by Ian Rankin
‘That’s right.’
‘In Nairn?’
‘Correct.’
Clarke made show of studying her notes again. Robertson ran his tongue over his lips, dry-mouthed.
‘Do you remember the Millennium, Mr Robertson?’
Lightheart failed to hide his surprise at the question, half turning his head in Clarke’s direction.
‘Eh?’ Robertson asked.
‘Hogmanay 1999 – everybody remembers where they were.’
Robertson had to think. ‘Aberdeen probably. With mates.’
‘“Probably”?’
‘I’m sure it was Aberdeen.’
Clarke wrote this down. She was still writing as she threw out her next question. ‘Any partners since you got out of jail?’
‘Women, you mean?’
She looked up at him. ‘Or men.’
He gave a snort. ‘No thanks.’
‘Women, then,’ she conceded.
‘There’ve been a few.’ He ran his hands down either side of his face, making a rasping sound of palm against stubble. There were home-made asterisk tattoos on his knuckles.
‘And now there’s this barmaid in Pitlochry?’
‘Gina, yes.’
‘She knows you’ve done jail time?’
‘I told her.’
‘Same story you told us?’ Clarke was staring at him across the table. ‘Maybe I should just check that . . .’
‘Look, I’ve already said – I never saw that girl!’
‘Let’s try and keep calm,’ Lightheart advised.
‘So, 2008, you were living in the north-east?’ Clarke asked into the silence.
‘What?’
‘The attempted rape – it took place at the back of a nightclub in Aberdeen.’
‘So?’
‘So you were living there?’
‘Sort of.’
Clarke read from her notes: ‘“Sleeping on friends’ floors” – you were unemployed at the time?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But looking for work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Travelling about a bit?’
‘What is all this?’ Robertson looked at all three of them in turn. ‘What are you trying to do here?’
‘How well do you know the A9, Mr Robertson?’
When he didn’t answer, Clarke asked again.
‘I fucking work on it, don’t I?’ he spat.
‘Easy,’ Lightheart said in warning.
‘Look, yesterday it was all whether I’d seen that girl or not, but now it’s 1999 and 2008 and God knows what. Okay, I spent some time in the nick. Okay, I didn’t tell you the whole truth – it’s not something I go around shouting from the rooftops.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of,’ he stressed. Having made his point, he sat back again, the chair making a single creak of protest.
Clarke let the silence lie, studying the paperwork again.
‘You didn’t spend the Millennium in Aviemore?’ she eventually asked.
‘No,’ Robertson answered, sounding suddenly tired.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Why the hell would I go to Aviemore?’
‘Maybe someone invited you.’
‘They didn’t.’
‘It’s not that far from Aberdeen.’
Robertson just gave a slow shake of the head.
‘Strathpeffer?’
He looked at her. ‘Couldn’t even place it on a map.’
‘Auchterarder?’
‘Nope.’
‘And you didn’t see Annette McKie the day she disappeared?’ Clarke held up the photo of the missing girl so it was facing Robertson.
‘For the hundredth time – no.’
‘We’ve got some officers going through the Portakabin where you sleep. Want to tell us what they’ll find there?’
‘Dirty washing.’
‘Anything else? A bit of hash, or speed?’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘Porn maybe?’
‘One of the lads has a laptop.’
‘Then it’ll be taken away and examined.’
‘Making me Mr Popular.’
‘Do your workmates know why you went to jail?’
‘Something tells me they’ll be finding out.’ The look he gave Clarke had hardened. ‘You can’t pin the girl on me, so something else will have to do. And if all else fails, at least you’ll see me kicked out of a job.’
‘You’re not being charged.’ Clarke gathered up her papers.
‘Is that it, then?’ Robertson looked around the room. Clarke nodded towards Lightheart and he formally concluded the interview.
‘Did you bring him here in a patrol car?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Lightheart replied. ‘Send him back the same way?’
