‘And we’re going now to our man at the scene, Richard Sorley. Richard, what’s happening there?’
Rebus watched as the action shifted to the police cordon. The reporter held his microphone to his face, jostling for position as Hammell’s car arrived and was let through the barrier, two stony-faced figures in the front. Its wheels spun as it moved off again, kicking up stones, the camera following its route up the single-track road. Back to the helicopter pictures as the Range Rover found its way blocked by a line of parked police vans. The two men got out. As usual, Darryl Christie seemed glued to his phone. Hammell appeared to give the helicopter the finger before plunging his hands into his pockets, striding in the direction of DCS Gillian Dempsey. She then led the way towards the track into the woods, the figures disappearing from view. Rebus realised Siobhan Clarke was standing next to him.
‘Is Page out there?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Where else would he be?’
The studio anchor was back in business, announcing that he now had Nina Hazlitt on a video link. Her face appeared on a screen behind him. She was adjusting an earpiece. The caption had her location as Inverness.
‘She’s outside Raigmore,’ Clarke said, identifying the backdrop, as Hazlitt began explaining to the anchor that she was readying to provide her own DNA to help investigators establish that her daughter Sally was among the victims. When the anchor reminded her that she had been the first to spot that the missing persons were linked by the A9, she nodded so briskly that her earpiece slipped out and she had to push it back in.
‘I feel vindicated, Trevor,’ she announced. ‘Until recently I was dismissed as a crank by every police force I approached. I want once more to thank John Rebus, a retired detective inspector in Edinburgh, for pushing my case.’
‘Isn’t that nice?’ Clarke said.
Rebus just grunted. One of the other officers in the room mimed a burst of applause.
‘And you can bugger off too,’ Rebus told him.
At the end of the interview, Nina Hazlitt removed the earpiece and handed it to a member of the news crew, before turning towards the doors of the hospital and walking through them, head held high.
‘She’s loving this,’ Clarke commented. ‘Maybe a bit too much.’
‘She’s waited a long time for the attention,’ Rebus retorted. The camera seemed to want to follow her inside, but a member of the hospital’s security team had other ideas. The studio anchor announced that they were returning to Edderton, where the helicopter was watching the white Range Rover reverse down the lane.
‘Didn’t take them long,’ Clarke said.
‘Not much to see.’
Another cut: this time to the cordon and Richard Sorley. The reporter craned his neck to watch as the Range Rover arrived at a spot where it could do a three-point turn. When it reached the crime-scene tape, it stopped and both Hammell and Christie got out. Hammell was dressed in his usual jeans and open-necked sports shirt with a gold chain around his neck. Darryl Christie was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, black tie, every inch the dignified bereaved. Blood had risen to Hammell’s face and he was ready to talk to anyone who would listen.
‘Whoever did this,’ he told the reporters, ‘they’re going to hell. Whether they believe in it or not, that’s where they’re headed.’ He stared straight into the lens of the camera. ‘I’d like to see them swing from a fucking scaffold. .’
At which point the sound feed was muted so that only the pictures remained. The anchor’s voice apologised to viewers before beginning a commentary based on what Hammell was saying.
‘Mr Hammell,’ he intoned, ‘a close friend of the family and understandably upset by his visit to the crime scene. .’
Rebus was watching closely. The incandescent Hammell was the focus of the camera’s attention, but over his shoulder could be seen glimpses of Darryl Christie, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. When someone tried asking him a question, he simply shook his head. Hammell was now stabbing a finger towards the camera, as if he had the culprit himself in front of him.
‘Wish I could lip-read,’ Clarke was saying.
More microphones were being thrust in front of Hammell, but he was beginning to run out of steam. When Darryl Christie placed a hand on his arm, Hammell acknowledged him with a nod and the pair of them headed for the car. The studio had handed back to Richard Sorley, who was talking about ‘the extraordinary tirade we’ve just witnessed here’. The Range Rover’s horn sounded as it drove past the cordon and the scrum of journalists, slaloming before picking up speed along the main road.
‘I’m going to have to interrupt you, Richard. .’
And they were back outside Raigmore Hospital again as Nina Hazlitt emerged, teary-eyed and trembling with emotion, the gist being: her DNA was not required at this time and she would be contacted at some later date.
‘How does that make you feel?’ she was asked by the reporter with the microphone.
‘Absolutely livid. I’ve placed my faith in the Scottish justice system and this feels like a slap in the face, not just to me but to all the relatives out there. .’
‘Something tells me you’ll be getting another text,’ Clarke commented to Rebus. A small box had appeared at the top of the screen, showing Dempsey and James Page being driven away from Edderton in the back of a large black saloon car.
‘Is there anything we should be doing?’ one of the officers in the room asked.
‘Look busy when they get here,’ someone else suggested.
Five minutes later, Rebus’s phone sounded. It was Nina Hazlitt, pretty much on cue. Clarke watched him as he shook his head slowly and let the call go to messaging. He stared from the window, but saw no sign of her. After three quarters of an hour, Dempsey and Page arrived. Dempsey gathered her team together and gave them an update. A stray pubic hair had been found on Annette McKie’s body. A comparison was under way, but it didn’t appear to be one of her own. DNA had been gathered from the families of Jemima Salton, Amy Mearns, Zoe Beddows and Brigid Young.
‘Not Sally Hazlitt?’ Clarke interrupted.
Dempsey shook her head. ‘Pathologist doesn’t think any of the bodies goes back that far. She’s not even sure about 2002, when Brigid Young disappeared. If we end up with a body lacking a match, we’ll bring Sally Hazlitt back into the running.’
Clarke nodded her understanding, and Dempsey went on with the briefing. Afterwards, Clarke and Rebus sought out James Page.
‘We’re feeling a bit marooned here,’ Clarke informed him.
‘There’s plenty you can be doing,’ he snapped back, his eyes on Gillian Dempsey, making sure she didn’t leave him behind.
‘A bit of leadership might help.’
He directed a moment’s furious attention towards Clarke. ‘Would you prefer to be back in Edinburgh? That can always be arranged, you know.’
‘You’re acting like a groupie,’ she said. ‘Putting up with any old crap in exchange for proximity.’ She turned and stormed out of the room. Rebus lingered, meeting Page’s look.
‘Something to add?’ Page asked.
Rebus shook his head. ‘Just enjoying the moment,’ he explained with a smile.
Clarke wasn’t difficult to find. She was seated in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring hard at the windscreen. Rebus got into the passenger seat and closed the door.
‘You all right?’ he asked.