‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’
‘We work in the same building: any reason we can’t be sitting together?’
‘Every reason.’ There was nothing confrontational in Fox’s style, no emotion when he spoke. He had the casual confidence of someone who knew they were on another plane from those around them.
‘Because you’re putting together a file on me?’
‘Today’s police force is very different from the one you got used to. Methods have changed, and so have attitudes.’ Fox paused. ‘Do you really think you’d fit in?’
‘You’re telling me not to bother reapplying?’
‘That’s a decision only you can make.’
‘Who was it told you about me and Cafferty?’
Fox’s face changed slightly, and Rebus realised he’d made a mistake. The man knew where Rebus had got that gen: Siobhan Clarke. A black mark against her.
‘Ask yourself this,’ Rebus ploughed on. ‘Could it have been Cafferty himself? Using an intermediary? Just to screw up my chances.’
‘Better if you’d simply kept clear of him in the first place.’
‘Hard to disagree.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Maybe I was hoping he might let something slip — I work cold cases, remember.’
‘And has he?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Not so far. But the amount of skeletons around Cafferty, there’s always a chance.’
Fox looked thoughtful as he sipped his water. Rebus unwrapped the wafer and bit into it.
‘The file on you,’ Fox said eventually, ‘goes back to the 1970s. In fact, to call it a “file” is doing it an injustice; it takes up one whole shelf.’
‘I’ve been called into the headmaster’s office a few times,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Never been given my jotters, though.’
‘I wonder: is that down to luck or guile?’
‘There was always a good reason why I did what I did — and it got results. The High Hiedyins recognised that.’
‘“Room should always be made for one maverick”,’ Fox quoted. ‘That’s what a former Chief Constable wrote about you. He underlined the “one”.’
‘I got results,’ Rebus repeated.
‘And what about now? Think you can break cases without bending a few rules along the way? We’ve no room for even one maverick these days.’
Rebus shrugged. Fox spent a moment studying him.
‘You’re on secondment to Gayfield Square,’ he said. ‘That brings you back into contact with DI Clarke.’
‘So?’
‘Since you retired, she’s managed to unlearn some of the stuff you taught her. She’s going to keep rising through the ranks.’ Fox paused. ‘Unless. .’
‘You’re saying I’m a bad influence? Siobhan’s her own woman. That’s not about to change just because I’m around for a week or two.’
‘I hope not. But back in the day, she covered up for you a few times, didn’t she?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Rebus tipped the bottle to his mouth again.
Fox managed to force out a smile, studying Rebus the way a sceptical employer might an underqualified job candidate. ‘We’ve met before, you know.’
‘We have?’
‘Sort of — we were on the same case one time, back in my CID days.’
‘I don’t remember.’
Fox shrugged. ‘Not so surprising really — I don’t think you made it to a single briefing.’
‘Probably too busy doing real work.’
‘With a mint on your tongue to mask the smell of booze.’
Rebus gave him a hard stare. ‘Is that what this is about — me not giving you the time of day? Did I nick your sweets in the playground and now you need to get your own back?’
‘I’m not that petty.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Quite sure.’ Fox was rising to his feet. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘You know there’ll be a physical? If you go ahead with your application, I mean.’
‘Constitution of an ox,’ Rebus declared, thumping his chest with a fist. He watched the other man leave, then finished his caramel wafer before heading outside to the smoking zone.
14
Rebus had brought the MisPer files with him to Gayfield Square. He made sure Page saw him lugging them to Siobhan Clarke’s desk. It took three trips, the Saab parked out front with its POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign prominent.
‘Thanks for the help,’ Rebus said to the room at large. He was sweating, so removed his jacket and draped it over Clarke’s chair. A female officer came across to ask him about the boxes.
‘Missing persons,’ he explained. ‘Three of them, between 1999 and 2008. All last seen on or around the A9, just like Annette McKie.’
She lifted the lid of the topmost box and peered inside. She stood a little over five feet tall, short dark hair in what Rebus might have called a pageboy cut. She reminded him of an actress — maybe it was Audrey Hepburn.
‘I’m John,’ he said.
‘Everybody knows who you are.’
‘Then I’m at a disadvantage.’
‘Detective Constable Esson. But I suppose you can call me Christine.’
‘You always seem to be glued to your computer,’ he told her.
‘That’s my job.’
‘Oh?’
She placed the lid back on the box and gave him her full attention. ‘I’m our link with the online community.’
‘You mean you send e-mails?’
‘I contact networks, John. Missing persons networks. I’ve been posting on Twitter and Facebook, plus updating the L and B website.’
‘Asking for sightings?’
Esson nodded. ‘Making sure her photo is disseminated as widely as possible. An ask can circulate the globe in seconds.’
‘These networks,’ Rebus asked, ‘would they have details of historic cases?’
Esson looked at the boxes again. ‘Might well have — want me to check?’
‘Could you do that?’
‘Give me their names and dates of birth, photos if you have them. .’ She paused. ‘I thought your theory was they’re all dead?’
‘As of now that’s all it is — a theory. Worth challenging, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Sure.’
‘Names, DoBs, photos?’
She nodded. ‘And anything else relevant: distinguishing marks; where they were last seen. .’
‘Got it,’ Rebus said. ‘And thanks.’
She accepted this with the beginnings of a blush and retreated to her desk. Rebus found a pad of paper and began to write down a few salient details about Sally Hazlitt and the others. Twenty minutes later he took the information, along with a selection of photos, over to Esson. She seemed bemused.
‘Ever heard of e-mail?’
‘Is there something wrong with my handwriting?’
She smiled and shook her head, then read out a line from his notes on Zoe Beddows. ‘“Liked the men”?’
‘I’m sure you can find a way of rephrasing it.’
‘I certainly hope so.’ She studied the photographs. ‘I’ll scan these in as best I can. Nothing a bit more high-res?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Oh well.’
‘I see you’ve met Christine,’ Siobhan Clarke said, approaching the desk. She had a bag slung over one shoulder and a laptop tucked under her other arm. ‘Don’t let her challenge you to one of her shoot-em-up games. She’s lethal.’
Esson was blushing again as Rebus followed Clarke to her own little parcel of land.
‘How was Pitlochry?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’
‘The police station?’
‘Serviceable.’ Clarke looked over towards Esson. ‘Thing about playing games online,’ she went on, ‘you get to know people.’
‘Annette McKie played online games,’ Rebus commented.
‘And Christine’s been in touch with dozens of people she played with. If any of them hear a peep from their friend Zelda, Christine will know about it. .’ She broke off and stared at the boxes. ‘Well done you, by the way. Though now they’re here. .’ She made show of scanning the office for a spare desk.
‘Is there another room we could use?’ Rebus suggested.
‘I’ll look into it.’ She shrugged herself free of her coat and sat down heavily, before noticing his jacket draped over the chair.
‘Let me get that,’ Rebus said.