Clarke stared at Robertson. He was wiping perspiration from his palms on to his trousers.
‘He can catch a bus,’ Clarke said, striding from the room.
20
‘Not a good sign,’ Clarke said, entering the office at Gayfield Square. DC Christine Esson was standing next to Clarke’s desk, looking fretful.
‘What is it?’ Clarke asked her.
‘Best if you come see.’
So they followed Esson to her computer and stood either side of her as she sat down and got busy.
‘Twitter?’ Rebus said.
Clarke looked at him. ‘You know what it is, right?’
‘Of course,’ Rebus said.
‘There’s a missing persons network,’ Esson explained. They use Twitter to get information out. Annette McKie’s got her own hashtag . . .’
Clarke gave Rebus another glance. ‘It’s how you get something trending,’ she explained.
‘Uh-huh.’
The screen was filled with messages, all of them ending #annettemckie.
‘Mostly,’ Esson said, ‘they’re linking to Annette’s profile, just trying to get her description out there. But look at this one.’ She zeroed in on a particular message.
Police i/ving road crew A9 north of Pitlochry! #annettemckie
‘Then there’s this,’ she added, highlighting another.
Police team scouring woods near A9 north of Pitlochry – loads of them #annettemckie
‘Posted by different people,’ Clarke commented.
‘Locals, by the look of it,’ Esson added. ‘Here’s another.’
Cop car near totalled me doing a U-turn, heading S from roadworks. Siren and lights – they’ve got s/o!! #annettemckie
‘Looks like Tayside Constabulary went about things with their usual subtlety,’ Rebus muttered, straightening up.
‘I don’t think you realise, John.’ Clarke turned to Esson. ‘Show him.’
With a few deft clicks and taps, Esson did just that. ‘Half a dozen blogs are on to it,’ she said, ‘plus local media. Ronnie has had to fob off a couple of reporters already.’
As if on cue, the phone rang again on Ronnie Ogilvie’s desk. He picked it up, said a few words, then put the receiver down. Rising to his feet, he walked towards them.
‘BBC,’ he said. ‘Wanting to know if it’s true we’re connecting Annette McKie to three other disappearances.’
‘They didn’t get that from Twitter,’ Esson said.
‘Nina Hazlitt?’ Clarke guessed, eyes fixed on Rebus. He offered a shrug.
‘Spoken to her recently?’ Clarke persisted.
‘Last night,’ Rebus conceded.
Esson was studying the BBC Scotland news feed on her monitor. ‘Here it is,’ she declared.
It was only a paragraph of text – no video or photo to accompany it.
The mother of a teenager who disappeared from Aviemore at Hogmanay 1999 says detectives in Edinburgh are probing links between that mystery and missing schoolgirl Annette McKie, who vanished a fortnight ago while travelling from Edinburgh to Inverness. It is believed that other women have gone missing from the same stretch of road, one in 2002 and
another in 2008. Nina Hazlitt, whose 18-year-old daughter Sally disappeared from a New Year’s holiday in Aviemore, hopes that fresh clues – including photos sent from the victims’ phones – can help provide answers to what she calls ‘the A9 Abductions’.
There was a link to the McKie press conference, accompanied by a still of Gail McKie fleeing the room. Ogilvie’s telephone was ringing again. So was Clarke’s mobile. She was looking in the direction of James Page’s door.
‘In for a penny,’ she said. But there was no need. The door was flung open and DCI Page stood there, his own phone pressed to his ear as he listened. His pointed finger seemed to include Rebus, then jerked in the direction of the corridor. Clarke led the way, Rebus following close behind.
Once they were outside the office, Page ended the call and closed the door. Then he folded his arms.
‘Explain,’ he said.
‘Explain what, sir?’ Clarke countered.
‘Maybe you were huddled round Christine’s screen to look at cats being funny on the internet.’
‘No, James. We were looking at Twitter and the BBC.’
‘Then you know what I’m talking about.’
