She’d turned her back, making for Rebus’s Saab, signaling to him with her arm that it was time to go.
“She’s really shaping up, isn’t she?” Cafferty told Rebus in an undertone. It didn’t just sound like praise either: to Rebus’s mind, it was as if the gangster was taking at least a portion of the credit.
On the way back into town, Rebus found a local news station. An alternative children’s summit was being held in Dunblane.
“I can’t hear the name of that place without shivering,” Siobhan admitted.
“I’ll let you in on a secret: Professor Gates was one of the pathologists.”
“He’s never said.”
“Won’t talk about it,” Rebus told her. He turned up the radio volume a little. Bianca Jagger was speaking to the audience at the Usher Hall.
“They have been brilliant at hijacking our campaign to make poverty history…”
“She means Bono and company,” Siobhan said. Rebus nodded agreement.
“Bob Geldof has not just danced with the devil, but slept with the enemy…”
As applause broke out, Rebus turned the volume down again. The reporter was saying that there was little evidence the Hyde Park audience was making its way north. Indeed, many of Saturday’s marchers had already returned home from Edinburgh.
“‘Dance with the Devil,’” Rebus mused. “Cozy Powell song, I seem to remember.” He broke off, slamming his feet on brake and clutch. A convoy of white vans was racing toward the Saab on the wrong side of the road. Headlights flashing, but no sirens. The windshield of each van was covered with a mesh grille. They’d streamed into the Saab’s lane to get past a couple of other vehicles. Cops in riot gear could be seen through the side windows. The first van careered back into its own lane, missing the Saab’s front wing by an inch. The others followed.
“Bloody hell,” Siobhan gasped.
“Welcome to the police state,” Rebus added. The engine had stalled, so he turned the ignition again. “Not a bad emergency stop though.”
“Were they some of our lot?” Siobhan had turned in her seat to examine the disappearing convoy.
“No markings that I could see.”
“Think there’s been trouble somewhere?” She was thinking of Niddrie.
Rebus shook his head. “If you ask me, they’re scooting back to Pollock Halls for tea and biscuits. And they pulled that little stunt just because they could.”
“You say they as if we’re not on the same side.”
“Remains to be seen, Siobhan. Want a coffee? I need something to get the old heart pumping.”
There was a Starbucks on the corner of Lothian Road and Bread Street. Hard to find a parking space. Rebus speculated that they were too close to the Usher Hall. He opted for a double yellow line, stuck a POLICE notice on the dashboard. Inside the cafe, Siobhan asked the teenager behind the register if he wasn’t scared of protesters. He just shrugged.
“We’ve got our orders.”
Siobhan dropped a pound coin into the tips box. She’d brought her shoulder bag with her. At the table, she slid her laptop out and switched it on.
“This me getting my tutorial?” Rebus asked, blowing across the surface of his coffee. He’d gone for regular, complaining that he could buy a whole jar for the price of one of the costlier options. Siobhan scooped whipped cream from her hot chocolate with a finger.
“Can you see the screen all right?” she asked. Rebus nodded. “Then watch this.” Within seconds, she was online and typing names into a search engine:
Edward Isley.
Trevor Guest.
Cyril Colliar.
“Plenty of hits,” she commented, scrolling down a page. “But only one with all three.” Her cursor ran back up to the first entry. She tapped the touch pad twice and waited.
“We’d have checked this, of course,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Well…some of us would. But first we’d have needed Isley’s name.” Her eyes met Rebus’s. “Cafferty has saved us a long day’s slog.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m about to join his fan club.”
The welcome screen from a Web site had appeared. Siobhan studied it. Rebus moved a little closer for a better view. The site seemed to be called BeastWatch. There were grainy head-and-shoulder shots of half a dozen men, with chunks of text to the right.
“Listen to this,” Siobhan said, tracing the words on the screen with her finger. “‘As the parents of a rape victim, we feel it is our right to know the whereabouts of her attacker after his release from prison. The aim of this site is to allow families and friends-and victims themselves-to post details of release dates, along with photos and descriptions, the better to prepare society for the beasts in our midst…’” Her voice died away, lips moving silently as she read the rest to herself. There were links to a photo gallery called Beast in View and a discussion group, as well as an online petition. Siobhan moved the cursor to Edward Isley’s photo and tapped the pad. A page of details came up, showing Isley’s expected release date from prison, nickname-Fast Eddie-and areas he would most likely frequent.
“It says ‘expected release date,’” Siobhan pointed out.
Rebus nodded. “And nothing more up to date…no sign they knew where he was working.”
“But it does say he was trained as a car mechanic…mentions Carlisle, too. Posted by…” Siobhan sought out the relevant details. “It just says Concerned.”
She tried Trevor Guest next.
“Same set-up,” Rebus commented.
“And posted anonymously.”
She returned to the home page and clicked on Cyril Colliar. “That same photo’s in our files,” she said.
“It’s from one of the tabloids,” Rebus explained, watching more photos of Colliar pop up. Siobhan swore under her breath. “What is it?”
“Listen: ‘This is the animal who put our beloved daughter through hell, and who has blighted our lives ever since. He’s up for release soon, having shown no remorse, or even admitting his guilt despite all the evidence. We were so shocked that he will soon be back in our midst that we had to do something, and this site is the result. We want to thank all of you for your support. We believe this may be the first site of its kind in Britain, though others like it exist elsewhere, and our friends in the USA in particular have given us such help in getting started.’”
“Vicky Jensen’s parents did all this?” Rebus said.
“Looks like.”
“How come we didn’t know?”
Siobhan shrugged, concentrated on finishing the page.
“He’s picking them off,” Rebus went on. “That’s what he’s doing, right?”
“He or she,” Siobhan corrected him.
“So we need to know who’s been accessing this site.”
“Eric Bain at Fettes might help.”
Rebus looked at her. “You mean Brains? Is he still talking to you?”
“I haven’t seen him in a while…”
“Not since you gave him the brush-off?”
She glowered at Rebus, who held up his hands in surrender. “Got to be worth a try, all the same,” he admitted. “I can do the asking, if you like.”
She sat back in her chair, folded her arms. “Bugs you, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“I’m the DS, you’re the DI, yet Corbyn’s put me in charge.”
“No skin off my nose…” He tried to sound slighted by the accusation.
“Sure about that? Because if we’re going to work together on this…”
“I only asked if you wanted me to speak to Brains.” His irritation showed now.
Siobhan unfolded her arms, bowed her head. “Sorry, John.”
