“I’m not a detective,” the psychologist stressed. “But coming back to the rural motif and the display, which may be a classic magician’s feint...I’d wonder again about why those particular victims were chosen.” She began nodding to herself. “You see, sometimes victims choose themselves almost, in that they fulfill the killer’s basic needs. Sometimes all that means is a lone woman in a vulnerable situation. But most often there are other considerations.” She focused her attention on Siobhan. “When we spoke on the phone, DS Clarke, you mentioned anomalies. Those can be signifiers in themselves.” She paused meaningfully. “But scrutiny of the case notes might help me toward a more thorough determination.” She was looking at Rebus now. “I can hardly blame you for your skepticism, Inspector, but contrary to all your available visual evidence, I’m not in the least bit batty.”
“I’m sure you’re not, Dr. Gilreagh.”
She clapped her hands together again, and this time leaped to her feet to indicate that their time was up.
“Meantime,” she said, “rurality and anomalies, rurality and anomalies.” She held up two fingers to stress the point, then added a third. “And, perhaps above all else, wanting you to see things that aren’t really there.”
“Is rurality even a word?” Rebus asked.
Siobhan turned the ignition. “It is now.”
“And you’re still going to give her the notes?”
“Worth a shot.”
“Because we’re that desperate?”
“Unless you’ve got a better idea.” But he had no answer for that, and rolled down the window so he could smoke. They passed the old parking lot.
“Informatics,” Rebus muttered. Siobhan signaled right, making toward the Meadows and Arden Street.
“The anomaly is Trevor Guest,” she ventured, once a few more minutes had elapsed. “We’ve said that from the start.”
“So?”
“So we know he spent time in the Borders—doesn’t get much more rural than that.”
“Hell of a long way from either Auchterarder or Black Isle,” Rebus stated.
“But something happened to him in the Borders.”
“We’ve only got Tench’s word for that.”
“Fair point,” she conceded. All the same, Rebus got out Hackman’s number and gave him a call.
“Ready for me?” he asked.
“Are you missing me already?” Hackman replied, recognizing Rebus’s voice.
“One question I meant to ask...where in the Borders did Trevor Guest spend time?”
“Do I hear the sound of a hand grasping at straws?”
“You do,” Rebus conceded.
“Well, I’m not sure I can be much of a lifeguard. I seem to think Guest mentioned the Borders during one of our sessions with him.”
“We’ve not seen all the transcripts yet,” Rebus reminded him.
“Lads in Newcastle being their usual efficient selves? Got an e-mail address on you, John?” Rebus recited it. “Check your computer in about an hour’s time. But be warned—POETS day, meaning the CID cupboard might be a bit on the Mother Hubbard side.”
“Appreciate anything you can get for us, Stan. Happy trails.” Rebus clicked the phone shut. “POETS day,” he reminded Siobhan.
“Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she recited.
“Speaking of which—you still going to T in the Park tomorrow?”
“Not sure.”
“You fought hard enough for the ticket.”
“Might wait till evening. I can still catch New Order.”
“After a hard Saturday’s work?”
“You were thinking of a walk along the seafront at Portobello?”
“Depends on Newcastle, doesn’t it? Been a while since I took a day trip to the Borders.”
She double-parked and climbed the two flights with him. The plan was to have a quick recon of the case notes, decide what might be useful to Dr. Gilreagh, and head to a copy shop with them. Ended up with a pile an inch thick.
“Good luck,” Rebus said as she headed out the door. He could hear a horn blaring downstairs—a motorist she’d managed to block. He pulled the window open to let in some air, then collapsed into his chair. He felt dog tired. His eyes stung and his neck and shoulders ached. He thought again of the massage Ellen Wylie had wanted him to offer. Had she really meant anything by it? Didn’t matter—he was just relieved now nothing had happened. His waist strained against his trouser belt. He undid his tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. Felt the benefit, so worked the belt loose, too.
