“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.”

Wylie nodded. “Or in this case, where no one’s grieving. They thought maybe it was a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Now that’s original. Any evidence that Mr. Guest was a user?”

“Apparently so. Could have been dealing, too, owed money for goods and couldn’t…” She saw the look on Rebus’s face.

“Lazy thinking, Ellen. Same thing might explain why no one thought to connect the three killings.”

“Because nobody was trying very hard?” she guessed.

Rebus nodded slowly.

“Well,” she said, “you can ask him yourself.”

“Ask who?”

“Reason I couldn’t talk to the boss is that he’s right here.”

“Here?”

“Sent to Lothian and Borders CID.” She glanced down at her notes. “He’s a detective sergeant, name of Stan Hackman.”

“So where can I find him?”

“His pal suggested the student residences.”

“Pollock Halls?”

She shrugged, picked up the notepad and turned it toward him. “I’ve got his cell, if that helps.” As Rebus stalked toward her, she tore off the sheet and held it out to him. He snatched at it.

“Get on to whoever led the Isley inquiry,” he said, “see what you can get from them. I’ll go have a word with Hackman.”

“You forgot to say thank you.” Then, watching him shrug his arms back into the sleeves of his jacket: “Remember Brian Holmes?”

“I used to work with him.”

She nodded. “He told me once you had a nickname for him. Used to call him Shoeleather because he did all the donkey work.”

“Donkeys don’t wear shoes, do they?”

“You know what I mean, John. You’re swanning off and leaving me here-it’s not even my office! What does that make me?” She had picked up the telephone receiver and was waving it as she spoke.

“Switchboard, maybe?” he pretended to guess, heading for the exit.

13

Siobhan wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“I think,” Teddy Clarke said to his wife, “maybe we should listen to her this time.”

Siobhan’s mother wore a gauze patch over one eye. Her other eye was bruised, and there was a cut to the side of her nose. The painkillers seemed to have dulled her resolve; she just nodded when her husband spoke.

“What about clothes?” Mr. Clarke said as they got into the taxi.

“You can go to the camp later,” Siobhan told him, “bring back what you need.”

“We’d booked places on the bus for tomorrow,” he mused as Siobhan gave the driver directions to her place. She knew he meant one of the protest buses: a convoy heading to the G8. His wife said something he didn’t quite catch. He leaned closer, squeezing her hand, and she repeated it for him.

“We’re still going.” Her husband looked hesitant. “Doctor doesn’t see a problem,” Eve Clarke went on, clearly enough for Siobhan to hear.

“You can decide in the morning,” Siobhan said. “Let’s concentrate on today first, eh?”

Teddy Clarke smiled at his wife. “Told you she’d changed,” he reminded her.

When they reached the apartment, Siobhan paid for the taxi, waving aside her father’s offer of money, then headed upstairs ahead of her parents, checking the living room and bedroom. No underwear on the floor or empty Smirnoff bottles lying around.

“In you come,” she told them. “I’ll get the kettle on. Make yourselves at home.”

“Must be ten years since we’ve been here,” her father commented, making a little tour of the living room.

“I couldn’t have bought the place without your help,” Siobhan called from the kitchen. She knew what her mother would be looking for: signs of male occupation. Whole point of giving her money toward the deposit had been to help her “get settled,” that great euphemism. Steady boyfriend, then marriage, then kids. Not a route Siobhan had ever managed to start on. She took in the teapot and mugs, her father rising to help.

“You can pour,” she told him. “I just need to sort some things in the bedroom.”

She opened the wardrobe and hauled out her overnight bag. Tugged open drawers as she considered what she would need. With a bit of luck, she might not need any of it, but it was best to be safe. Change of clothes, toothbrush, shampoo…She delved to the bottom of a couple of drawers, finding the scruffiest, least-ironed items. Overalls she’d painted the hall in, one shoulder strap held on with a safety pin; a gauzy cotton shirt that had been left behind by a three-night stand.

“We’re driving you out,” her father said. He was in the doorway, holding a mug of tea toward her.

“There’s a trip I have to make, nothing to do with the two of you being here. I might not be back till tomorrow.”

“We could be gone to Gleneagles by then.”

“Might see you there,” she answered with a wink. “The pair of you will be all right tonight? Plenty of shops and places to eat. I’ll leave you a key.”

“We’ll be fine.” He paused. “This trip, is it to do with what happened to your mother?”

“Might be.”

“Because I’ve been thinking…”

“What?” She looked up from her packing.

“You’re a cop, too, Siobhan. If you keep on with this, chances are you’ll just make enemies.”

“It’s not a popularity contest, Dad.”

“All the same…”

She zipped the bag shut, left it on the bed, and took the mug from him. “I just want to hear him say he was wrong.” She took a sip of the lukewarm tea.

“Is that likely to happen?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her father had settled himself on a corner of the bed. “She’s determined to go to Gleneagles, you know.”

Siobhan nodded. “I’ll drive you to the camp, bring your things back here before I leave.” She crouched down in front of him, pressing her free hand to his knee. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”