punctuated by passing places. It was tarmacked, but with grass sprouting through cracks in the surface. Only a minute or two later, he brought them to a juddering stop and pulled on the handbrake. ‘I’d say this is it.’
Rebus opened his door and got out. He produced a copy of the photo from his pocket. The sky was darker now, but not too dark. Mellon was pointing out the direction to him. Rebus gazed, then held up the photo, his eyes moving between the image and the real thing.
‘Could have been taken at any time, mind,’ Mellon cautioned.
Rebus knew what the man meant: there was probably little in this landscape that had changed in a hundred years or more.
‘The thing is,’ Rebus said, ‘this time of day, she couldn’t have been much further north than Pitlochry. By the time she got here, it would have been pitch black.’
‘Then the photo can’t have been taken here, can it?’
But Rebus wasn’t so sure. He got out his own phone and snapped the view. It wasn’t professional quality, but he started sending it to Clarke anyway. His phone, however, had other plans.
‘No signal,’ Rebus commented.
‘It’s usually pretty good. You just have to find the right spot.’
‘So even if the photo was taken here. .’
‘She might have had trouble sending it.’ The farmer nodded his understanding. ‘Do you have other locations that could fit the bill?’
‘One or two.’
‘Any of them near where she was last seen?’
‘They’re not as good a match as this.’ Rebus was looking around. Some would call it a peaceful spot, others a lonely one. The wind was whistling around them. Rebus didn’t quite know what he was looking for, other than a sense of the why and the who: why here, and who had chosen it?
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything suspicious?’ he asked Mellon. ‘Any strangers stopping for longer than usual?’
The farmer plunged his hands into the pockets of his Barbour. ‘Nothing like that. And I’ve asked around, everybody says the same.’
‘Tyre tracks where there shouldn’t be any?’
The farmer shook his head.
‘And at the top of the road?’
‘Left at the junction brings you back to Alness eventually.’
‘And if you turn right?’
‘You join the road to Bonar Bridge.’
‘What are the chances of a stranger finding this road, Mr Mellon?’
The man shrugged. ‘It’s on the maps. I dare say satnav has it too.’
Rebus was taking a couple more photos, but it was getting too dark for them to be of any use. He just felt he should be doing
‘You’ve come a long way,’ the farmer said. ‘There’s tea at the house if you want it.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve got a few miles ahead of me.’
‘And have you seen enough?’
Rebus surveyed the horizon — as much of it as he could make out. ‘I think so.’
‘You reckon the poor lassie’s out here somewhere?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebus admitted.
Back at the Land Rover, the dog gave him what could have been taken for a sympathetic look.
30
For some reason — mostly because he had failed to make any other decision — he was back on the A9, but heading further north. Soon though he turned off into Dornoch, passing what he assumed must be its cathedral (though no bigger than a village kirk) and stopping in the near-deserted square. A hotel and a shop seemed to be open, but the streets were empty. He found he could get a signal, and got out of the car to walk up and down a bit while he made the call.
‘Well?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.
‘I’m pretty sure.’
‘But not absolutely certain?’
‘No.’
‘So what now?’
‘I’ve taken a few photos on my phone so you can see what I mean.’
‘Are you heading back?’
‘Not quite yet. I’ve stopped in Dornoch.’
‘At this rate you’ll not be home till midnight.’
Rebus thought of the overnight bag on the Saab’s back seat. ‘Thing is, Siobhan, there’s no way she could have sent that picture on her phone. Not from Edderton, not at the time she did.’
‘Okay.’
‘So how else could it have been sent? All I can come up with is it’s not an actual photo as such.’
‘What is it then?’
‘A
‘And sent why?’
‘To throw us off the scent. Because we’d then spend days scouring the countryside around Pitlochry looking for it, reckoning it for the crime scene.’
Clarke was silent for a moment. ‘We could check that,’ she said. ‘Just need someone who knows about photography.’
‘Agreed.’
‘So it doesn’t really get us anywhere?’
‘It tells us we’re dealing with someone who puts a bit of thought in. And whoever they are, looks like they have this calling card. That’s two things we didn’t know before.’
‘I’d probably trade them for a name and address, though.’
‘You and me both.’ He had crossed the road and was standing beneath a signpost.
‘Isn’t Dornoch where Madonna got married to that film director?’ Clarke was asking.
‘I’ll ask next time I see her. Meantime, any news your end?’
‘Still no sign of Thomas Robertson. But other locations for the photo are coming in.’
‘Any good ones?’
‘Nothing we haven’t heard before. Durness got another vote, though.’
‘Does that put it level with Edderton?’
‘Just tucked in behind. Oh, one other thing — you remember Alasdair Blunt?’
‘The charmer who reckons Zoe Beddows ruined his marriage?’
‘We showed him the photo from Annette’s phone.’
‘And?’
‘He said he couldn’t be sure.’
‘I’ll tell you who might have a better memory of it. .’
‘His ex-wife? Her name’s Judith Inglis.’
‘You’re earning your sweeties today, Siobhan. What was her opinion?’
‘A pretty good match, she reckons. I mean, it’s far from definitive. .’ Rebus grunted a response and she changed the subject, asking him if he’d seen any dolphins: ‘There are supposed to be some up that way.’
‘Bit dark now,’ he replied. ‘Have you clocked off for the day?’
‘More or less.’
