‘What makes you say that?’
Andrews gave a snort. ‘You’re not exactly in downtown Chicago. She counts as big news. Word’s out that the police were up at the construction site.’
‘Did you know that Mr Robertson has a criminal record?’
‘He told me he’d been in jail.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Rammy outside a nightclub. Tommy steps in and ends up being the one you lot lift.’ She had filled one tray and was starting on another.
‘It was attempted rape,’ Rebus told her. She froze for a moment.
‘Victim was pretty traumatised,’ Clarke added.
‘And that makes him a suspect?’ She had gone back to the task, but with slightly less enthusiasm.
‘He’s always been okay with you?’ Clarke enquired.
‘Nice as ninepence.’ She thought for a second. ‘Did you tell him you were going to put me in the picture?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Might explain why he lost his bottle. Got as far as the car park but couldn’t bring himself to face me.’
‘So why abandon the car?’ Clarke asked.
‘No idea.’
‘Mind if I take a look at it?’ Rebus added.
‘Help yourself.’
Clarke nodded at Rebus to let him know he could go. She would be staying; questions still to be asked.
Outside, Rebus got a cigarette lit and made for the rear of the building. The gravel car park had space for only four vehicles, a sign explaining that it was reserved for staff. That wouldn’t have bothered Robertson: as far as he was concerned, he was practically family. The only car there now was a beat-up Ford Escort, mostly blue in colour, though one door panel and a front wing were of different shades. The rear bumper was missing, one tail light smashed. It was a private enough spot, no buildings overlooking it. Rebus examined the gravel surface around the car for any obvious signs of a struggle, then peered in through the windows. The car itself was locked, the interior messy: empty crisp bags and soft-drink cans; newspapers and petrol receipts. He jotted down the details of the licence plate and did another circuit of the vehicle. The tax disc’s time was almost up, and it would take a friendly mechanic and possibly a backhander to see the Escort through any MOT. At least two of the tyres were balder than Bobby Charlton on a windy day. When he planted the toe of his shoe against the modified exhaust, it wobbled badly.
Back inside the pub, the cleaner was taking her leave. Rebus held the door open for her. Andrews had finished one chore and started another, loading clean glasses into their shelves. Rebus gave Clarke a shrug to let her know he had nothing for her. She responded with the exact same gesture.
‘He wouldn’t happen to be hiding out at your place?’ Rebus asked Andrews.
‘Your pal here just made the selfsame accusation.’ She turned towards them and folded her arms: nothing defensive about the body language; quite the opposite, if her face was anything to go by.
‘I’ll take that as a “no”, then.’ Rebus pointed towards the display of rolls. ‘Mind if I buy one?’
‘You can get them at the bakery.’
‘The roast beef with horseradish,’ he told her.
Their staring contest lasted a good ten seconds, during which time he placed some money on the bar. She relented and handed him the first roll that came to hand. It was ham and mustard, but Rebus thanked her anyway.
‘Ms Andrews,’ Clarke informed him, ‘was telling me she reckons he’ll have headed back to the north-east. He has friends there he keeps in touch with.’
‘Any names?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not that she can recall.’
Rebus’s look said it all:
Then he bit into the roll.
Their next stop was the road crew, Bill Soames and Stefan Skiladz providing another less-than-enthusiastic welcome.
‘You planning to scare off every man I’ve got working here?’ Soames asked, hands stuffed into jacket pockets. The traffic was its usual diesel growl, choking the air and ensuring they had to shout. The weather was closing in, the temperature dropping and fog creeping towards them across the valley.
‘Way it looks to me,’ Clarke responded, ‘it was his workmates who sent him packing.’
‘Tommy never needed much excuse to go into the town,’ Skiladz said.
‘There’s been no word from him?’ Rebus asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘His car’s at the back of the Tummel Arms.’
‘No surprise there.’
‘He didn’t go in, though,’ Clarke added.
‘Well he didn’t come back here either.’
‘Sure about that?’
Soames gave Rebus a hard stare. ‘You saying we’re lying?’
Rebus tried to make his shrug seem casual. ‘Or being lied to, maybe. Is any of his stuff missing?’
Soames left it to Skiladz to answer.
‘Nothing,’ the Pole said.
‘See, if I was thinking of doing a runner,’ Rebus went on, ‘I’d want to pack a few things first.’
‘Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight,’ Soames said. ‘You lot had just given him a grilling, dredging up his past. .’
‘And it was all tea and sympathy when he got back here?’ Rebus’s smile was thin and humourless.
‘We’re not covering for him. Look around you.’ Soames made a sweeping motion with one arm. ‘Piss-poor place for a game of hide and seek.’
‘Did your search team find anything?’ Skiladz interrupted.
‘No,’ Clarke admitted.
‘Because there’s nothing to find. You’re wasting time and effort and I don’t think the girl ever made it this far — not on foot.’
‘And that means you’ve fucked over an innocent man,’ Soames added. Then, with a glance towards Clarke: ‘Pardon my French.’
‘We’re wasting our time here,’ Clarke told Rebus.
‘Isn’t that what Stefan just said?’ Soames commented.
But Clarke was already heading back to the car.
26
James Page had been busy.
Esson’s e-fits of the missing women had been released to a few favoured media outlets. TV liked them, and that evening’s Scottish news would carry them. The public had also started suggesting locations for the photo sent from Annette McKie’s phone. Some had even submitted their own photos to back up their hunches. Page had made space on a wall of the CID room, and Esson had pinned them up. More were arriving all the time. Page led Clarke and Rebus into his office.
‘Is he a serious suspect?’ was Page’s first question.
‘I’m not sure,’ Clarke admitted.
‘The fact that he ran. .’
‘He’s the type who acts without thinking.’
‘A wanderer,’ Rebus added. ‘Never seems to stay anywhere for long.’
