‘This is DCI Page,’ Clarke told him.
‘James Page,’ Page clarified.
‘You’ve changed a bit,’ Rebus said. Page looked at him blankly. ‘Led Zeppelin,’ Rebus explained. ‘Guitarist.’
‘Oh, right. Same name as me.’ Page at last attempted a smile, before turning his attention to Clarke. ‘Meeting of the control team in five.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Page’s eyes lingered on hers a second too long. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said to Rebus.
‘No interest at all in why I’m here?’
‘John. .’ Clarke’s tone was warning Rebus off, but too late. He’d taken a step towards Page.
‘I assume you’re in charge, so you should know that there could be a link between Annette McKie and a series of other MisPers.’
‘Oh?’ Page looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. But the phone he was holding had started to vibrate, and he focused his attention on its screen. ‘Need to take this,’ he apologised. Then, to Clarke: ‘Write me a short briefing, will you?’ He turned back into the office, raising the phone to his ear.
There was silence in the corridor for a few seconds.
‘Need any help with that briefing?’ Rebus asked.
‘Thanks for adding another brick to the hod.’ She folded her arms again; he wondered if it was a defensive gesture. He hadn’t paid much attention to the ‘Reading Body Language’ classes at police college. Through the doorway, Rebus had a good view of Page’s back. Neat haircut, no creases in the jacket. He wouldn’t be much more than thirty, maybe thirty-five tops. The DCIs were getting younger. .
‘Thought you had someone in Newcastle you were seeing?’ Rebus asked casually.
Clarke glared at him. ‘You’re not my dad.’
‘If I was, I might have a few words of advice at the ready.’
‘You’re really going to stand there and lecture me about relationships?’
Rebus pretended to wince. ‘Maybe not,’ he conceded.
‘Good.’
‘So the only thing we need to discuss is this briefing for Mr Dazed and Confused.’ He tried for a conciliatory tone and a kindly face. ‘You’ll want it to be thorough. Nobody better placed than me to help with that, I’d have thought.’
She stood her ground for a further moment or two, then made a sound that mixed frustration with resignation.
‘You’d better come in then,’ she said.
The cramped office was busy with detectives on their phones or staring hard at their computer screens. Rebus knew a few faces and offered a wink or a nod. He got the feeling desks and chairs had been requisitioned from elsewhere. It was a narrow, mazy walk to Clarke’s corner spot, with waste bins and electrical cables to be negotiated. She sat down and sifted through the papers next to her keyboard.
‘Here,’ she said, handing him a copy of a blurry photograph. It showed a field and a line of trees beyond, with hills in the distance. ‘Sent from her phone at just after ten p.m. the day she went missing. Wasn’t when the picture was taken, of course. I’d say late afternoon. Nobody on the bus remembers her taking pictures out of the window, but then nobody paid her much attention till she said she was going to throw up.’
Rebus studied the landscape. ‘Could be just about anywhere. Have you released it to the media?’
‘It’s been mentioned in dispatches, but we didn’t think it meant anything.’
‘Someone out there is bound to recognise it. Grazing land — farmer will know it if no one else does. Could the woods be Forestry Commission?’ He looked up and saw she was smiling. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘It’s just that I had the exact same thought.’
‘That’s because you learned from the best.’ Her smile started to slide. ‘Just joking,’ he assured her. ‘Great minds and all that.’ He peered at the photo again. ‘Who did she send it to?’
‘A friend from school.’
‘Best friend?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘Did she usually send them photos?’
‘No.’
Rebus looked at Clarke. ‘Same thing with Zoe Beddows — sent to someone she knew, but no more than that. And no message — same as this time, right?’
‘Right,’ Clarke agreed. ‘But meaning what, exactly?’
‘Sent in a panic,’ Rebus speculated. ‘Maybe a cry for help, and any recipient would have to do.’
‘Or?’ Clarke knew there was more. Their eyes met again.
‘You know as well as I do.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Sent by the abductor — a sort of calling card.’
‘Bit of work to be done before we can say that.’
‘But that doesn’t stop us thinking it.’
Rebus waited a while before speaking. ‘So do you want my help on this or not?’
‘Maybe for a time.’
‘Then you’ll get Physical Graffiti to tell my boss?’
‘You’re going to run out of Led Zeppelin titles sooner or later.’
‘But it’ll be fun while it lasts,’ Rebus said with a smile.
‘This is all working out for you, isn’t it? Means you don’t have to explain to Cowan about the files. Plus you can keep in touch with Nina Hazlitt.’
‘What makes you think I’d do that?’
‘Because she’s your type.’
‘Oh aye? What type do I go for, then?’
‘Confused, needy, damaged. .’
‘I’m not sure that’s exactly fair, Siobhan.’
‘Then why have you gone all defensive?’
She was looking at his arms, so he looked too. They were folded squarely across his chest.
6
The file on Zoe Beddows had a home address and telephone number for her friend Alasdair Blunt. When Rebus called, he got an answering machine. Man’s voice; Scottish, with a good education:
‘Sure you’ve got the space?’ he’d countered.
‘We’ll find some.’
No one was answering. Rebus stared out of the window, down on to the street. A parking warden was checking residents’ permits and pay-and-display tickets. Rebus had left his Saab on a single yellow line. He watched as the warden glowered through the windscreen at the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign. The man looked up and down the street. His jacket was several sizes too big for him, as was the peaked cap. He lifted his machine and started to process the infringement. Rebus sighed and turned away from the window, ending the call. He was starting to phone Blunt’s answering machine again, this time to leave a message, when his mobile trembled. Incoming: number blocked.
‘Hello?’ Rebus decided this was as much information as the caller needed.
‘You just phoned me.’
‘Alasdair Blunt?’
‘That’s right. Who am I speaking to?’
