Rebus returned the handshake, noting that Corbyn wasn’t a Freemason. “DI Rebus,” he said.
“Are you working with DS Clarke on the Auchterarder case?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“I’ve been trying to reach her. She owes me an update.”
“Some interesting developments, sir. There’s a Web site set up by a local couple. Might be how the killer chose his victims.”
“You’ve got names for all three?”
“Yes, sir. Same MO each time.”
“Could there be others?”
“No way of knowing.”
“Will he stop at three?”
“Again, sir, hard to tell.”
The chief constable was patrolling the room, inspecting wall charts, desks, computer monitors. “I told Clarke she had until tomorrow. After that, we shut the case down till the G8 is done and dusted.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Media haven’t got hold of it yet. No reason we can’t sit on it for a few days.”
“Trails have a way of going cold, sir. If we give suspects that bit of extra time to get their stories straight…”
“You’ve got suspects?” Corbyn had turned toward Rebus.
“Not as such, sir, but there are people we’re talking to.”
“G8 has to take priority, Rebus.”
“Mind if I ask why, sir?”
Corbyn glared at him. “Because the world’s eight most powerful men are going to be in Scotland, staying at the country’s best hotel. That’s the story everyone wants. The fact that a serial killer is stalking the central belt might just get in the way, don’t you think?”
“Actually, sir, only one of the victims is from Scotland.”
The chief constable walked to within a few inches of Rebus. “Don’t try to be smart, DI Rebus. And don’t think I haven’t dealt with your kind before.”
“What kind is that, sir?”
“The kind that thinks because he’s been around awhile, he knows better than anyone else. You know what they say about cars-more miles on the clock, closer they are to being scrapped.”
“Thing is, sir, I prefer vintage cars to the stuff they’re churning out today. Shall I pass your message along to DS Clarke? I expect you’ve got better things to be doing with your time. Off to Gleneagles yourself at any point?”
“None of your bloody business.”
“Message received.” Rebus gave the chief constable something that could have been construed as a salute.
“You’ll shut this thing down.” Corbyn slapped a hand against some of the paperwork on Rebus’s desk. “And remember-DS Clarke is in charge, not you, Inspector.” His eyes narrowed a little. Then, seeing that Rebus wasn’t about to reply, he stalked out of the room. Rebus waited the best part of a minute before exhaling, then made a phone call.
“Mairie? Any news for me?” He listened to her apology. “Well, never mind. I’ve got a wee bonus here for you, if you can manage the price of a cup of coffee…”
Multrees Walk took him less than ten minutes on foot. It was a new development adjacent to the Harvey Nichols department store, and some of the shops were still unrented. But the Vin Caffe was open for snacks and Italian coffee, and Rebus ordered a double espresso.
“And she’s paying,” he added as Mairie Henderson arrived.
“Guess who’s covering the sheriff court this afternoon?” She slid into her seat.
“And that’s your excuse for treading water on Richard Pennen?”
She glared at him. “John, what does it matter if Pennen paid for an MP’s hotel room? There’s nothing to prove it was cash-for-contracts. If Webster’s area was arms procurement, I might have the beginnings of a story.” She made an exasperated sound and gave a theatrical shrug of the shoulders. “Anyway, I’m not giving up yet. Let me talk to a few more people about Richard Pennen.”
Rebus ran a hand across his face. “It’s just the way they’re going about protecting him. Not just Pennen, actually-everyone who was there that night. No way we’re going to get near them.”
“You really think Webster was given a shove over that wall?”
“It’s a possibility. One of the guards thought there was an intruder.”
“Well, if it was an intruder, reason dictates it wasn’t anyone at the actual dinner.” She angled her face, seeking his agreement. When he failed to concede, she straightened again. “Know what I think? I think all of this is because there’s a bit of the anarchist in you. You’re on their side, and it annoys you that you’ve somehow ended up working for The Man.”
Rebus snorted a laugh. “Where did you get that from?”
She laughed with him. “I’m right though, aren’t I? You’ve always seen yourself as being on the outside-” She broke off as their coffees arrived, dug her spoon into her cappuccino and scooped foam into her mouth.
“I do my best work on the margins,” Rebus said thoughtfully.
She nodded. “That’s why we used to get along so well.”
“Until you chose Cafferty instead.”
She gave another shrug. “He’s more like you than you care to admit.”
“And I was just about to do you this huge favor.”
“Okay.” She narrowed her eyes. “The pair of you are like apples and oranges.”
“That’s better.” He handed her an envelope. “Typed by my own fair hands, so the spelling might not be up to your own high journalistic standard.”
“What is it?” She was unfolding the single sheet of paper.
“Something we were keeping the lid on: two more victims, same killer as Cyril Colliar. I can’t give you everything we’ve got, but this’ll get you started.”
“Christ, John-” She looked up at him.
“What?”
“Why are you giving me this?”
“My latent anarchic streak?” he pretended to guess.
“It might not even make the front page, not this week.”
“So?”
“Any week of the year except this…”
“Are you checking my gift horse’s mouth?”
“This stuff about the Web site…” She was scanning the sheet for a second time.
“It’s all kosher, Mairie. If you don’t have a use for it…” He held out his hand to take it back.
“What’s a ‘serial kilter’? Is that someone who can’t stop making kilts?”
“Give it back.”
“Who is it that’s pissed you off?” she asked with a smile. “You wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”
“Just hand it over and we’ll say no more.”
But she slid the page back into the envelope and folded it into her pocket. “If things stay calm for the rest of the day, maybe my editor can be persuaded.”
“Stress the link with the Web site,” Rebus advised. “Might help the others on the list be a bit more cautious.”
“They’ve not been told?”
“Haven’t got around to it. And if the chief constable gets his way, they won’t find out till next week.”
“By which time the killer could strike again?”
Rebus nodded.
“So really you’re doing this to save these scuzzballs’ lives?”
“To protect and serve,” Rebus said, trying another salute.
