“Now you know why: killer’s been taking trophies.”

Hackman wasn’t slow. “How many?”

“Three victims so far. Two weeks after Guest, he struck again. Identical MO, and a little souvenir left at the same location.”

“Bloody hell…” Hackman drew hard on his cigarette. “We had it down as…well, lowlife like Guest makes plenty enemies. He was a druggie, too, hence the heroin-sending a message.”

“It went to the bottom of your in-box?” Rebus watched the big man shrug. “Any leads at all?”

“Interviewed those who owned up to knowing him. Traced his last night on earth, but didn’t come up with any startling conclusions. I can have all the paperwork sent-”

“Already in hand.”

“Guest was two months back. You say he struck again a couple of weeks later?” Hackman watched Rebus nod agreement. “And the other vic?”

“Three months ago.”

Hackman thought it through. “Twelve weeks, eight, then six. What you expect of killers once they get a taste for it-they speed up. Each new fix satisfies them that bit less than the one before. So what’s happened between then and now? Six weeks without another killing?”

“Sounds unlikely,” Rebus agreed.

“Unless we’ve caught him for something else; or he’s moved his business elsewhere.”

“I like the way you think,” Rebus admitted.

Hackman looked at him. “You’ve already figured out everything I’ve just said, haven’t you?”

“That’s why I like your thinking.”

Hackman gave a scratch to his crotch. “All I’ve been thinking about the past few days is pussy-now you go and do this to me.”

“Sorry about that.” Rebus stubbed the remains of his cigarette. “I wanted to ask if there was anything you could tell me about Trevor Guest-anything that sticks in your mind.”

“For the price of a cold beer, my head is your oyster.”

Problem with oysters, Rebus considered as they walked to the cafeteria, was that you were more likely to get a load of old grit than a pearl.

The place had quieted a little, and they found a table to themselves-though not before Hackman had made an effort to introduce himself to the female officers, formally taking each one by the hand.

“Lovely,” he announced as he returned to Rebus’s table. He clapped his palms together and was rubbing them as he sat down. “Bottoms up,” he said, raising his bottle. Then he gave a little chuckle. “Should be the name of a lap-dancing club.”

Rebus refrained from revealing that it already was. Instead, he repeated Trevor Guest’s name.

Hackman drank half his lager straight off. “Like I said, lowlife. In and out of jail-burglaries, selling the stuff he’d stolen, some other petty stuff and a bit of grievous bodily. He was up here for a time, few years back. Kept his nose clean, far as we could tell.”

“By here you mean Edinburgh?”

Hackman stifled a belch. “Jockland generally…no offense.”

“None taken,” Rebus lied. “I wonder if there’s any way he could have met the third victim-club bouncer called Cyril Colliar, got out of jail three months back.”

“Name doesn’t register. Want another of these?”

“I’ll get them.” Rebus was halfway out of his chair, but Hackman waved him back. Rebus watched as he first approached the women’s table, asking if they were all right for drinks. He made one of them laugh, which probably counted as a result in his book. He carried four bottles back to the table.

“Pissy little things,” he explained, sliding two across toward Rebus. “Besides, got to spend the loot somehow, eh?”

“I notice no one’s paying for bed and board.”

“No one except the local taxpayer.” Hackman’s eyes widened. “I suppose that’s you. So thanks very much.” He toasted Rebus with a fresh bottle. “Don’t suppose you’re free tonight to act as the tour guide?”

“Sorry.” Rebus shook his head.

“I’d be buying…hard offer for a Jock to turn down.”

“I’m turning it down anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” Hackman said with a shrug. “This killer you’re looking for…got any leads?”

“He targets scum; maybe gets them from a victim-support Web site.”

“Vigilante, eh? Meaning someone with a grudge.”

“That’s the theory.”

“Clever money would say the connection’s to the first victim. Should have been the beginning and end, but he caught the bug.”

Rebus nodded slowly, having considered the same conclusion. Fast Eddie Isley, attacker of prostitutes. Isley’s killer maybe a pimp or boyfriend…tracked Isley using BeastWatch, then asked himself a question-why stop with just one?

“How hard do you really want to find this guy?” Hackman asked. “That’s what I’d be wrestling with…sounds like he’s on our side.”

“You don’t believe people can change? All three victims had served their sentences, no sign of reoffending.”

“You’re talking about redemption.” Hackman mimed the act of spitting. “Could never stand that goody-good bullshit.” He paused. “What are you smiling at?”

“It’s a line from a Pink Floyd song.”

“Is it? I could never stand them either. A bit of Tamla or Stax, songs to seduce the chicks by. Our Trev was a bit of a ladies’ man.”

“Trevor Guest?”

“Liked them a bit on the young side, judging by the girlfriends we dug up.” Hackman snorted. “Believe me, if they’d been any younger, we’d’ve been using a nursery school and not an interview room.” He enjoyed this joke so much, he found it hard to take his next slug of lager. “I like my meat a bit more mature,” he said finally, smacking his lips, seeming lost in thought. “A lot of the escorts in the back of your local paper, they call themselves mature, too. How old do you figure that makes them? I mean, I’m not one for geriatrics…”

“Guest attacked a babysitter, didn’t he?” Rebus asked.

“Broke into a house, happened to find her there on the couch. Far as I remember, all he wanted was a blow job. She hollered and he scampered.” He offered a shrug.

Rebus’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. “I need to be going,” he said.

“Finish your drink.”

“I’m driving.”

“Something tells me you might get away with a misdemeanor or two this week. Still, waste not, want not.” Hackman slid the untouched bottle toward himself. “What about a pint later on? I need a sherpa to show me the way.” Rebus ignored him, kept walking. Back in the fresh air, he risked a glance through the window, saw Hackman doing a little improvised shuffle as he headed toward the women.

14

The so-called Camp Horizon on the edge of Stirling, sandwiched between a soccer field and a trading estate, reminded Siobhan of some of the temporary encampments she’d seen around the Greenham Common Air Base in the 1980s, when she’d hitched there as a teenager to protest about nuclear missiles. There weren’t just tents here, but elaborate wigwams and structures made of osiers, resembling willow igloos. Canvases had been strung between the trees, daubed with rainbows and peace signs. Smoke was rising from campfires, and there was the pungent scent of cannabis in the air. Solar panels and a small wind turbine seemed to be providing electricity for strings of multicolored lightbulbs. A trailer was supplying legal advice and free condoms, while discarded leaflets provided additional information on everything from HIV to third world debt.

She had been stopped at five separate checkpoints on the route from Edinburgh. Despite her showing ID, one security man had even insisted she open the trunk of her car.

“These people have all kinds of sympathizers,” he’d explained.

“They’re well on their way to getting another,” Siobhan had muttered in response.

The inhabitants of the camp seemed to have split into distinct tribes, with the anti-poverty contingent remaining separate from the hard-core anarchists. Red flags seemed to be acting as a border between the two. Old-time hippies formed another subgroup, one of the wigwams their epicenter. Beans were cooking on a stove, while a makeshift sign announced reiki and holistic healing between the hours of five and eight with “special rates for unwaged/students.”