‘No, leave it.’ She was opening the laptop. ‘Got the interviews on here,’ she explained. ‘Audio only.’
‘Was there someone there from Tayside Police?’
‘An inspector, all the way from Perth. We didn’t exactly hit it off.’
‘But you spoke to everyone you needed to?’
She nodded and rubbed her eyes, the fatigue obvious.
‘Want me to get you a coffee?’ Rebus suggested.
She looked at him. ‘So it’s true what they say — there is a first time for everything.’
‘And a last, if you’re going to have a go at me.’
‘Sorry.’ She allowed herself a yawn. ‘The two Poles work the night shift. Stefan Skiladz did the translating. Both were involved in petty crime in their younger days, back in the homeland. Gang stuff. Fights and pilfering. They swear they’ve kept their noses clean since coming here. I’ll run their names through the system, just to be sure. I already ran a check on Skiladz, and he was telling us the truth — never a hint of back-pedalling since he got out of jail.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re leaving the interesting stuff till last?’
She looked up at him. ‘Maybe I will take that coffee,’ she said.
Rebus obliged. On his return, he saw that she was busy on her desk computer. She accepted the mug with a nod of thanks.
‘Thomas Robertson,’ she said, ‘works the day shift. Doesn’t like nights; prefers to spend them in the watering holes of Pitlochry. There’s a particular barmaid he’s keen on, though he didn’t say if the feeling is mutual. He told me he was in trouble just the once, resisting arrest after a fight with a girlfriend outside a club in Aberdeen.’
‘And?’
‘He wasn’t telling the whole truth.’ She tapped a fingernail against the computer screen and angled it a little so Rebus could have a better view. Robertson had been charged with attempted rape, the victim someone he’d met that night, the assault happening in an alleyway behind the club. He’d served two years in HMP Peterhead, and had been out of prison less than twelve months. Rebus did a quick calculation in his head. Zoe Beddows had vanished in June 2008, only a couple of months prior to Robertson’s arrest.
‘What do you think?’ Clarke was asking.
‘What does he say about Annette McKie?’
‘Denies seeing her. Says they were working flat out that afternoon. He doubts he’d have noticed a supermodel strolling past.’
Rebus was looking at Robertson’s mug shot: short black hair, plenty of stubble, and a scowl. Dark-brown eyes, chiselled features.
‘I think we need to talk to him again, a bit more formally,’ Clarke was saying. ‘And maybe have a team search the area around the roadworks. It’s a mix of woodland and fields, plus a stretch of river.’
‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff,’ Rebus commented. He realised Christine Esson was standing just behind him, holding out some sheets of paper. He took them from her.
‘Two essays,’ she explained. ‘Both looking at where killers choose to leave their victims. Bit of light reading for you.’
‘Any chance of you giving me the gist?’
‘I’ve not looked at them, just printed them off. Plenty more like them out there if you’re interested.’
Rebus was about to tell her that he really wasn’t, but he noticed the look Clarke was giving him.
‘Very helpful,’ he said instead.
‘Thanks, Christine,’ Clarke added, as Esson returned to her desk. Then, to Rebus: ‘She’s like that.’
‘There’s about thirty pages here, half of it equations.’
Clarke took the two documents from him. ‘I know one of the authors — by reputation, I mean. I wonder if James has considered bringing in a profiler. .’
‘And maybe a ouija board at the same time.’
‘Times have changed, John.’
‘For the better, I’m sure.’
She made to hand the essays back to him, and he wrinkled his nose.
‘You take first look,’ he said. ‘You know how much I value your opinion.’
‘Christine gave them to you.’
Rebus looked over to Esson’s desk. She was watching. He managed a smile and a nod as he placed the printouts on top of one of the storage boxes.
‘Want to come with me while I tell James the news?’ Clarke asked.
‘Not really.’
‘I suppose I should have asked you what you’ve been up to.’
‘Me? Not much.’ Rebus paused. ‘Apart from dropping you in it with the Complaints. So I should probably say sorry for that. .’
Clarke stared at him. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
15
That evening, Rebus barely had time to open the day’s post and stick an album on the deck before his phone rang. He checked the number: not recognised.
‘Hello?’ he said. He was in the kitchen, staring at the meagre contents of the fridge.
‘Rebus?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Frank Hammell.’
‘Darryl gave you my number?’
‘Get your arse down to the Gimlet. Let’s do some talking.’
‘Before I can agree to that, I’ve got a question.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Does the Gimlet do food this time of night?’
Takeaway pizza was the answer. It was waiting in a box for him, still warm, at a corner table. There was no one else in the place, just Donny on the door. No TV or sound system, no one serving behind the bar.
‘Right little Mary Celeste,’ Rebus commented, lifting a slice of pizza from the box and heading towards the bar. Hammell stood behind it, arms stretched along the polished surface. He was around five ten, with a look that mixed entrepreneur with scrapper. He wore a dark blue shirt, open at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was well groomed. Close up, Rebus could make out scarring leading from his top lip to his nose. One eyebrow had a permanent nick in it. Here was a man who tended not to back down when things got heated.
‘I’ll have a malt, if you’re asking.’
Hammell turned and reached for a bottle of Glenlivet, the stopper squeaking as it was removed. He didn’t bother measuring, just poured freely. ‘I’m guessing no water,’ he said, placing the drink in front of Rebus. Then, palm extended: ‘That’ll be five on the nose.’
Rebus stared at him, then smiled and handed over the money. Hammell didn’t ring it up; just stuffed it into his pocket. There had been no sign of surveillance outside, and Rebus had to wonder what it would do to Malcolm Fox’s head if he ever learned of this meeting.
‘So you’re John Rebus,’ Hammell said. His voice was a deep gargle; sounded as if his throat needed clearing. Rebus had known a con once who’d sounded like that because someone had tried to strangle him with a towel in his cell.
‘I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘Just like you’re Frank Hammell.’
‘I used to hear about you. You know I worked with Cafferty?’
‘Way he tells it, you worked for him rather than with him.’
‘Back in the day, he hated you with a vengeance. Should have heard the things he was prepared to do to you and yours. .’ Hammell gave this time to sink in. He walked to the corner table and retrieved the pizza, placing it on the bar top and helping himself to a slice.
‘It’s not bad,’ Rebus informed him.
‘Better not be. I told them what I’d do to them if the cheese was too stringy.’ He took a bite. ‘I can’t abide stringy cheese.’
‘You should write restaurant reviews.’
There was silence for a moment as the two men ate. ‘Know what I think?’ Hammell said eventually. ‘I think they left the cheese out altogether.’
‘One solution to the problem,’ Rebus stated.
‘So you and Cafferty,’ Hammell went on, dabbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘best of pals these days, eh?’
‘News gets around.’
‘Ever wondered what his game is?’
‘All the time.’
‘Bastard says he’s retired — as if carpet bowls and a pair of slippers were ever his style.’
Rebus took out his handkerchief to deal with the grease on his fingers. One slice of the pizza was enough.