When he didn’t answer, Clarke asked again.
‘I fucking work on it, don’t I?’ he spat.
‘Easy,’ Lightheart said in warning.
‘Look, yesterday it was all whether I’d seen that girl or not, but now it’s 1999 and 2008 and God knows what. Okay, I spent some time in the nick. Okay, I didn’t tell you the whole truth — it’s not something I go around shouting from the rooftops.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of,’ he stressed. Having made his point, he sat back again, the chair making a single creak of protest.
Clarke let the silence lie, studying the paperwork again.
‘You didn’t spend the Millennium in Aviemore?’ she eventually asked.
‘No,’ Robertson answered, sounding suddenly tired.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Why the hell would I go to Aviemore?’
‘Maybe someone invited you.’
‘They didn’t.’
‘It’s not that far from Aberdeen.’
Robertson just gave a slow shake of the head.
‘Strathpeffer?’
He looked at her. ‘Couldn’t even place it on a map.’
‘Auchterarder?’
‘Nope.’
‘And you didn’t see Annette McKie the day she disappeared?’ Clarke held up the photo of the missing girl so it was facing Robertson.
‘For the hundredth time — no.’
‘We’ve got some officers going through the Portakabin where you sleep. Want to tell us what they’ll find there?’
‘Dirty washing.’
‘Anything else? A bit of hash, or speed?’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘Porn maybe?’
‘One of the lads has a laptop.’
‘Then it’ll be taken away and examined.’
‘Making me Mr Popular.’
‘Do your workmates know why you went to jail?’
‘Something tells me they’ll be finding out.’ The look he gave Clarke had hardened. ‘You can’t pin the girl on me, so something else will have to do. And if all else fails, at least you’ll see me kicked out of a job.’
‘You’re not being charged.’ Clarke gathered up her papers.
‘Is that it, then?’ Robertson looked around the room. Clarke nodded towards Lightheart and he formally concluded the interview.
‘Did you bring him here in a patrol car?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Lightheart replied. ‘Send him back the same way?’
Clarke stared at Robertson. He was wiping perspiration from his palms on to his trousers.
‘He can catch a bus,’ Clarke said, striding from the room.
20
‘Not a good sign,’ Clarke said, entering the office at Gayfield Square. DC Christine Esson was standing next to Clarke’s desk, looking fretful.
‘What is it?’ Clarke asked her.
‘Best if you come see.’
So they followed Esson to her computer and stood either side of her as she sat down and got busy.
‘Twitter?’ Rebus said.
Clarke looked at him. ‘You know what it is, right?’
‘Of course,’ Rebus said.
‘There’s a missing persons network,’ Esson explained. They use Twitter to get information out. Annette McKie’s got her own hashtag. .’
Clarke gave Rebus another glance. ‘It’s how you get something trending,’ she explained.
‘Uh-huh.’
The screen was filled with messages, all of them ending #annettemckie.
‘Mostly,’ Esson said, ‘they’re linking to Annette’s profile, just trying to get her description out there. But look at this one.’ She zeroed in on a particular message.
Police i/ving road crew A9 north of Pitlochry! #annettemckie
‘Then there’s this,’ she added, highlighting another.
Police team scouring woods near A9 north of Pitlochry — loads of them #annettemckie
‘Posted by different people,’ Clarke commented.
‘Locals, by the look of it,’ Esson added. ‘Here’s another.’
Cop car near totalled me doing a U-turn, heading S from roadworks. Siren and lights — they’ve got s/o!! #annettemckie
‘Looks like Tayside Constabulary went about things with their usual subtlety,’ Rebus muttered, straightening up.
‘I don’t think you realise, John.’ Clarke turned to Esson. ‘Show him.’
With a few deft clicks and taps, Esson did just that. ‘Half a dozen blogs are on to it,’ she said, ‘plus local media. Ronnie has had to fob off a couple of reporters already.’
As if on cue, the phone rang again on Ronnie Ogilvie’s desk. He picked it up, said a few words, then put the receiver down. Rising to his feet, he walked towards them.
‘BBC,’ he said. ‘Wanting to know if it’s true we’re connecting Annette McKie to three other disappearances.’
‘They didn’t get that from Twitter,’ Esson said.
‘Nina Hazlitt?’ Clarke guessed, eyes fixed on Rebus. He offered a shrug.
‘Spoken to her recently?’ Clarke persisted.
‘Last night,’ Rebus conceded.
Esson was studying the BBC Scotland news feed on her monitor. ‘Here it is,’ she declared.
It was only a paragraph of text — no video or photo to accompany it.
The mother of a teenager who disappeared from Aviemore at Hogmanay 1999 says detectives in Edinburgh are probing links between that mystery and missing schoolgirl Annette McKie, who vanished a fortnight ago while travelling from Edinburgh to Inverness. It is believed that other women have gone missing from the same stretch of road, one in 2002 and another in 2008. Nina Hazlitt, whose 18-year-old daughter Sally disappeared from a New Year’s holiday in Aviemore, hopes that fresh clues — including photos sent from the victims’ phones — can help provide answers to what she calls ‘the A9 Abductions’.
There was a link to the McKie press conference, accompanied by a still of Gail McKie fleeing the room. Ogilvie’s telephone was ringing again. So was Clarke’s mobile. She was looking in the direction of James Page’s door.
‘In for a penny,’ she said. But there was no need. The door was flung open and DCI Page stood there, his own phone pressed to his ear as he listened. His pointed finger seemed to include Rebus, then jerked in the direction of the corridor. Clarke led the way, Rebus following close behind.
Once they were outside the office, Page ended the call and closed the door. Then he folded his arms.
‘Explain,’ he said.
‘Explain what, sir?’ Clarke countered.
‘Maybe you were huddled round Christine’s screen to look at cats being funny on the internet.’
‘No, James. We were looking at Twitter and the BBC.’
‘Then you know what I’m talking about.’
‘Of course — but I still don’t see what needs explaining. Everyone’s a reporter these days. A patrol car turns up at the same spot on the A9 two days running, people nearby are going to gossip about it. Used to be the garden fence would do, but now it’s Twitter and the like. No way we can stop it.’
‘In fact, we should do the opposite,’ Rebus offered. ‘Get tongues wagging, people’s memories whirring. .’
Page glowered at him. ‘What about this Hazlitt woman? Where’s she getting her information from?’
‘Speculation rather than information,’ Clarke jumped in. ‘It’s the same story she’s always told. Only thing that’s changed is there’s a new MisPer for the media to hang it on.’
Page considered this, eyes still on Rebus. Clarke was looking at him too, willing him to keep his mouth shut.
‘We need to get the photo from Annette McKie’s phone out there,’ Rebus stated, ignoring her. ‘If the public want a story, we should give them one, get them working for us. Looks like our only hope anyway of finding out where it was taken.’
‘And you should give a statement to the press,’ Clarke added, turning her attention to Page. ‘Just you this time. Set the record straight.’
Page tried not to seem overly keen on the idea.
‘You think so?’
‘Definitely,’ Rebus added. ‘Dampen down some of the wilder speculation, make sure everything’s kept in proportion.’