“Could we maybe draw the blind?” he suggested, squinting a little for effect. She leaped to her feet and apologized as she pulled the blind down. It was pale yellow and made from something like tent canvas, doing little to relieve the room’s glare. Rebus gave Siobhan a look, as if to suggest that Dr. Gilreagh was kept locked in the attic for a reason.
“Tell DI Rebus about your research,” Siobhan said encouragingly.
“Well.” Dr. Gilreagh clapped her hands together, straightened her back, gave a little wriggle, and took a deep breath. “Behavioral patterning in offenders is nothing new, but I’ve been concentrating on victims. It’s by delving into the behavior of the victim that we begin to see why offenders act the way they do, whether on impulse or through a more deterministic approach…”
“Almost goes without saying,” Rebus offered with a smile.
“Term time being over, and thus having room for some smaller personal projects, I was intrigued by the little shrine-I suppose the description is fitting-in Auchterarder. The newspaper reports were sometimes sketchy, but I decided to take a look anyway…and then, as if it were meant to be, Detective Sergeant Clarke asked for a meeting.” She took another deep breath. “I mean, my findings aren’t really ready to…no, what I mean is, I’ve only scratched the surface as yet.”
“We can get the case notes to you,” Siobhan assured her, “if that would help. But in the meantime, we’d be grateful for any thoughts you might have.”
Dr. Gilreagh clapped her hands together again, stirring the cloud of dust particles in front of her.
“Well,” she said, “interested as I am in victimology”-Rebus tried to catch Siobhan’s eye, but she wouldn’t let him-“I have to admit that the site stirred my curiosity. It’s a statement, isn’t it? I’m guessing you’ve considered the possibility that the killer lives locally, or has some long-standing knowledge of the immediate area?” She waited till Siobhan had nodded. “And you will also have speculated that the murderer knows of the Clootie Well because its existence is recorded in various guidebooks and also extensively on the World Wide Web…?”
Siobhan sneaked a glance at Rebus. “Actually, we hadn’t really followed that particular path,” she admitted.
“It’s mentioned on various sites,” Dr. Gilreagh assured her. “New Age and pagan directories…myths and legends…world mysteries. Allied to which, anyone with a knowledge of the sister site on the Black Isle might have come across the one in Perthshire.”
“I’m not sure this gets us anywhere we haven’t already been,” Rebus said. Siobhan looked at him again.
“People who accessed the BeastWatch site,” she stated. “What if they also accessed sites referring to the Clootie Well?”
“And how would we find out?”
“The inspector raises a fair question,” Dr. Gilreagh admitted, “though of course you may have computer experts of your own…But in the interim, one has to concede that the location must have some significance for the perpetrator.” She waited until Rebus had nodded. “In which case, might it also have significance for the victims?”
“In what way?” Rebus asked, eyes narrowing.
“Countryside…deep woods…but close to human dwellings. Is this the sort of terrain the victims inhabited?”
Rebus snorted. “Hardly likely-Cyril Colliar was an Edinburgh bouncer fresh out of jail. Can’t see him with a knapsack and bar of Kendall mint cake.”
“But Edward Isley traveled up and down the M6,” Siobhan countered, “and that’s the Lake District, isn’t it? Plus, Trevor Guest spent time in the Borders…”
“As well as Newcastle and Edinburgh.” Rebus turned to the psychologist. “All three served time…that’s your link right there.”
“Doesn’t mean there aren’t others,” Siobhan warned.
“Or that you’re not being led astray,” Dr. Gilreagh said with a kindly smile.
“Led astray?” Siobhan echoed.
“Either by patterns that don’t exist, or patterns the killer is placing in full view.”
“To toy with us?” Siobhan guessed.
“It’s a possibility. There is such a huge sense of playfulness-” She broke off, her face falling into a frown. “You’ll have to forgive me if that sounds frivolous, but it’s the only word I can think of. This is a killer determined to be seen, as shown by the display he left at Clootie Well. And yet, as soon as his work is discovered, he withdraws, perhaps behind a smoke screen.”
Rebus leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’re saying all three victims are a smoke screen?”
She gave a little wriggle of her shoulders, which he interpreted as a shrug.
“A smoke screen for what?” he persevered.
She wriggled again. Rebus threw an exasperated look toward Siobhan.
“The display,” Gilreagh said at last, “is slightly wrong. A piece cut from a jacket…a sports shirt…a pair of cord trousers…inconsistent, you see. A serial killer’s trophies would normally be more similar-only shirts, or only patches. It’s an untidy collection and ultimately not quite right.”
“This is all very interesting, Dr. Gilreagh,” Siobhan said quietly. “But does it get us any further?”
“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.”