‘What does it matter?’
‘Was it your wife who saw it when it arrived? Asked you who Zoe was? Then maybe deleted it?’
‘This has got nothing to do with anything.’ Blunt was sounding irritated again.
‘But is that what happened? You’d been spending a bit of time with Zoe? Maybe in your car – a wee drive to a farm track somewhere . . .?’
‘I wasn’t sure at first,’ Blunt said quietly. ‘I don’t think the photo meant anything to us. It wasn’t anywhere we’d been . . .’
‘Did any of this come out at the time?’
‘Some.’
Rebus was looking at the Zoe Beddows file. Incomplete. Like most cases. You were a cop, at the end of another long day you wrote up only the stuff you thought was important.
‘There’s not an easy way to put this, Mr Blunt, but were you ever a suspect?’
‘Only in my wife’s eyes.’
‘But you got through it, you and Lesley?’
‘Lesley came later. After Judith had walked out on me.’ Blunt paused. ‘Zoe had quite a lot of “friends”, you know. We’d stopped seeing one another several months before she went missing.’
‘And there’s nothing else you can tell me about the photo?’
‘Only that it ended my marriage.’
‘Sure that wasn’t your doing, Mr Blunt?’
The line went dead. Rebus considered calling Blunt back, but decided against it. He would almost certainly refuse to answer. Instead, he walked over to the Zoe Beddows file, its contents splayed across the dining table. He knew he would have to read it again, every single line of it. He was fairly confident there was nothing about Zoe and her ‘friends’. If any more of them had been interviewed, their relationship to the MisPer had not been flagged up. Laziness, or a sense of propriety on the part of the investigators? They would have known what the media would have done with it: created a story; distorted the facts; sold the public another version. In the process, Zoe Beddows would have become slightly less mourned. Rebus had seen it a dozen times or more. Prostitutes were ‘asking for it’, ‘putting themselves in danger’; anyone with a chaotic lifestyle could be pitied less than the newspaper’s mass of readers, the ones with families and steady jobs, the ones who feasted on those same vicarious details.
Rebus reckoned it had been a conscious decision on somebody’s part to leave speculation out of the case. Which was problematic for anyone opening the files from cold: the whole story wasn’t there. He thought about phoning Ken Lochrin again, but decided it could be done later. He called Clarke instead. She answered with a question.
‘What?’
‘I was just thinking,’ Rebus said. ‘The stuff at my flat, it’s been sorted into piles and pinned up on the wall – wouldn’t it be easier for us to work from here?’
‘This is a police inquiry, John, not a hobby. It needs to be brought to the station.’
‘Understood.’ A caller was waiting. Rebus glanced at the display. ‘I’ll see you in an hour,’ he told Clarke. Then, to Daniel Cowan: ‘Rebus speaking.’
‘I don’t like this, John, not one little bit.’
‘I take it DCI Page has been on the blower?’
‘If it’s a cold case, it should be run from SCRU. You should be here.’
‘Believe me, sir, if it were up to me . . .’
‘Your patter’s pish, John. Is this your way of sucking up to the big boys?’
‘I’m a team player, sir – ask Bliss and Robison, they’ll vouch for me.’
‘It’s not them you need to win over. Don’t forget what I said: without my approval, you’re staying retired.’
‘But your approval’s all I’ve ever really craved, Danny . . .’
Cowan’s voice was rising to something just short of a yell when Rebus ended the call.
7
‘You can’t just wander in, you know.’
It was the next morning, and the uniform behind the desk at Gayfield Square police station didn’t like the look of Rebus. Rebus had some sympathy: his eyes were probably bloodshot, he had failed to locate a clean shirt, and his razor definitely needed a new blade. He had shown her his ID and waited to be buzzed through the locked door leading to the stairs.
‘Who’s your appointment with?’
‘I’m on secondment to CID.’
‘That’s not what your card says.’
Rebus leaned forward until his face was almost touching the Plexiglas partition. ‘Are we going to have this every morning?’