“Jumpsuit’s what you need, fatso,” he chided himself. Jumpsuit and slippers. And a home-help nurse. In fact, everything short of “Charlie Is My Darling.”
“And just a touch more self-pity.”
He rubbed a hand over one knee. Kept waking in the night with a sort of cramp there. Rheumatics, arthritis, wear and tear—he knew there was no point troubling his doctor. He’d been there before with the blood pressure: less salt and sugar, cut down the fat, get some exercise. Kick the booze and ciggies to the curb.
Rebus’s response had been shaped as a question: “Ever felt you could just write it on a board, stick it on your chair, and bugger off home for the afternoon?”
Producing one of the weariest smiles he’d ever seen on a young man’s face.
The phone rang and he told it to get stuffed. Anyone wanted him that much, they’d try the cell. Sure enough, it rang thirty seconds later. He took his time picking it up: Ellen Wylie.
“Yes, Ellen?” he asked. Didn’t feel she needed to know he’d just been thinking of her.
“Only the one wee spot of trouble for Trevor Guest during his stay in our fine city.”
“Enlighten me.” He leaned his head against the back of the chair, letting his eyes close.
“Got into a fight on Ratcliffe Terrace. You know it?”
“Where the taxi drivers buy their gas. I was there last night.”
“There’s a pub across the street called Swany’s.”
“I’ve been in a few times.”
“Now there’s a surprise. Well, Guest went there at least the once. A drinker seemed to take against him, and it ended up outside. One of our cars happened to be in the garage forecourt—stocking up on provisions, no doubt. Both combatants were taken into custody for the night.”
“That was it?”
“Never went to court. Witnesses saw the other man swing the first punch. We asked Guest if he wanted to press charges, and he declined.”
“I don’t suppose you know what they were fighting about?”
“I could try asking the arresting officers.”
“I don’t suppose it matters. What was the other guy’s name?”
“Duncan Barclay.” She paused. “He wasn’t local though...gave an address in Coldstream. Is that in the Highlands?”
“Wrong end of the country, Ellen.” Rebus had opened his eyes, was easing himself upright. “It’s bang in the middle of the Borders.” He asked her to wait while he readied some paper and a pen, then picked up the phone again.
“Okay, give me what you’ve got,” he told her.
24
The driving range was floodlit. Not that it was completely dark yet, but the brilliance of the illumination made it look like a film set. Mairie had hired a three-wood and a basket containing fifty balls. The first two stalls were taken. Plenty of gaps after that. Automatic tees—meant you didn’t have to go to the trouble of bending down to replace the ball after each shot. The range was broken up into fifty-yard sections. Nobody was hitting 250. Out on the grass, a machine resembling a miniaturized combine-harvester was scooping up the balls, its driver protected by a mesh screen. Mairie saw that the very last stall was in use. The golfer there was getting a lesson. He addressed the tee, took a swing, and watched his ball hit the ground no more than seventy yards away.
“Better,” the instructor lied. “But try to focus on not bending that knee.”
“I’m scoop
ing again?” his pupil guessed.
Mairie placed her metal basket on the ground, next stall over. Decided to take a few practice swings, loosen up her shoulders. Instructor and pupil seemed to resent her presence.
“Excuse me?” the instructor said. Mairie looked at him. He was smiling at her over the partition. “We actually booked that bay.”
“But you’re not using it,” Mairie informed him.
“Point is, we paid for it.”
“A matter of privacy,” the other man butted in, sounding irritated. Then he recognized Mairie.
“Oh, for pity’s sake...”
His instructor turned to him. “You know her, Mr. Pennen?”
“She’s a bloody reporter,” Richard Pennen said. Then, to Mairie: “Whatever it is you want, I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Fine by me,” Mairie answered, readying for her first shot. The ball sailed into the air, making a clean, straight line to the 200-yard flag.
“Pretty good,” the instructor told her.
“My dad taught me,” she explained. “You’re a professional, aren’t you?” she asked. “I think I’ve seen you on the circuit.” He nodded his agreement.
“Not at the Open?”
