,’ he clarified. ‘Showing off how good she was.’
‘You don’t sound impressed.’
‘Games are all right, but I prefer books.’
‘That’s refreshing,’ Clarke said with a smile.
‘What did you think when you got the photo?’ Rebus handed back the phone.
‘Didn’t really think anything.’
‘Bit surprised, maybe? Ten o’clock at night — not the sort of thing she’d done before.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And you texted her back?’
Redfern looked at him and nodded. ‘I thought she’d hit the wrong button, meant it for someone else in her contacts.’
‘But she never answered?’
‘No. She’d been sending texts to Timmy from the bus. Last one just said she was feeling queasy.’ The boy paused. He looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘We don’t know that,’ Clarke answered softly.
‘But she is, though.’ Redfern’s eyes were fixed on Rebus, and Rebus wasn’t about to lie.
Rebus tried the door to James Page’s room, but it was locked. He was on his own in the CID suite. There was no TV, but Clarke had shown him how to watch the press conference on her computer. He opened a few desk drawers, finding nothing of interest. The press conference was coming from a hotel round the corner from Gayfield Square. Rebus had picked up a couple of chicken slices from Gregg’s on the trip back from the school. They were long gone, though a few crumbs of pastry lingered on his shirt and jacket. Lothian and Borders Police had their own camera at the hotel, its unedited feed — minus sound — appearing on Clarke’s monitor. Rebus had failed to find any kind of volume control, which was why he was prowling the office rather than sitting at the desk. He’d unearthed some Nurofen in Clarke’s drawer and popped a couple in his breast pocket — always handy to have. He’d drunk enough coffee and there didn’t seem to be any tea bags, other than mint and redbush.
Back at the monitor, proceedings had started. Rebus gave the plastic casing a thump, but there was still no sound. No sign of a radio anywhere either. He knew he could go listen in his car, but that was supposing one of the local stations was covering it. Instead he sat himself down and watched. Whoever was manning the camera needed either an instruction manual or a trip to Specsavers. The focus was all over the place, and Rebus was shown more of the table than the people seated behind it. Others were standing. Page was flanked by Siobhan Clarke and a detective constable called Ronnie Ogilvie. Behind Annette McKie’s mother and the oldest of her brothers stood a man Rebus half recognised. The man squeezed the mother’s shoulder whenever he sensed she was flagging. At one point she covered his hand with her own, as if in thanks. Annette’s brother did some of the talking, too, reading from a prepared statement. He seemed confident enough, gaze surveying the room, giving the photographers plenty of opportunities for a decent shot while his mother dabbed her reddened, sore-looking eyes. Rebus didn’t know the lad’s name, guessed him to be seventeen or eighteen: short hair spiked at the front with gel, face bearing some residual acne. Pale and gaunt and streetwise. But now the camera was a blur of movement. It was Page’s turn. He seemed ready — eager even — to start fielding questions. After a couple of minutes, however, there was an interruption, Page turning to his left. The camera caught Annette McKie’s mother as she staggered from the room, hand held to her mouth, either overcome with grief or about to be sick. The man went with her, leaving her son still seated. He was looking towards Page, as if seeking advice: should he stay or should he go? The camera swept the room, taking in other cameras, journalists, detectives. The double doors had swung shut behind the mother.
Then the camera was pointing at the patterned carpet.
And the screen went black.
Rebus stayed where he was until the team started to drift back into the office. Ogilvie shook his head at him, saving himself the effort of saying anything. Page looked annoyed at having been cut off in his prime — if the TV news concentrated on anything, it would be the walkout. He stabbed the key into the lock, opened his door and disappeared into his cupboard. Clarke made her way between the desks, catching her foot only once on a trailing cable. She handed Rebus a chocolate bar.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ he told her.
