Ian Rankin - Standing in another's man grave

‘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.’

‘Nothing too formal,’ Clarke went on. ‘Maybe outside the station. .’

‘It’s not very photogenic,’ Page argued. ‘HQ, maybe? Can you get on to our media people, Siobhan?’

‘Sure.’

‘Show the press the photo at the same time,’ Rebus nudged. ‘They’ll lap it up.’

Page seemed to be visualising the scene. He nodded slowly.

‘Has to be today, though,’ Clarke prompted. ‘While the story’s still hot.’

‘I’ll need a full briefing from the pair of you. Full and quick.’ He thought of something else and looked down at the clothes he was wearing.

‘Your suit looks fine,’ Clarke reassured him.

After the briefing in Page’s airless office, Rebus headed outdoors for a cigarette. He punched Nina Hazlitt’s number into his phone, but she wasn’t answering. He was in the car park, just about invisible to prying journalists. For some reason he had an image in his mind of the tattoos on Thomas Robertson’s knuckles. There had been no mention of them on the original charge sheet, and he wondered if they had been part of the prison experience. Robertson had barely been out of his teens when Sally Hazlitt had vanished; not that this meant he couldn’t be responsible. Zoe Beddows had disappeared not long before he’d attacked the victim outside the nightclub. The thing was, the nightclub attack had been brutal and stupid — he’d been apprehended straight away by people nearby who had heard the screams. Could the same person have plucked four women from the world without leaving evidence behind? Rebus doubted it. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t done something to Annette McKie. Spotted her, gone after her, left her somewhere. Sometimes you had to allow for coincidence — the same road; photos sent from mobile phones. A song jumped into his head — ‘Connection’; not the version by the Stones, but a cover by a band called Montrose. He had bought their album thinking they came from the town, but they were American. Connection versus no connection. Just random events, given shape by sheer force of a mother’s will. On cue, his phone rang and he placed it to his ear.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ Nina Hazlitt explained, ‘I had to come outside. They’re not keen on phones in the library.’

‘You’ve been doing your research, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘But leaving enough time to talk to the BBC?’

‘A news agency, actually. They must have passed it along.’

‘Everything you told them, it could only have come from me.’

‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘Are you going to get in trouble?’

‘Would that bother you?’

‘Well, yes, of course.’

‘I’m not so sure, Nina.’

He waited for a response, but heard only the passing traffic on George IV Bridge.

‘You know that book you gave me?’ he continued. ‘I started it last night. A lot of things people used to believe turned out to be just stories.’