‘Of course – but I still don’t see what needs explaining. Everyone’s a reporter these days. A patrol car turns up at the same spot on the A9 two days running, people nearby are going to gossip about it. Used to be the garden fence would do, but now it’s Twitter and the like. No way we can stop it.’
‘In fact, we should do the opposite,’ Rebus offered. ‘Get tongues wagging, people’s memories whirring . . .’
Page glowered at him. ‘What about this Hazlitt woman? Where’s she getting her information from?’
‘Speculation rather than information,’ Clarke jumped in. ‘It’s the same story she’s always told. Only thing that’s changed is there’s a new MisPer for the media to hang it on.’
Page considered this, eyes still on Rebus. Clarke was looking at him too, willing him to keep his mouth shut.
‘We need to get the photo from Annette McKie’s phone out there,’ Rebus stated, ignoring her. ‘If the public want a story, we should give them one, get them working for us. Looks like our only hope anyway of finding out where it was taken.’
‘And you should give a statement to the press,’ Clarke added, turning her attention to Page. ‘Just you this time. Set the record straight.’
Page tried not to seem overly keen on the idea.
‘You think so?’
‘Definitely,’ Rebus added. ‘Dampen down some of the wilder speculation, make sure everything’s kept in proportion.’
‘Nothing too formal,’ Clarke went on. ‘Maybe outside the station . . .’
‘It’s not very photogenic,’ Page argued. ‘HQ, maybe? Can you get on to our media people, Siobhan?’
‘Sure.’
‘Show the press the photo at the same time,’ Rebus nudged. ‘They’ll lap it up.’
Page seemed to be visualising the scene. He nodded slowly.
‘Has to be today, though,’ Clarke prompted. ‘While the story’s still hot.’
‘I’ll need a full briefing from the pair of you. Full and quick.’ He thought of something else and looked down at the clothes he was wearing.
‘Your suit looks fine,’ Clarke reassured him.
21
After the briefing in Page’s airless office, Rebus headed outdoors for a cigarette. He punched Nina Hazlitt’s number into his phone, but she wasn’t answering. He was in the car park, just about invisible to prying journalists. For some reason he had an image in his mind of the tattoos on Thomas Robertson’s knuckles. There had been no mention of them on the original charge sheet, and he wondered if they had been part of the prison experience. Robertson had barely been out of his teens when Sally Hazlitt had vanished; not that this meant he couldn’t be responsible. Zoe Beddows had disappeared not long before he’d attacked the victim outside the nightclub. The thing was, the nightclub attack had been brutal and stupid – he’d been apprehended straight away by people nearby who had heard the screams. Could the same person have plucked four women from the world without leaving evidence behind? Rebus doubted it. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t done something to Annette McKie. Spotted her, gone after her, left her somewhere. Sometimes you had to allow for coincidence – the same road; photos sent from mobile phones. A song jumped into his head – ‘Connection’; not the version by the Stones, but a cover by a band called Montrose. He had bought their album thinking they came from the town, but they were American. Connection versus no connection. Just random events, given shape by sheer force of a mother’s will. On cue, his phone rang and he placed it to his ear.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ Nina Hazlitt explained, ‘I had to come outside. They’re not keen on phones in the library.’
‘You’ve been doing your research, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘But leaving enough time to talk to the BBC?’
‘A news agency, actually. They must have passed it along.’
‘Everything you told them, it could only have come from me.’
‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘Are you going to get in trouble?’
‘Would that bother you?’
‘Well, yes, of course.’
‘I’m not so sure, Nina.’
He waited for a response, but heard only the passing traffic on George IV Bridge.
‘You know that book you gave me?’ he continued. ‘I started it last night. A lot of things people used to believe turned out to be just stories.’
‘Feel free to mock me, John – don’t imagine for a second that you’re the first.’
‘I’m not mocking you.’
