Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Nice and quiet this time of year,” Siobhan commented. “The students being gone, I mean.”

“Except that in August the gardens play host to various fringe shows,” Dr. Gilreagh countered.

“Offering a whole new human laboratory,” Rebus added. The room was small and awash with sunlight. Dr. Gilreagh was in her midthirties, with thick curly blond hair falling past her shoulders, and pinched cheeks that Rebus took to be clues as to her Irish ancestry, despite the resolutely local accent. When she smiled at Rebus’s comment, her sharp nose and chin seemed to become even more jagged.

“I was telling DI Rebus on the way here,” Siobhan interrupted, “that you’re considered a bit of an expert in the field.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dr. Gilreagh felt obliged to argue. “But there are interesting times ahead in the field of offender profiling. The Crichton Street parking light is being turned into our new Center for Informatics, part of which will be dedicated to behavior analysis. Add in neuroscience and psychiatry and you begin to see that there are potentials…” She beamed at both her visitors.

“But you work for none of those particular departments?” Rebus couldn’t help pointing out.

“True, true,” she was happy to acknowledge. She kept twitching in her seat, as though stillness were a crime. Motes of dust danced across the sunbeams in front of her face.

“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.”