‘He’s with me, Juliet,’ Siobhan Clarke said, coming in from outside. ‘Might as well get used to his ugly mug.’
‘He needs to sign as a visitor. Then I can give him a badge.’
Clarke stared at the woman. ‘Really? I mean, really, Juliet? He’s attached to the McKie inquiry until further notice.’
‘Then I should have been told.’
‘So someone cocked up – there had to be a first time, eh?’
‘I’m right here, by the way,’ Rebus interrupted, feeling left out.
The officer’s face broke into an eventual smile – aimed at Clarke rather than Rebus. ‘Some proper identification by the end of the day . . .’
‘Girl Guide’s honour.’
‘I thought you said you’d never been a Girl Guide.’ The smile was broadening as she pressed the button to let them through.
Clarke led Rebus into the heart of the building. ‘You’ll require a passport photo,’ she told him. ‘Got one handy?’
‘Never felt the need.’
She looked at him. ‘No passport?’
‘Didn’t bother renewing it. I’m perfectly happy where I am.’
She looked at him again. ‘When was the last time you actually left the city – for pleasure, I mean?’
He gave a casual shrug as she continued to study him, this time taking in his clothes.
‘James likes the officers under him to be presentable.’
‘You might be under him from time to time – but not me.’
‘Is this what I have to look forward to?’ She gave him a stern look and asked where the files were.
‘At home.’ He saw that she was ready to remonstrate, so held up a hand. ‘I’m not being obstructive. It’s just that I was awake till three going through them again. Slept late and didn’t have time to pack them away.’
‘Making you the resident expert until someone else gets a look-in?’
‘You might almost call me indispensable.’
‘Not even close, John.’ They were outside the CID suite. The door, as usual, was wide open, a couple of detectives already seated at their desks. Walking in, Rebus caught the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The pot rested on top of a filing cabinet. Clarke poured for both of them.
‘Anybody get milk?’ she asked. There were shakes of the head.
‘That must make me the cavalry,’ James Page said, striding into the office. He carried a litre carton in one hand, brown leather satchel in the other.
‘Hello again,’ he said to Rebus.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘First names around here, John.’ Page handed the milk to Clarke but kept his eyes on Rebus. ‘Any news from those files of yours?’
‘Only that they’re far from complete. Zoe Beddows had been seeing a married man – that’s who she sent her photo to. But I only found that out by speaking to him. File just names him as one of her friends.’
‘And the photo itself?’
‘He didn’t keep it. From the description: hills, sky and a track.’
‘Similar enough to the one Annette McKie sent,’ Clarke commented.
Rebus felt compelled to qualify the statement. ‘If she sent it.’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ Page countered. ‘What about Aviemore and Strathpeffer?’
‘I did a bit of digging on the internet,’ Clarke said. ‘You couldn’t readily send a picture from one phone to another until 2005 or 2006.’
‘Really?’ Page’s brow f
urrowed. ‘As recently as that?’
‘Might be worth showing the photo we do have to Zoe Beddows’s lover,’ Rebus suggested. ‘Even if they’re unlikely to be the same spot.’ He paused. ‘And if I can add something else . . .’ He was aware that Siobhan Clarke was holding her breath, waiting for him to say the wrong thing.
‘Yes?’ Page prompted.
‘We also need to get the new photo circulated. It has to ring bells with somebody.’
‘There’s a press conference at twelve,’ Page said, studying his watch.
‘There is?’ Clarke sounded annoyed at just finding out.
‘The mother’s putting up a reward. Ten thousand pounds, I think.’
‘A fair bit of cash,’ Rebus stated. ‘For someone who lives in Lochend.’
‘Do you want me at the press conference, James?’ Clarke was asking.
‘We’ll all be there – need to let people know we’re motivated.’ Page broke off, noticing Rebus’s shirt and stubble. ‘Maybe not quite all of us, eh, John?’
‘If you say so, James.’
