Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Listen: ‘This is the animal who put our beloved daughter through hell, and who has blighted our lives ever since. He’s up for release soon, having shown no remorse, or even admitting his guilt despite all the evidence. We were so shocked that he will soon be back in our midst that we had to do something, and this site is the result. We want to thank all of you for your support. We believe this may be the first site of its kind in Britain, though others like it exist elsewhere, and our friends in the USA in particular have given us such help in getting started.’”

“Vicky Jensen’s parents did all this?” Rebus said.

“Looks like.”

“How come we didn’t know?”

Siobhan shrugged, concentrated on finishing the page.

“He’s picking them off,” Rebus went on. “That’s what he’s doing, right?”

“He or she,” Siobhan corrected him.

“So we need to know who’s been accessing this site.”

“Eric Bain at Fettes might help.”

Rebus looked at her. “You mean Brains? Is he still talking to you?”

“I haven’t seen him in a while…”

“Not since you gave him the brush-off?”

She glowered at Rebus, who held up his hands in surrender. “Got to be worth a try, all the same,” he admitted. “I can do the asking, if you like.”

She sat back in her chair, folded her arms. “Bugs you, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“I’m the DS, you’re the DI, yet Corbyn’s put me in charge.”

“No skin off my nose…” He tried to sound slighted by the accusation.

“Sure about that? Because if we’re going to work together on this…”

“I only asked if you wanted me to speak to Brains.” His irritation showed now.

Siobhan unfolded her arms, bowed her head. “Sorry, John.”

“Just as well you didn’t have espresso” was all he said in reply.

“A day off would have been nice,” Siobhan stated with a smile.

“Well, you could always go home and put your feet up.”

“Or?”

“Or we could go talk to Mr. and Mrs. Jensen.” He wafted a hand toward the laptop. “See what they can tell us about their little contribution to the World Wide Web.”

Siobhan nodded slowly, dipped her finger back into the whipped cream. “Then that’s what we should probably do,” she said.

The Jensens lived in a rambling four-story house overlooking Leith Links. The basement level was daughter Vicky’s domain. It had its own separate entrance, reached by a short flight of stone steps. The gate at the top of the steps boasted a lock, and there were bars on the windows on either side of the door, plus a sticker warning potential intruders of an alarm system.

None of this had been deemed necessary before Cyril Colliar’s attack. Back then, Vicky had been a bright eighteen-year-old studying at Napier College. Now, ten years later, she still lived at home, as far as Rebus was aware. He stood on the doorstep, hesitated a moment.

“Diplomacy’s never been my strong point,” he advised Siobhan.

“Then let me do the talking.” She reached past him and pushed the bell.

Thomas Jensen was removing his reading glasses as he opened the door. He recognized Rebus and his eyes widened.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing to worry about, Mr. Jensen,” Siobhan assured him, showing her ID. “Just need to ask a few questions.”

“You’re still trying to find his killer?” Jensen guessed. He was medium height and in his early fifties, hair graying at the temples. The red V-neck sweater looked new and expensive. Cashmere, maybe. “Why the hell do you think I’d want to help you?”

“We’re interested in your Web site.”

Jensen frowned. “Pretty standard practice these days if you’re a vet.”

“Not your clinic, sir,” Rebus explained.

“BeastWatch,” Siobhan added.

“Oh, that…” Jensen looked down at the floor, gave a sigh. “Dolly’s pet project.”

“Dolly being your wife?”

“Dorothy, yes.”

“Is she at home, Mr. Jensen?”

He shook his head. Looked past them as if scanning the outside world for a sign of her. “She was going to Usher Hall.”

Rebus nodded as if this explained everything. “Thing is, sir, we’ve got a bit of a problem…”

“Oh?”

“It’s to do with the Web site.” Rebus gestured in the direction of the hallway. “If we could come in and tell you about it…?”

Jensen seemed reluctant, but good manners prevailed. He led them into the living room. There was a dining room off, its table spread with newspapers. “Seem to spend all of Sunday reading them,” Jensen explained, tucking his spectacles into his pocket. He motioned for them to sit down. Siobhan settled herself on the sofa, while Jensen himself took an armchair. Rebus, however, stayed standing by the glass doors to the dining room, peering through them toward the array of newsprint. Nothing out of the ordinary, no particular stories or paragraphs marked…

“The problem is this, Mr. Jensen,” Siobhan was saying in mea sured tones. “Cyril Colliar is dead, and so are two other men.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And we think we’re looking at a single culprit.”

“But…”

“A culprit who may have plucked the names of all three victims from your Web site.”

“All three?”

“Edward Isley and Trevor Guest,” Rebus recited. “Plenty more names in your hall of shame…I wonder who’ll be next.”

“There must be some mistake.” The blood had drained from Jensen’s face.

“Do you know Auchterarder at all, sir?” Rebus asked.

“No, not really.”

“Gleneagles?”

“We did go there once, a veterinarians’ conference.”

“Was there maybe a bus trip to the Clootie Well?”

Jensen shook his head. “Just some seminars and a dinner dance…” He sounded befuddled. “Look, I don’t think I can help you.”

“The Web site was your wife’s idea?” Siobhan asked quietly.

“It was a way of dealing with…She’d gone online looking for help.”

“Help?”

“Victims’ families. She wanted to know how to help Vicky. Along the way, the idea came to her.”

“She had help to construct the site?”

“We paid a firm of designers.”

“And the other sites in America…?”

“Oh, yes, they helped with layout. Once it was up and running…” Jensen shrugged. “I think it almost manages itself.”

“Do people subscribe?”

Jensen nodded. “If they want the newsletter. It’s supposed to be every quarter, but again, I’m not sure Dolly’s kept it up.”

“So you have a list of subscribers?” Rebus asked.

Siobhan looked at him. “Not that you need to be a subscriber to look at the site.”

“There’ll be a list somewhere,” Jensen was saying.

“How long has the site been active?” Siobhan asked.

“Eight or nine months. It was when his release date started to come closer…Dolly was getting more and more anxious.” He paused, glanced at his watch. “For Vicky, I mean.”

As if on cue, the front door opened and closed. An excited, breathless voice came from the hallway.

“I did it, Dad! The shore and back!” The woman who filled the door frame was red-faced and overweight. She shrieked when she saw that her father was not alone.

“It’s all right, Vicky.”

But she’d turned on her heels and fled. Another door opened and slammed shut. They heard her footsteps as she padded down to her basement refuge. Thomas Jensen’s shoulders slumped.

“That’s as far as she’s managed on her own,” he explained.

Rebus nodded. The shore was barely half a mile away. He knew now why Jensen had been so anxious at their arrival, and why he had scanned the world outside.