‘You think I’m seeing things that aren’t there.’ She paused. ‘I don’t have time for this. The agency are taping an interview with me in an hour. Everyone needs to be aware, John. Someone out there knows what happened.’
‘I’m on your side, Nina.’
‘I don’t need anyone on my fucking side! I’ve managed this far with a minimum of effort from the likes of you . . .’ Her voice had grown shrill. It cracked on the last few words.
‘Nina?’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ She took a deep breath, composing herself. ‘You know I didn’t.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘If you don’t want me to talk to them, just tell me.’
‘DCI Page is about to give a statement. See what he has to say, then make up your own mind, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘You’re still staying in town tonight?’
‘Changed my mind – I’m on the six o’clock train.’ She hesitated. ‘I should have thought before I spoke to that journalist. I hope you’ll still feel able to trust me.’
‘Let’s see.’
‘You promised I’d be first to know, John. I’m assuming you always keep your word.’
‘Say hello to your brother for me.’
‘I hope I’ll see you again sometime, John. Remember to keep in touch.’
He ended the call.
Back in the CID suite, there was no sign of Page or Clarke. Rebus went over to Christine Esson’s desk and asked if she wanted a coffee.
‘Don’t drink the stuff.’
‘Tea?’
She shook her head. ‘Hot water, that’s what I like. You should see the looks I get in cafés.’
So he made himself a coffee and brought her her chosen drink.
‘You’re a cheap date,’ he commented. She seemed to have Twitter up on her screen again.
‘How does it work?’ he asked, drawing over a chair.
So she showed him, and he told her to get the photo from Sally Hazlitt’s phone up there.
‘Twitter, Facebook, YouTube – and anywhere else you can think of.’
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘And the message to go with it . . .?’
‘We need to know where it was taken, that’s all.’
‘Anything else?’
&n
bsp; Rebus thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Any way I can watch Custard Pie while he does his thing for the great unwashed?’ She looked uncomprehending. ‘Page’s meet-the-press,’ Rebus elucidated.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ Esson said.
‘With sound, if at all possible.’
‘Of course.’ She paused, her eyes narrowing. ‘Custard Pie?’
‘Page and Plant,’ Rebus said. Then, seeing the look on her face: ‘Never mind. Just get me that feed, eh?’
22
Rebus spent the early evening reading more of the book Nina Hazlitt had given him, concentrating on the Scottish chapters, filling his head with stories of cannibals, shape-shifters, witches and monsters. When the buzzer sounded, telling him someone was outside the main door of the tenement, he went to the window. He couldn’t quite make out the figure, but it wasn’t Cafferty. His phone pinged with a text. It was from Clarke.
Going to let me in?
Rebus went into the hall and pressed the button next to the intercom. As he opened his own door, he could hear her pushing at the main door. He went out on to the landing and leaned over the rail.
‘What happened to you after the press conference?’ he called out.
‘Summoned to the Chief Constable’s office. He wanted a briefing of his own.’ She took the two flights of stairs at a canter. He knew she used a gym sometimes, or had done in the past.
‘Still go jogging?’ he asked.
‘Some weekends – nothing too strenuous.’ She looked over his shoulder towards the flat’s interior. ‘Do I wait for an invite, or . . .?’
Rebus hesitated for a second, then led her inside. As they reached the living room, he asked her if she wanted a drink.
‘I’m okay,’ she said.
‘Just a social visit, is it?’
She shrugged, seeming distracted. ‘The photo from Annette McKie’s phone is out there now.’
‘Yes,’ Rebus said. ‘Now we wait for someone to pinpoint where it is.’ He paused. ‘There’s something you want to tell me.’
‘While we were at Fettes,’ she eventually explained, ‘Malcolm Fox happened by.’
‘Oh?’
‘As you guessed, he wasn’t exactly thrilled I’d been talking to you.’
‘I’d say he’s the type who’s seldom “thrilled” by anything.’
‘He had a word with James, too, asked why you’d been brought in to the McKie case.’