The New Ian Rankin Novel

  And the first two rounds had been on the house.

  ‘I doubt I can help much,’ Cafferty had admitted.

  ‘I didn’t say I was asking for help.’

  ‘All the same . . . If it was villains going AWOL, people who might well have fallen out with people they shouldn’t have . . .’

  ‘Far as I can tell, these were just ordinary women – civilians, you might call them.’

  Cafferty had begun to outline the sorts of punishment he felt might be deserved, should a single culprit come to light, and had ended by asking Rebus how he felt whenever people got less than they deserved – less of a jail sentence; less of a punishment.

  ‘Not part of my remit.’

  ‘All the same . . . Think of the number of times you saw me walk free from court, or not even make it that far.’

  ‘It rankled,’ Rebus had admitted.

  ‘Rankled?’

  ‘As in: pissed me off. Royally pissed me off. And made me that bit more determined it wasn’t going to happen next time.’

  ‘Yet here we are, sitting enjoying a drink.’ Cafferty had clinked his glass against Rebus’s.

  Rebus hadn’t said what he was thinking: give me half a chance, I’d still put you away. Instead, he had finished his whisky and risen to fetch another.

  Side one of Astral Weeks had finished, and what was left of the tea had grown cold. He sat down and took out his phone and the card Nina Hazlitt had given him, punching in her number.

  ‘Hello?’ It was a man’s voice. Rebus hesitated. ‘Hello?’ A little louder this time.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rebus said. ‘Is this the right number? I was looking for Nina Hazlitt.’

  ‘Hang on, she’s here.’ Rebus listened as the phone was handed over. He could hear a TV playing in the background.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice this time.

  ‘Sorry to be calling so late,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s John Rebus. From Edinburgh.’

  He heard an intake of breath. ‘Have you . . .? Is there any news?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’ Rebus had taken the plectrum from his pocket and was playing with it in his free hand. ‘I just wanted you to know I hadn’t forgotten about you. I’ve pulled the files and I’m taking a look.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘For the moment.’ He paused. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening . . .’

  ‘It was my brother answered the phone. He’s staying with me.’

  ‘Right,’ Rebus said, not knowing what else to add. The silence lengthened.

  ‘Sally’s case is reopened, then?’ Nina Hazlitt’s voice was a mix of hope and fear.

  ‘Not officially,’ Rebus stressed. ‘Depends what I turn up.’

  ‘Anything so far?’

  ‘I’m only just getting started.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to go to the trouble.’

  Rebus wondered if the conversation would have been so stilted without the presence of her brother. Wondered too why the hell he had phoned her out of the blue – late at night, when the only reason for calling could be that there was news of some kind, something that couldn’t wait until morning. Filling her with momentary hope.

  False hope . . .

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you get on.’

  ‘Thanks again. And call any time, please.’

  ‘Maybe not quite so late, though, eh?’

  ‘Any time,’ she repeated. ‘It’s nice to know something’s happening.’

  He ended the call and stared at the paperwork in front of him.

  ‘Nothing’s happening,’ he muttered to himself, placing the plectrum back in his pocket and rising to fix the final drink of the evening.

  5

  The officer’s name was Ken Lochrin, and he had been retired for three years. Rebus had been given his telephone number after a bit of pleading. Lochrin’s name was in the Zoe Beddows file. He seemed to have done a lot of work on it. His handwriting and signature cropped up over two dozen times. Having introduced himself, Rebus spent the first five minutes discussing retirement itself, swapping stories and explaining how SCRU worked.

  ‘Me, I miss the job not one jot,’ Lochrin had said. ‘Complete pain in the posterior by the time I emptied my desk.’

  ‘Bit frustrating not to get a result on Zoe Beddows?’

  ‘It’s a lot worse when you feel you’re getting close – that never happened with her. Gets to the point where you have to move on – unless cold cases is your job, of course. So you’re part of this new Crown Office initiative?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m in a smaller team based in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Then how come Zoe’s turned up on your radar?’

  ‘This kid who went missing on her way to Inverness.’

  ‘Zoe was four years ago, though.’

  ‘All the same . . .’ Rebus liked it that Lochrin used Beddows’s first name. It meant she’d become a person to him rather than a case number.

  ‘I did wonder about that myself, actually.’

  ‘What?’ Rebus prompted.

  ‘Whether there could be a connection. But like I say – four years . . .’

  ‘There was another in 2002, up near Strathpeffer,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been talking to that woman – the Aviemore one.’

  ‘Nina Hazlitt?’

  ‘Daughter went missing on Hogmanay.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I know she used to haunt Central HQ in Stirling, after Zoe disappeared.’

  ‘This isn’t just about her, though,’ Rebus felt it necessary to state. ‘There’s Annette McKie now.’

  ‘Known by the nickname Zelda – I read two papers a day. Gets me out of the house as far as the newsagent’s. I’d drive the wife daft otherwise.’

  ‘I didn’t ask where you live, Mr Lochrin . . .?’

  ‘Tillicoultry – world famous for our soft furnishings warehouse.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘I think I’ve been there, actually.’