‘Public perception and suchlike . . .’ Page gave a thin smile and turned away, heading for his own inner office. He had to put his coffee down and take a key from his pocket to unlock the door.
‘I’m sure that was a cupboard when I used to work here,’ Rebus said to Clarke, keeping his voice down.
‘It was,’ she confirmed. ‘But James seems to like it.’
The door closed again, with Page behind it. The room had to be near airless, and with no natural light that Rebus could recall. Yet James Page appeared to flourish there.
‘Did I pass inspection?’ he asked Clarke.
‘Just about.’
‘It’s only day one, remember – plenty of time for me to start letting the side down.’
‘How about not doing that, eh? Just for once in your life.’
8
The school’s rector had offered them his office, but Clarke had declined. As she waited with Rebus in the corridor outside, she explained her reasoning.
‘Too intimidating. When you’re in that room, it’s because you’re in trouble. We want him a bit more relaxed and talkative.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. He was looking out of a window towards the playground. The window was double-glazed, but condensation had found its way between the panes. The wooden frame was spongy.
‘Could do with a bit of TLC,’ Clarke commented.
‘Either that or knocking down.’
‘New schools for all, once we get independence.’
Rebus looked at her. ‘What’s with the “we”? Are you forgetting that’s an English accent you’ve got?’
‘Reckon I’m for deportation?’
‘We might just keep you at a pinch.’ Rebus pulled back his shoulders as a teenager in school uniform entered the corridor, hesitated, then walked towards them. His hair flopped into his eyes, and he wore his striped tie with an oversized knot.
‘Are you Thomas?’ Rebus asked.
‘Thomas Redfern?’ Clarke added.
‘Aye.’ Redfern didn’t seem to have any gum in his mouth, but he sounded as though he did.
‘You’re in Annette’s class?’
Redfern nodded.
‘You all right talking here?’
The boy shrugged and stuffed his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
‘I’ve already told the polis—’
‘We know that,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘We just need to clear a few things up.’
‘Have you still got that photo?’ Rebus asked. ‘The one Zelda sent?’
‘Aye.’
‘Mind if I see it?’ Rebus held out his hand. Redfern produced a phone from the top pocket of his blazer and switched it on.
‘Sorry we had to pull you out of class,’ Clarke said.
The boy gave a snort. ‘Double chemistry.’
‘You can always walk the long way back.’
He had found the photograph. He turned the phone around so they could see its screen. Rebus lifted it from between his fingers. He didn’t think it was blurred enough to have been taken from a moving vehicle, or even from behind glass. He got a sense that the photographer had been standing up, and was probably around his height.
‘How tall is Zelda?’ he asked.
‘Bit shorter than me.’ Redfern was indicating his own shoulder.
‘Around five six?’ Rebus nodded to himself.
‘She could be standing on a rock or something,’ Clarke suggested.
‘No message with it?’ Rebus asked the boy.
‘No.’
‘Did she often send you stuff?’
‘A text now and then – if there was a party maybe.’
‘Did you know she was going to Inverness?’
‘She told everyone.’
‘Nobody else from the school was invited?’
‘Timmy was, but her parents wouldn’t let her go.’
‘The girls knew about the party from the internet?’
‘Some guy they talked to on Twitter,’ Redfern confirmed. ‘Year older but still at school. We all told her . . .’
‘Told her what?’ Clarke asked.
‘To be careful. People online, you know . . .’
‘Not always what they seem?’ Clarke nodded her understanding. ‘Well, we’ve checked, and he’s a sixteen-year-old called Robert Gilzean.’
‘Aye, the other polis told me.’
While Clarke kept Redfern talking, Rebus flicked through some of the other photos on the phone. Kids making faces, kids making hand gestures, kids blowing kisses. None showed Annette McKie.
‘How well do you know Zelda, Tom?’
He gave another shrug.
‘Were you at primary school together?’
‘No.’
