Clarke held up a photograph, taken at the victim’s hospital bedside.
‘Cuts, bruises, abrasions and a black eye. You’re not telling me she was keen on
‘Things got a bit. .’ He shifted in his chair. He was the same man as in the mug shot Clarke had shown Rebus, but something in him had changed. Life had roughed him up a bit. Maybe prison, where he would have been segregated with the other sex offenders. Maybe just the passage of time. He had been handsome, but was rapidly losing those looks.
‘Where did you grow up?’ Clarke asked, pretending to sift her notes for the details. Quick change of tack: classic interview technique. Robertson was going to be kept on his toes. Rebus had never seen Clarke lead an interview before. Lightheart had, having spent the previous day with her, and Rebus hoped the man knew there was nothing to be gained from interrupting.
‘Nairn,’ Robertson told her.
‘Not too far from Inverness?’ she checked.
‘Far enough,’ he said.
‘What road is that?’
He looked quizzical. ‘The A96.’
‘You were born in 1978?’
‘That’s right.’
‘In Nairn?’
‘Correct.’
Clarke made show of studying her notes again. Robertson ran his tongue over his lips, dry-mouthed.
‘Do you remember the Millennium, Mr Robertson?’
Lightheart failed to hide his surprise at the question, half turning his head in Clarke’s direction.
‘Eh?’ Robertson asked.
‘Hogmanay 1999 — everybody remembers where they were.’
Robertson had to think. ‘Aberdeen probably. With mates.’
‘“Probably”?’
‘I’m sure it was Aberdeen.’
Clarke wrote this down. She was still writing as she threw out her next question. ‘Any partners since you got out of jail?’
‘Women, you mean?’
She looked up at him. ‘Or men.’
He gave a snort. ‘No thanks.’
‘Women, then,’ she conceded.
‘There’ve been a few.’ He ran his hands down either side of his face, making a rasping sound of palm against stubble. There were home-made asterisk tattoos on his knuckles.
‘And now there’s this barmaid in Pitlochry?’
‘Gina, yes.’
‘She knows you’ve done jail time?’
‘I told her.’
‘Same story you told us?’ Clarke was staring at him across the table. ‘Maybe I should just check that. .’
‘Look, I’ve already said — I never saw that girl!’
‘Let’s try and keep calm,’ Lightheart advised.
‘So, 2008, you were living in the north-east?’ Clarke asked into the silence.
‘What?’
‘The attempted rape — it took place at the back of a nightclub in Aberdeen.’
‘So?’
‘So you were living there?’
‘Sort of.’
Clarke read from her notes: ‘“Sleeping on friends’ floors” — you were unemployed at the time?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But looking for work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Travelling about a bit?’
‘What is all this?’ Robertson looked at all three of them in turn. ‘What are you trying to do here?’
‘How well do you know the A9, Mr Robertson?’
When he didn’t answer, Clarke asked again.
‘I fucking work on it, don’t I?’ he spat.
‘Easy,’ Lightheart said in warning.
‘Look, yesterday it was all whether I’d seen that girl or not, but now it’s 1999 and 2008 and God knows what. Okay, I spent some time in the nick. Okay, I didn’t tell you the whole truth — it’s not something I go around shouting from the rooftops.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of,’ he stressed. Having made his point, he sat back again, the chair making a single creak of protest.
Clarke let the silence lie, studying the paperwork again.
‘You didn’t spend the Millennium in Aviemore?’ she eventually asked.
‘No,’ Robertson answered, sounding suddenly tired.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Why the hell would I go to Aviemore?’
‘Maybe someone invited you.’
‘They didn’t.’
‘It’s not
Robertson just gave a slow shake of the head.
‘Strathpeffer?’
He looked at her. ‘Couldn’t even place it on a map.’
‘Auchterarder?’
‘Nope.’
‘And you didn’t see Annette McKie the day she disappeared?’ Clarke held up the photo of the missing girl so it was facing Robertson.
‘For the hundredth time — no.’
‘We’ve got some officers going through the Portakabin where you sleep. Want to tell us what they’ll find there?’
‘Dirty washing.’
‘Anything else? A bit of hash, or speed?’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘Porn maybe?’
‘One of the lads has a laptop.’
‘Then it’ll be taken away and examined.’
‘Making me Mr Popular.’
‘Do your workmates know why you went to jail?’
‘Something tells me they’ll be finding out.’ The look he gave Clarke had hardened. ‘You can’t pin the girl on me, so something else will have to do. And if all else fails, at least you’ll see me kicked out of a job.’
‘You’re not being charged.’ Clarke gathered up her papers.
‘Is that it, then?’ Robertson looked around the room. Clarke nodded towards Lightheart and he formally concluded the interview.
‘Did you bring him here in a patrol car?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Lightheart replied. ‘Send him back the same way?’
Clarke stared at Robertson. He was wiping perspiration from his palms on to his trousers.
‘He can catch a bus,’ Clarke said, striding from the room.