  ‘You and half of Scotland. So you’re trying to find a link between this new girl and Zoe Beddows? Plus maybe Strathpeffer and Aviemore?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And you want to ask me about the photo?’

  Rebus was silent for a moment. ‘What photo?’

  ‘The one Zoe sent her friend. Didn’t I just mention it? Probably a coincidence, but I suppose you have to check . . .’

  ‘It was in Zoe Beddows’s file,’ Rebus explained to Siobhan Clarke. He ran his hand through his hair distractedly. ‘I should have spotted it, but it was buried in an interview transcript. Just the single mention. Not even one of her closest friends. And no message with it. Just the picture, sent the day she went missing . . .’

  He was standing with Clarke in the corridor outside the CID suite in Gayfield Square police station. Clarke’s arms had been folded as she listened, but now she held up a hand to interrupt him.

  ‘You’ve got the files? All the files?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ve cleared this with DS Cowan?’ She rolled her eyes at the stupidity of her own question. ‘What am I saying? Of course you haven’t – you’re keeping it to yourself.’

  ‘You know me too well.’

  Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Can I see the photo?’

  ‘I need to speak to the recipient.’ Rebus paused. ‘Well, it doesn’t have to be me, of course . . .’

  ‘You think I’m going to do it for you?’

  ‘Annette McKie sent a photograph from her phone the day she vanished. Back in 2008 Zoe Beddows did the selfsame thing from the selfsame road. You’re telling me we should ignore that?’

  ‘What about the others – Strathpeffer and Aviemore?’

  ‘Brigid Young didn’t have her phone with her. Besides, could you send photos from a phone back then . . .?’

  A man appeared in the nearest doorway. Tall, slim, good suit.

  ‘There you are,’ he said.

  Clarke managed a half-smile. ‘Here I am,’
she agreed. The man was staring at Rebus, awaiting an introduction.

  ‘John Rebus,’ Rebus obliged, holding out a hand. The two men shook. ‘I’m with SCRU.’

  ‘This is DCI Page,’ Clarke told him.

  ‘James Page,’ Page clarified.

  ‘You’ve changed a bit,’ Rebus said. Page looked at him blankly. ‘Led Zeppelin,’ Rebus explained. ‘Guitarist.’

  ‘Oh, right. Same name as me.’ Page at last attempted a smile, before turning his attention to Clarke. ‘Meeting of the control team in five.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Page’s eyes lingered on hers a second too long. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said to Rebus.

  ‘No interest at all in why I’m here?’

  ‘John . . .’ Clarke’s tone was warning Rebus off, but too late. He’d taken a step towards Page.

  ‘I assume you’re in charge, so you should know that there could be a link between Annette McKie and a series of other MisPers.’

  ‘Oh?’ Page looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. But the phone he was holding had started to vibrate, and he focused his attention on its screen. ‘Need to take this,’ he apologised. Then, to Clarke: ‘Write me a short briefing, will you?’ He turned back into the office, raising the phone to his ear.

  There was silence in the corridor for a few seconds.

  ‘Need any help with that briefing?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Thanks for adding another brick to the hod.’ She folded her arms again; he wondered if it was a defensive gesture. He hadn’t paid much attention to the ‘Reading Body Language’ classes at police college. Through the doorway, Rebus had a good view of Page’s back. Neat haircut, no creases in the jacket. He wouldn’t be much more than thirty, maybe thirty-five tops. The DCIs were getting younger . . .

  ‘Thought you had someone in Newcastle you were seeing?’ Rebus asked casually.

  Clarke glared at him. ‘You’re not my dad.’

  ‘If I was, I might have a few words of advice at the ready.’

  ‘You’re really going to stand there and lecture me about relationships?’

  Rebus pretended to wince. ‘Maybe not,’ he conceded.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So the only thing we need to discuss is this briefing for Mr Dazed and Confused.’ He tried for a conciliatory tone and a kindly face. ‘You’ll want it to be thorough. Nobody better placed than me to help with that, I’d have thought.’

  She stood her ground for a further moment or two, then made a sound that mixed frustration with resignation.

  ‘You’d better come in then,’ she said.

  The cramped office was busy with detectives on their phones or staring hard at their computer screens. Rebus knew a few faces and offered a wink or a nod. He got the feeling desks and chairs had been requisitioned from elsewhere. It was a narrow, mazy walk to Clarke’s corner spot, with waste bins and electrical cables to be negotiated. She sat down and sifted through the papers next to her keyboard.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing him a copy of a blurry photograph. It showed a field and a line of trees beyond, with hills in the distance. ‘Sent from her phone at just after ten p.m. the day she went missing. Wasn’t when the picture was taken, of course. I’d say late afternoon. Nobody on the bus remembers her taking pictures out of the window, but then nobody paid her much attention till she said she was going to throw up.’

  Rebus studied the landscape. ‘Could be just about anywhere. Have you released it to the media?’

  ‘It’s been mentioned in dispatches, but we didn’t think it meant anything.’

  ‘Someone out there is bound to recognise it. Grazing land – farmer will know it if no one else does. Could the woods be Forestry Commission?’ He looked up and saw she was smiling. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s just that I had the exact same thought.’

