‘They’re e-fits,’ she explained. ‘There’s a guy I know on a force down south, he’s a dab hand with the software.’
Rebus stared at the three faces in turn. Sally Hazlitt, Brigid Young and Zoe Beddows had been aged so that each photo showed them as they might look in the present day. Hazlitt was the most changed — not surprising, since she had been missing the longest. A woman of thirty, eyes and cheekbones still much like her mother’s. Beddows and Young were more recognisably the same women who had disappeared. A few lines had been added to Young’s face, her eyes hollower, mouth sagging slightly. Beddows was shown in her late twenties, still sharp- featured but losing some of her spark.
‘What do you think?’ Esson was asking.
‘Pretty good,’ Rebus admitted.
‘He did some others — different hairstyles. .’
Rebus nodded, and she knew what he was thinking.
‘Pretty pointless if they’re dead,’ she commented.
‘I think you should circulate them. But get Page’s permission first.’
‘Mr Trampled Underfoot?’ She gave Rebus a smile. ‘I did my research last night.’
Page’s door opened and he fixed his eyes on Rebus, then gave a little flick of the head by way of summons. Rebus helped himself to a mug of coffee first, then knocked and went in. There was no space for a chair for visitors. Yesterday, with three of them in there, it had been a sweat box. Yet somehow it suited Page, a man who liked his parameters tight, no room for manoeuvre.
‘John,’ he said, sitting down behind his laptop.
‘Yes, James?’
‘Good to see you here so early.’
Rebus just nodded, ready for whatever was coming.
‘Shows motivation, but we need focus also.’
‘Absolutely.’
Page’s words were just filling time while he considered how to broach the real subject. Rebus decided to spare him any more effort.
‘Is it to do with the Complaints?’ he guessed.
‘In a way.’ Meaning: yes, specifically and definitely.
‘Sorry if I seem to be bringing a bit of baggage with me,’ Rebus said. ‘Rest assured it won’t interfere with my work.’
‘Good man. And how’s that work going?’
‘Slower than I’d like.’
‘You appreciate that Annette McKie has to be our priority?’
‘Of course.’
‘And we can’t let your historical cases get in the way.’
‘Nina Hazlitt isn’t going to take a telling from me. She’s been waiting years for this opportunity.’
‘Is she still in Edinburgh?’
‘As far as I know, she went back to London last night.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ He pressed his palms together as if in prayer, resting his mouth against the tips of his fingers.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen Siobhan this morning?’ Rebus asked, trying to keep his tone casual.
Page shook his head and checked his watch. ‘Not like her to be tardy.’
‘Unless she was late to bed.’
Page stared at him. ‘I dropped her home at quarter past nine, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
Rebus pretended to show surprise. ‘No, nothing like that. I just thought-’
He was interrupted by his mobile phone. Siobhan Clarke’s name was on the screen.
‘Talk of the devil,’ he said, pressing the phone to his ear.
‘Where are you?’ Clarke asked.
‘In the office. Why?’
‘I’m parked outside. Better get down here.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Robertson’s bunk’s not been slept in. He didn’t get back to the camp last night. .’
24
The M90 again, but only once they’d escaped the sluggish morning traffic in Edinburgh. Heading towards Perth and the A9. A quick pit stop to pick up beakers of tea and dry croissants. Kate Bush still singing about snowmen. As they crossed the Forth Road Bridge, Rebus asked Clarke if she noticed anything different. She studied him and shook her head.
‘No scaffolding on the rail bridge.’
She looked to her right and saw this was true.
‘Can’t remember the last time I saw it without,’ he added.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. Then: ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night.’
‘Me too. Hope you didn’t have words with James afterwards.’
She glanced towards him. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Nothing.’ He paused for effect. ‘It’s just that I was in his bolt-hole when you phoned. .’
‘And?’
‘He was giving me a slap on the wrist about the Complaints.’
‘And?’ she repeated, growing a little more irritated.
‘And nothing,’ Rebus stressed. ‘I just got a feeling the two of you had. . you know. . maybe had words. . before he dropped you at your flat. And if that’s the case, I’m sorry I was the cause.’
‘You can be a real bastard sometimes, John.’ She shook her head slowly.
‘It has been said,’ he admitted. ‘And believe me, I’m not proud of the fact.’
‘Thing is, though, you
They drove in silence after that, Rebus staring at the scenery — the elongated stretches of hillside near Kinross; the merest glimpse of Loch Leven; the way the view opened up as they rounded a curve in the road and entered Perthshire, snow visible along the topmost ridge of the distant Ochils. (He guessed they were the Ochils; didn’t feel like checking with Clarke.) When her phone rang, she pressed a button on the steering wheel and answered with a voice raised above the engine noise.
‘DI Clarke,’ she informed the caller.
‘It’s Lightheart.’ The inspector’s dull drone seemed to emanate from the same speaker as Kate Bush. Clarke pressed another button to mute the CD.
‘Give me an update,’ she said.
‘He seems to have got on the bus all right. It dropped him near the works. Some of the men gave him short shrift, though — didn’t like that their Portakabin had been searched. So he didn’t hang about, told them he was going into Pitlochry. That was the last they saw of him.’
‘He’s done a runner,’ Clarke confirmed.
‘Looks like.’
‘Anyone talked to his girlfriend?’
‘The barmaid, you mean? Not yet.’
‘Could he be shacked up with her?’
‘It would solve all our problems.’
‘And if someone had checked first thing, it would be saving me this bloody drive.’
‘Want me to do it then?’
‘No, I’ll talk to her when I get there.’
