Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“You want to take a look?” she asked. Rebus shook his head.

“But someone should.”

“Even when the case is supposed to be on ice?”

“Not until tomorrow,” Rebus said. “That’s what the chief constable specified. But you’re the one he put in charge…up to you how we play it.” He leaned back in his seat, the wood creaking in protest.

“Eye pavilion’s five minutes’ walk,” Siobhan mused. “I was thinking I might head over there.”

“And a wee drive to Stirling thereafter?”

“Think I’ll pass for a hippie chick?”

“Might be problematic,” Mungo chipped in.

“I’ve got a pair of combats in the wardrobe,” Siobhan argued. Her eyes fixed on Rebus. “Means I’m leaving you in charge, John. Any disturbance you cause, I’ll be the one with the bruises.”

“Understood, boss,” Rebus said. “Now, whose round is it?”

But Mungo had to get to his next job, and Siobhan was heading for the hospital, leaving Rebus alone in the pub.

“One for the road,” he muttered to himself. Standing at the bar, waiting for his drink to be poured, staring at the optics, he thought again of that photo…the woman with the braids…Siobhan called her Santal, but she reminded Rebus of someone. Screen had been too small for him really to get a good look. Should have asked Mungo for a print…

“Day off?” the barman asked as he placed the pint in front of Rebus.

“Man of leisure, that’s me,” Rebus confirmed, lifting the glass to his mouth.

“Thanks for coming back in,” Rebus said. “How was court?”

“I wasn’t needed.” Ellen Wylie placed her shoulder bag and attaché case on the floor of the CID room.

“Can I fix you a coffee?”

“Got an espresso machine?”

“In here, we call it by its proper Italian name.”

“And what’s that?”

“A kettle.”

“That joke’s as weak as I suspect the coffee will be. How can I help you, John?” She eased her jacket off. Rebus was already in shirt sleeves. Summer, and the station’s heating was on. No apparent means of adjusting the radiators. Come October, they’d be lukewarm. Wylie was looking at the case notes spread across three desks.

“Am I in there?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“But I will be.” She picked up one of the Cyril Colliar mug shots, held it by its corner, as if fearing contamination of some kind.

“You didn’t tell me about Denise,” Rebus commented.

“I don’t remember you asking.”

“She had an abusive partner?”

Wylie’s face twisted. “He was a piece of work.”

“Was?”

She stared at him. “All I mean is, he’s out of our lives. You’re not going to find bits of him at Clootie Well.” A photo of the site was pinned to the wall; she studied it, angling her head. Then she turned and cast her gaze around the room. “Got your work cut out, John,” she stated.

“Some help wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Where’s Siobhan?”

“Other business.” He was looking at her meaningfully.

“Why the hell should I help you?”

Rebus shrugged. “Only one reason I can think of-you’re curious.”

“Just like you, you mean?”

He nodded. “Two killings in England, one in Scotland. I’m finding it hard to work out how he’s choosing them. They weren’t listed together on the site…didn’t know each other…crimes they committed are similar but not identical. They chose all sorts of victims…”

“All three served time, right?”

“Different jails though.”

“All the same, word travels. Ex-cons might talk to other ex-cons, pass along the name of a particular sleazeball. Sex offenders aren’t liked by other inmates.”

“It’s a point.” Rebus pretended to consider it. Really, he didn’t see it, but he wanted her thinking.

“You’ve spoken to the other police forces?” she asked.

“Not yet. I think Siobhan sent written requests.”

“Don’t you need the personal touch? See what they can tell you about Isley and Guest?”

“I’m a bit swamped, Ellen.”

Their eyes met. He could see she was hooked-for the moment.

“You really want me helping?” she asked.

“You’re not a suspect, Ellen,” he said, trying for sincerity. “And you know more about all of this than Siobhan and me.”

“How’s she going to feel about me coming on board?”

“She’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” She thought for a moment, then gave a sigh. “I posted one message on the site, John. I never met the Jensens…”

Rebus merely shrugged. She took a minute to make the decision. “They arrested him, you know-Denise’s-” Swallowed back the next word, couldn’t bring herself to say partner, lover, man. “Nothing ever came of it.”

“What you mean is, he was never jailed.”

“She’s still terrified of him,” she said quietly, “and he’s still out there.” She unbuttoned the sleeves of her blouse and started rolling them up. “Okay, tell me who I should be calling.”

He gave her numbers for Tyneside and Lancashire, then got on the phone himself. Inverness sounded disbelieving at first. “You want us to what?” Rebus could hear a hand unsuccessfully smothering the mouthpiece at the other end. “Edinburgh want us taking snaps o’ the Clootie Well. We used to go there for picnics when I was a lad…” The receiver changed hands.

“This is DS Johnson. Who am I speaking to?”

“DI Rebus, B Division in Edinburgh.”

“Thought you lot had your hands full with all the Trots and Chairman Maos.” There was laughter in the background.

“That may be so, but we also have three murders. Evidence from all three was found in Auchterarder, at a local spot known as the Clootie Well.”

“There’s only one Clootie Well, Inspector.”

“Apparently not. Might be that the one you’ve got up there also has bits of evidence draped over its branches.”

Bait the detective sergeant could not refuse. Few enough moments of excitement in the Northern Constabulary.

“Let’s start with photos of the scene,” Rebus went on. “Plenty of close-ups, and check for anything intact-jeans, jackets. We found a cash card in a pocket. Best if you can send me the photos as an e-mail. If I can’t open it, somebody here will be able to.” He looked across to Ellen Wylie. She sat on the corner of a desk, skirt straining at the thigh. She was playing with a pen as she talked into her receiver.

“Your name again?” DS Johnson was asking.

“DI Rebus. I’m based at Gayfield Square.” Rebus gave a contact number and his e-mail. He could hear Johnson writing the information down.

“And if we do have anything up here?”

“Means our guy has been busy.”

“All right with you if I call this in? Just want to be sure you’re not winding me up.”

“Be my guest. My chief constable’s called James Corbyn-he knows all about it. But don’t waste more time than you have to.”

“There’s a constable here, his dad does portraits and graduations.”

“Doesn’t mean to say the constable knows one end of a camera from the other.”

“I wasn’t thinking of him-I was thinking of his dad.”

“Whatever works,” Rebus said, putting down the phone just as Ellen Wylie was doing the same.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“They’re going to send a photographer, if he’s not too busy at a wedding or kid’s birthday. How about you?”

“The officer in charge of the Guest investigation, I couldn’t speak to him personally but one of his colleagues filled me in. There’s some additional paperwork on its way to us. Reading between the lines, they weren’t busting a gut on the case.”

“It’s what they always tell you in training-the perfect murder is where nobody’s looking for the victim.”