  ‘That’s because you learned from the best.’ Her smile started to slide. ‘Just joking,’ he assured her. ‘Great minds and all that.’ He peered at the photo again. ‘Who did she send it to?’

  ‘A friend from school.’

  ‘Best friend?’

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘Did she usually send them photos?’

  ‘No.’

  Rebus looked at Clarke. ‘Same thing with Zoe Beddows – sent to someone she knew, but no more than that. And no message – same as this time, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Clarke agreed. ‘But meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘Sent in a panic,’ Rebus speculated. ‘Maybe a cry for help, and any recipient would have to do.’

  ‘Or?’ Clarke knew there was more. Their eyes met again.

  ‘You know as well as I do.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Sent by the abductor – a sort of calling card.’

  ‘Bit of work to be done before we can say that.’

  ‘But that doesn’t stop us thinking it.’

  Rebus waited a while before speaking. ‘So do you want my help on this or not?’

  ‘Maybe for a time.’

  ‘Then you’ll get Physical Graffiti to tell my boss?’

  ‘You’re going to run out of Led Zeppelin titles sooner or later.’

  ‘But it’ll be fun while it lasts,’ Rebus said with a smile.

  ‘This is all working out for you, isn’t it? Means you don’t have to explain to Cowan about the files. Plus you can keep in touch with Nina Hazlitt.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d do that?’

  ‘Because she’s your type.’

  ‘Oh aye? What type do I go for, then?’

  ‘Confused, needy, damaged . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s exactly fair, Siobhan.’

  ‘Then why have you gone all defensive?’

  She was looking at his arms, so he looked too. They were folded squarely across his chest.

  6

  The file on Zoe Beddows had a home address and telephone number for her friend Alasdair Blunt. When Rebus called, he got an answering machine. Man’s voice; Scottish, with a good education: Alasdair and Lesley are otherwise engaged. Leave a message or try Alasdair’s mobile. Rebus made a note of the number, ended the call and punched it in. It rang and rang. He looked around the walls of his living room. Clarke had asked him to scoop up all the files and take them to Gayfield Square.

  ‘Sure you’ve got the space?’ he’d countered.

  ‘We’ll find some.’

  No one was answering. Rebus stared out of the window, down on to the street. A parking warden was checking residents’ permits and pay-and-display tickets. Rebus had left his Saab on a single yellow line. He watched as the warden glowered through the windscreen at the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign. The man looked up and down the street. His jacket was several sizes too big for him, as was the peaked cap. He lifted his machine and started to process the infringement. Rebus sighed and turned away from the window, ending the call. He was starting to phone Blunt’s answering machine again, this time to leave a message, when his mobile trembled. Incoming: number blocked.

  ‘Hello?’ Rebus decided this was as much information as the caller needed.

  ‘You just phoned me.’

  ‘Alasdair Blunt?’

  ‘That’s right. Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘My name’s Rebus, sir. I’m calling from Lothian and Borders Police.’

  ‘Oh yes . . .?’

  ‘It’s concerning Zoe Beddows.’

  ‘Has she turned up?’

  ‘I just need to confirm a few details about the picture she sent you from her phone.’

  ‘You mean the case is still open?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘Isn’t that what her family and friends would want?’

  Blunt seemed to consider this, and his tone softened. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, rough day.’

  ‘What is it you do, Mr Blunt?’

  ‘I’m in sales. Though not for much longer if things don’t pick up.’

  ‘Might help if you answered your phone – I could have been a new cl
ient.’

  ‘Then you’d have called me on my other mobile, the one I use for business. That’s why I was busy when you rang.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Blunt exhaled noisily. ‘So how can I help?’

  ‘I’ve been looking through the records and there doesn’t appear to be a copy of the photograph Ms Beddows sent you.’

  ‘That’s because it got deleted.’

  Rebus rested his weight on the arm of his sofa. ‘That’s a pity. There was no message? Just a picture?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Showing what exactly?’

  Blunt seemed to struggle to remember. ‘Hills . . . sky . . . a sort of track off to one side.’

  ‘Trees?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You didn’t recognise the spot?’

  Blunt hesitated. ‘No,’ he said eventually.

  ‘You don’t sound sure.’

  ‘I’m positive.’

  Rebus stayed silent for a moment, inviting Blunt to continue.

  ‘Are we done?’ the man asked.

  ‘Not quite. What time of day did you receive the photo?’

  ‘Sometime in the evening.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’

  ‘Nine, ten o’clock, something like that.’

  ‘And when do you think the picture was taken?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea.’

  ‘Was it bright sunlight, or maybe the sky was growing dark . . .?’

  ‘The quality wasn’t great.’ Blunt paused. ‘Twilight, I suppose.’

  Same as with Annette McKie, Rebus noted. Then: ‘Can I ask, how did you know Ms Beddows?’

  ‘She cut my hair.’

  ‘But you were friends?’

  ‘She cut my hair,’ Blunt repeated. Rebus thought for a moment. How many hairdressers kept their clients’ contact details on their mobile? How many forwarded them photographs . . .?

  ‘Which of your phones was the photo sent to, Mr Blunt?’