‘At this stage, as little as possible.’
‘If we turn up mob-handed in Edderton, they may start to get an inkling.’
‘We need to talk to Grampian Constabulary first — or is it Northern?’
‘The latter,’ Rebus answered.
‘We also need to talk to the families of Jemima Salton and Amy Mearns as soon as possible,’ Clarke said. ‘For several years now they’ve been under the impression their daughters drowned. We’ve just put the idea in their heads that they may have been abducted and murdered instead.’
‘Good point.’ Page was rubbing a hand up and down his jaw. ‘An order of priority is needed — can I leave that with you, Siobhan?’
She nodded her agreement. ‘You’ll be wanting to brief the Chief Constable,’ she told him, trying her best to make it sound like a reminder rather than the strong suggestion it actually was.
‘I’ll call his office,’ Page said, glancing at his watch. A moment later he had retreated to his cupboard. There was silence in the room, all eyes on Clarke. She, on the other hand, was staring in Rebus’s direction.
‘John,’ she said, ‘can you divvy up the cold cases? We need fresh interviews with all concerned. Did our abductor lie in wait, or had he met the women beforehand? Could he be in some job that took him to those specific places, or to those particular victims?’
‘It’s a tall order,’ Rebus warned her.
‘Worth a try, though, wouldn’t you say?’ Her look dared him to defy her.
‘Absolutely,’ he responded, the team gathering around him to receive their orders.
Rebus had lost count of the number of cases he’d worked, cases often as complex as this one, requiring interview after interview, statement after statement. He thought of the material in the boxes, now being pored over by those around him — paperwork generated in order to show effort rather than with any great hope of achieving a result. Yes, he’d been on cases like that, and others where he’d despaired of all the doors knocked on, the blank faces of the questioned. But sometimes a clue or a lead emerged, or two people came forward to furnish the same name. Suspects were whittled down. Alibis and stories unravelling after the third or fourth retelling. Pressure was sustained, enough evidence garnered to present to the Procurator Fiscal.
And then there were the lucky breaks — the things that just happened. Nothing to do with dogged perseverance or shrewd deduction: just sheer bloody happenstance. Was the end result any less of a victory? Yes, always. It was possible that there was something he had missed in the files, some connection or thread. Watching the team at work, he couldn’t decide if he would want them to find it or not. It would make him look stupid, lazy, out of touch. On the other hand, they needed a break, even at the expense of his vanity. So he watched them, their heads bowed as they sifted through the documents, chewing on their pens, underlining, making notes, or typing their thoughts into their computers. Putting together more detailed chronologies, deciding who should be questioned, ready to suggest some avenue that had been missed — either by the original inquiry or by Rebus.
More chewing of pens. More notes. Trips to the kettle and coffee pot. The occasional offer to fetch snacks from downstairs. Rebus was the only one who took cigarette breaks. During one, he made sure the cars in the car park were empty before tapping a number into his phone.
‘I want to talk to Hammell,’ he told the person who answered. ‘Tell him it’s Rebus.’
After a few seconds, the man’s voice was back in Rebus’s ear. ‘He can’t speak at the minute.’
‘Tell him it’s important.’
‘He’ll phone you back.’
And that was the end of the conversation. Rebus stared at the display, cursing under his breath. He lit a second cigarette and paced the car park. It was hemmed in by the two-storey police station and the back of a Georgian tenement. Lots of windows; no signs of life. Pigeons on the rooftops, just getting on with things. A large red-brick chimney belonging to some art studio on Union Street. A plane making a sharp turn, heading for the airport. Car horns sounding from the direction of Leith Walk, and a siren in the distance, failing to come any closer.
‘Life’s rich tapestry,’ Rebus muttered, as if to the friendly cigarette held between his fingers. A couple of minutes later, he was readying to discard it when his phone rang. Not a number he recognised. He answered by giving his name.
‘Something you’ve got to tell me?’ Hammell enquired. All business; no time for chat.
‘It isn’t Thomas Robertson,’ Rebus stated.
‘So?’
‘It just isn’t. You need to let him go or stop hunting him down.’
‘Which would you prefer?’
‘Depends if you have him or not.’
‘What makes you so sure he’s not the guy?’
‘He was in jail when one of the women disappeared.’
‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t snatch Annette.’
‘Yes, it does. We’re pretty confident they’re all linked.’
‘Convince me.’
‘Have you got him or haven’t you?’
‘This is bullshit, Rebus.’
Rebus pondered his options for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘It looks like there are at least two other victims we didn’t know about. One was snatched in November 2009. Robertson was in Peterhead at that time. Both these new victims, photos were sent from their phones, same as with Annette.’ Rebus paused. ‘I could get in trouble for telling you this, but I need you to understand.’
‘All right, I understand. But I never did find that little gobshite.’
Frank Hammell ended the call.
The rest of the day felt a lot like limbo. Things were happening, but not in the vicinity of Gayfield Square. Page had taken Clarke with him for his meeting at HQ with the Chief Constable. Rebus had asked her to text him updates, but she’d probably thought it bad manners to whip her phone out in the middle of the Chief’s office.
Northern Constabulary had requested copies of everything Page’s team had. Esson and Ogilvie were given the job of collating and sending it. Gavin Arnold called Rebus from Inverness to tell him the station was buzzing. Rebus decided the corridor was the best place to continue their conversation.
‘We’re having to draft officers in from all over,’ Arnold went on. ‘Dingwall’s the nearest cop shop of any size, but it’s too far from Edderton. It’ll be Portakabins on site and a loan of some land.’
‘I know a friendly farmer,’ Rebus said, giving Arnold Jim Mellon’s name and contact number. ‘He’s the one who recognised the locus in the first place.’
‘Thanks, John — I might get a brownie point or two for that.’
‘One favour less I owe you.’ Rebus peered through the doorway. The team was restless, impatient for the return of James Page with their instructions. ‘How long till the media gets wind of it?’
‘One of my colleagues is probably blabbing to the local paper as I speak.’
‘Bound to happen, I suppose.’
‘Will you be back up this way?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I remember that drowning — the one in Loch Ness. Nobody thought anything of it at the time.’
‘No reason to. What about Golspie — any memory of that?’
‘None. Slap-bang on the A9, though. Do you reckon that’s what they’ll call him: the A9 Killer?’
‘I’m just hoping this is the end of it.’
‘That depends on us catching him.’
‘I suppose it does,’ Rebus said.
‘Positive news on that front is a chief super called Dempsey will probably head the case at our end.’
‘Good, is he?’
‘One of the best we’ve seen up here. Not a bloke, though — first name’s Gillian.’
‘My mistake.’ Rebus watched as Page and Clarke reached the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve got to go, Gavin.’
‘Give me a bell if you hit town. And if I’m in your neck of the woods for a Caley away game. .’
‘The pies are on me,’ Rebus confirmed, following two stern faces into the CID office. It took only seconds for everyone to gather around Page.