“Didn’t qualify,” he admitted, cheeks reddening.
“If the two of you have finished,” Richard Pennen interrupted.
Mairie just shrugged and prepared for another shot. Pennen seemed to be doing likewise, but then gave up.
“Look,” he said, “what the hell do you want?”
Mairie said nothing until she’d watched her ball sail into the sky, dropping just short of 200 and a little to the left.
“Bit of fine-tuning needed,” she told herself. Then, to Pennen: “Just thought I should offer fair warning.”
“Fair warning of what exactly?”
“Probably won’t make the paper till Monday,” she mused. “Time enough for you to prepare some sort of response.”
“Are you baiting me, Miss...?”
“Henderson,” she told him. “Mairie Henderson—that’s the byline you’ll read on Monday.”
“And what will the headline be? ‘Pennen Industries Secures Scottish Jobs at G8’?”
“That one might make the business pages,” she decided. “But mine will be page one. Up to the editor how he phrases it.” She pretended to think. “How about ‘Loans Scandal Envelops Government and Opposition’?”
Pennen gave a harsh laugh. He was swinging his club one-handed, to and fro. “That’s your big scoop, is it?”
“I daresay there’s plenty of other stuff to come out in the wash: your efforts in Iraq, your bribes in Kenya and elsewhere. But for now, I think I’ll stick with the loans. See, a little birdie tells me that you’ve been bankrolling both Labor and the Tories. Donations are a matter of record, but loans can be kept hush-hush. Thing is, I very much doubt either party knows you’re backing the other. Makes sense to me: Pennen split off from the MoD because of decisions made under the last Tory government; Labor decided the sell-off could go ahead unhindered—favors owed to both.”
“There’s nothing illegal about commercial loans, Miss Henderson, secret or not.” Pennen was still swinging the club.
“Doesn’t stop it from being a scandal, once the papers get hold of it,” Mairie retorted. “And like I say, who knows what else will come bubbling to the surface?”
Pennen brought the clubhead down with force against the partition. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked this week, arranging contracts worth tens of millions to UK industry? And what have you been doing, apart from some useless muckraking?”
“We all have our place in the food chain, Mr. Pennen.” She smiled. “Won’t be Mr. for much longer, will it? Money you’ve been shelling out, that peerage can’t be far off. Mind you, once Blair finds out you’re bankrolling his enemies...”
“Any trouble here, sir?”
Mairie turned to see three police uniforms. The one who’d spoken was looking at Pennen; the other two had eyes for her and her alone.
Unfriendly eyes.
“I think this woman was just leaving,” Pennen muttered.
Mairie made a show of peering over the partition. “Got a magic lamp there or something? Any time I’ve ever called the cops, they’ve taken half an hour.”
“Routine patrol,” the group’s leader stated.
Mairie looked him up and down: no markings on his uniform. The face tanned, hair cropped, jaw set.
“One question,” she said. “Do any of you know the penalty for impersonating a police officer?”
The leader scowled and made a grab at her. Mairie wriggled free and ran from the safety of the driving area onto the grass surface itself. Fled toward the exit, dodging shots from the first two bays, the players yelling in outrage. She reached the door just before her pursuers. The woman at the register asked where her three-wood was. Mairie didn’t answer. Pushed open another door and found herself in the parking lot. Ran to her car, stabbing the remote. No time to look around. Into the driver’s seat and all four doors locked. Key in the ignition. A fist thumping at her window. The lead uniform trying the handle, then shuffling around to the front of the car. Mairie gave him a look that said she didn’t care. Gunned the accelerator.
“Watch out, Jacko! The bint’s crazy!”
Jacko had to dive sideways; that or be killed. In the wing mirror, she could see him picking himself up. A car had drawn up alongside him. No markings on it either. Mairie screamed out onto the main highway—airport to her left, city to the right. The road back into Edinburgh gave her more options, more chances to lose them.
