in Restalrig. Only one way to find out…”
Her eyes were on the photo. When he said her name, she blinked a couple of times and focused on him instead. Then she shook her head.
“Later,” she said.
He gave a shrug. “Whenever you like.”
“You won’t be there,” she declared.
He tried to look hurt. “Hardly fair after everything I’ve told you.”
“You won’t be there,” she repeated. Cafferty turned his attention to Rebus.
“Did I say she was toughening up? Might have been an understatement.”
“Might have been,” Rebus agreed.
21
He’d been steeping in a bath for twenty minutes when the intercom buzzed. Decided to ignore it, then heard his cell ringing. Whoever it was left a message-the phone beeped afterward to let him know. When Siobhan had dropped him, he’d warned her to go straight home, get some rest.
“Shit,” he said, realizing that she might be in trouble. Got out of the bath and wrapped a towel around himself, leaving wet footprints as he padded into the living room. But the message wasn’t from Siobhan. It was Ellen Wylie. She was outside in her car.
“Never been so popular with the ladies,” he muttered, punching the call-back button. “Give me five minutes,” he told her. Then he went and changed back into his clothes. The intercom sounded again. He let her in and waited at the door, listening to the sand paper sound of her shoes as she climbed the two flights of stone steps.
“Ellen, always a pleasure,” he said.
“I’m sorry, John. We were all down at the pub, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“The bombings?”
She shook her head. “Your case,” she clarified. They were in the living room by now. She walked across to where the paperwork lay; saw the wall and moved toward it, scanning the pictures pinned there. “I’ve spent half the day reading about all these monsters…reading what their victims’ families think of them, and then having to alert those same bastards that there might be someone out for revenge.”
“It was still the right thing to do, Ellen. Time like this, we need to feel we’re doing something.”
“Say they were bombers instead of rapists…”
“What’s the point in that?” he asked, waiting until she’d given an answering shrug. Then: “Anything to drink?”
“Maybe some tea.” She half turned toward him. “This is okay, isn’t it? Me barging in like this?”
“Glad of the company,” he lied, heading for the kitchen.
When he came back with the two mugs, she was seated at the dining table, poring over the first pile of paperwork. “How’s Denise?” he asked.
“She’s fine.”
“Tell me, Ellen-” He paused until he was sure she was giving him her attention. “Did you know Tench is married?”
“Separated,” she corrected him.
Rebus pursed his lips. “Not by much,” he added. “They live in the same house.”
She didn’t blink. “Why are all men bastards, John? Present company excepted, naturally.”
“Makes me wonder about him,” Rebus went on. “Why is he so interested in Denise?”
“She’s not that bad a catch.”
Rebus conceded the point with a twitch of the mouth. “All the same, I suspect the councilman is attracted to victims. Some men are, aren’t they?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’m not sure, really…just trying to work out what makes him tick.”
“Why?”
Rebus snorted. “Another bloody good question.”
“You think he’s a suspect?”
“How many do we have?”
She offered a shrug. “Eric Bain has managed to pull some names and details from the subscription list. My guess is, they’ll turn out to be the families of victims, or professionals working in the field.”
“Which camp does Tench fall into?”
“Neither. Does that make him a suspect?”
Rebus was standing next to her, staring down at the case notes. “We need a profile of the killer. All we know so far is that he doesn’t confront the victims.”
“Yet he left Trevor Guest in a hell of a state-cuts, scratches, bruises. Also left us Guest’s cash card, meaning we had his name straightaway.”
“You’re calling that an anomaly?”
She nodded. “But then you could just as easily say Cyril Colliar is the anomaly, being the only Scot.”
Rebus stared at a photograph of Trevor Guest’s face. “Guest spent time up here,” he said. “Hackman told me as much.”
“Do we know where?”
Rebus shook his head slowly. “Must be in the files somewhere.”
“Any chance that the third victim had some Scottish connection?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“Maybe that’s the key. Instead of concentrating on BeastWatch, we should be thinking more about the three victims.”
“You sound ready to get started.”
She looked at him. “I’m too wired to sleep. How about you? I could always take some stuff away with me…?”
Rebus shook his head again. “You’re fine where you are.” He picked up a handful of reports and headed over to his chair, switching on a floor lamp behind him before settling down. “Won’t Denise worry where you are?”
“I’ll text her, say I’m working late.”
“Best not to mention where…don’t want any gossip.”
She smiled. “No,” she agreed, “we certainly wouldn’t want that. Speaking of which, should we let Siobhan know?”
“Know what?”
“She’s in charge of the case, isn’t she?”
“I keep forgetting,” Rebus replied casually, going back to his reading.
It was almost midnight when he woke up. Ellen was tiptoeing back from the kitchen with a fresh mug of tea.
“Sorry,” she apologized.
“I dozed off,” he said.
“Well over an hour ago.” She was blowing across the surface of the liquid.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Nothing to report. Why don’t you go to bed?”
“Leaving you plugging away on your own?” He stretched his arms out, feeling his spine crackle. “I’ll be fine.”
“You look exhausted.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.” He’d risen to his feet and was walking toward the table. “How far have you got?”
“Can’t find any connection between Edward Isley and Scotland-no family, no jobs, and no vacations. I began to wonder if we were going at it from the wrong end.”