‘So you’ve been in the same class for . . . what . . . three years?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Ever been to her house?’
‘Couple of parties. She seemed to spend most of the time in her bedroom.’
‘Oh aye?’
Redfern almost blushed. ‘Online games,’ he clarified. ‘Showing off how good she was.’
‘You don’t sound impressed.’
‘Games are all right, but I prefer books.’
‘That’s refreshing,’ Clarke said with a smile.
‘What did you think when you got the photo?’ Rebus handed back the phone.
‘Didn’t really think anything.’
‘Bit surprised, maybe? Ten o’clock at night – not the sort of thing she’d done before.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And you texted her back?’
Redfern looked at him and nodded. ‘I thought she’d hit the wrong button, meant it for someone else in her contacts.’
‘But she never answered?’
‘No. She’d been sending texts to Timmy from the bus. Last one just said she was feeling queasy.’ The boy paused. He looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘We don’t know that,’ Clarke answered softly.
‘But she is, though.’ Redfern’s eyes were fixed on Rebus, and Rebus wasn’t about to lie.
Rebus tried the door to James Page’s room, but it was locked. He was on his own in the CID suite. There was no TV, but Clarke had shown him how to watch the press conference on her computer. He opened a few desk drawers, finding nothing of interest. The press conference was coming from a hotel round the corner from Gayfield Square. Rebus had picked up a couple of chicken slices from Gregg’s on the trip back from the school. They were long gone, though a few crumbs of pastry lingered on his shirt and jacket. Lothian and Borders Police had their own camera at the hotel, its unedited feed – minus sound – appearing on Clarke’s monitor. Rebus had failed to find any kind of volume control, which was why he was prowling the office rather than sitting at the desk. He’d unearthed some Nurofen in Clarke’s drawer and popped a couple in his breast pocket – always handy to have
. He’d drunk enough coffee and there didn’t seem to be any tea bags, other than mint and redbush.
Back at the monitor, proceedings had started. Rebus gave the plastic casing a thump, but there was still no sound. No sign of a radio anywhere either. He knew he could go listen in his car, but that was supposing one of the local stations was covering it. Instead he sat himself down and watched. Whoever was manning the camera needed either an instruction manual or a trip to Specsavers. The focus was all over the place, and Rebus was shown more of the table than the people seated behind it. Others were standing. Page was flanked by Siobhan Clarke and a detective constable called Ronnie Ogilvie. Behind Annette McKie’s mother and the oldest of her brothers stood a man Rebus half recognised. The man squeezed the mother’s shoulder whenever he sensed she was flagging. At one point she covered his hand with her own, as if in thanks. Annette’s brother did some of the talking, too, reading from a prepared statement. He seemed confident enough, gaze surveying the room, giving the photographers plenty of opportunities for a decent shot while his mother dabbed her reddened, sore-looking eyes. Rebus didn’t know the lad’s name, guessed him to be seventeen or eighteen: short hair spiked at the front with gel, face bearing some residual acne. Pale and gaunt and streetwise. But now the camera was a blur of movement. It was Page’s turn. He seemed ready – eager even – to start fielding questions. After a couple of minutes, however, there was an interruption, Page turning to his left. The camera caught Annette McKie’s mother as she staggered from the room, hand held to her mouth, either overcome with grief or about to be sick. The man went with her, leaving her son still seated. He was looking towards Page, as if seeking advice: should he stay or should he go? The camera swept the room, taking in other cameras, journalists, detectives. The double doors had swung shut behind the mother.
Then the camera was pointing at the patterned carpet.
And the screen went black.
Rebus stayed where he was until the team started to drift back into the office. Ogilvie shook his head at him, saving himself the effort of saying anything. Page looked annoyed at having been cut off in his prime – if the TV news concentrated on anything, it would be the walkout. He stabbed the key into the lock, opened his door and disappeared into his cupboard. Clarke made her way between the desks, catching her foot only once on a trailing cable. She handed Rebus a chocolate bar.