Jacko: she’d remember that name. Bint, one of the others had called her. It was a term she’d only heard from the mouths of soldiers. Ex-military...with tans picked up in hot climes.
Iraq.
Private security disguised as constabulary.
She looked in the rearview: no sign of them. Didn’t mean they weren’t there. A8 to the bypass, breaking the speed limit all the way, flashing her lights to let the drivers in front know she was coming.
Where to next, though? It would be easy for them to get her address; absurdly easy for a man like Richard Pennen. Allan was on a job, wouldn’t be back in town until Monday. Nothing to stop her driving to the Scotsman and working on her article. Her laptop was in the trunk, all the information inside it. Notes and quotes and her rough drafts. She could stay in the office all night if need be, topped up by coffee and snacks, cocooned from the outside world.
Writing Richard Pennen’s destruction.
It was Ellen Wylie who gave Rebus the news. He in turn called Siobhan, who picked him up in her car twenty minutes later. They drove to Niddrie in silence through the dusk. The Jack Kane Center’s campground had been dismantled. No tents, no showers or toilets. Half the fencing had been removed, and the security guards were gone, replaced for the moment by uniformed officers, ambulance men, and the same two morgue assistants who had collected Ben Webster’s shattered remains from the foot of Castle Rock. Siobhan parked alongside the line of vehicles. Rebus recognized some of the detectives—they were from St. Leonard’s and Craigmillar. They nodded a greeting toward the new arrivals.
“Not exactly your turf,” one of them commented.
“Let’s just say we’ve an interest in the deceased,” Rebus replied. Siobhan was by his side. She leaned toward him so as not to be overheard.
“News hasn’t leaked that we’re on suspension.”
Rebus just nodded. They were nearing a circle of crouched Scene of Crime officers. The duty doctor had pronounced death and was signing his name to some forms on a clipboard. Flash photographs were being taken, flashlights scouring the grass for clues. Onlookers were being kept at a distance by a dozen uniforms while the area was taped off. Kids on bikes, mums with their toddlers in carriages. Nothing drew a crowd quite like a crime scene.
Siobhan was getting her bearings. “This is pretty much where my parents’ tent was pitched,” she told Rebus.
“I’m assuming they’re not the ones who left the mess.” He flicked an empty plastic bottle into the air with his toe. Plenty of other debris strewn across the park: discarded banners and leaflets, fast-food cartons, a scarf and a single glove, a baby’s rattle and a rolled-up diaper...Some of it was being bagged by the SOCOs, to be checked for blood or fingerprints.
“Love to see them get the DNA from that,” Rebus said, nodding toward a used condom. “You think maybe your mum and dad...?”
Siobhan gave him a look. “I’m not going any closer.”
He shrugged, and left her behind. Councilman Gareth Tench was growing cold on the ground. He lay on his front, legs bent as if he’d collapsed in a heap. His head was turned to one side, eyes not quite shut. There was a dark stain on the back of his jacket.
“I’m guessing stabbed,” Rebus told the doctor.
“Three times,” the man confirmed. “In the back. Wounds don’t look all that deep to me.”
“Doesn’t take much,” Rebus stated. “What sort of knife?”
“Hard to tell as yet.” The doctor peered over his half-moon glasses. “Blade about an inch wide, maybe a little less.”
“Anything missing?”
“He’s got some cash on him...credit cards and such. Made identification that bit easier.” The doctor gave a tired smile and turned his clipboard toward Rebus. “If you could countersign here, Inspector.”
But Rebus held his hands up. “Not my case, Doc.” The doctor looked toward Siobhan, but Rebus shook his head slowly and walked off to join her.
“Three stab wounds,” he informed her.
She was staring at Tench’s face, and seemed to be trembling a little.
“Feeling the chill?” he asked.
“It’s really him,” she said quietly.
“You thought he was indestructible?”
“Not quite.” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the body.
“I suppose we should tell someone.” He looked around for a likely candidate.
“Tell them what?”
“That we’ve been giving Tench a bit of grief. Bound to come out sooner or—”