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“Does he have a brother?” Rebus asked.
“Some obscure musical reference?” she guessed.
“Read on, Macduff,” Cafferty said.
The notes were just that, culled from police records. Those same police records went on to report that Isley had been in employment only a little over a month, having been released from a six-year prison stretch for rape and sexual assault. Both Isley’s victims had been prostitutes: one picked up in Penrith and the other farther south in Lancaster. They worked the M6 motorway, catering to truck drivers. It was believed there might be other victims out there, scared either of testifying or of being identified.
“How did you get these?” The question burst from Rebus. It caused Cafferty to chuckle. “Networks are wonderful things, Rebus-you should know that.”
“Plenty of palms greased along the way, no doubt.”
“Christ, John,” Siobhan was hissing, “look at this.”
Rebus started reading again. Trevor Guest. The notes started with bank details and a home address-in Newcastle. Guest had been unemployed ever since being released from a three-year term for aggravated burglary and an assault on a man outside a pub. During one break-in, he’d attempted to sexually assault a teenage babysitter.
“Another piece of work,” Rebus muttered.
“Who went the same way as the others.” Siobhan traced the relevant words with her index finger. Body found dumped by the shore at Tynemouth, just east of Newcastle. Head smashed in, lethal dose of heroin. The killing had happened two months back.
“He’d only been out of jail for two weeks.”
Edward Isley: three months past.
Trevor Guest: two.
Cyril Colliar: six weeks.
“Looks like maybe Guest put up a fight,” Siobhan commented.
Yes: four broken fingers, lacerations to the face and chest. Body pummeled.
“So we’ve got a killer who’s only after scumbags,” Rebus summed up.
“And you’re thinking, More power to him?” Cafferty guessed.
“A vigilante,” Siobhan said. “Tidying up all the rapists.”
“Our burglar friend didn’t rape anyone,” Rebus felt it necessary to point out.
“But he tried to,” Cafferty said. “Tell me, does all of this make your job easier or harder?”
Siobhan just shrugged. “He’s working at pretty regular intervals,” she said to Rebus.
“Twelve weeks, eight, and six,” he agreed. “Means we should have had another one by now.”
“Maybe we just haven’t looked.”
“Why Auchterarder?” Cafferty asked. It was a good question.
“Sometimes they take trophies.”
“And hang them on public display?” Cafferty’s brow furrowed.
“The Clootie Well doesn’t get that many visitors.” Siobhan grew thoughtful, turned back to the top of the first sheet and started reading again. Rebus got out of the car. The leather smell was begi
“Here,” Cafferty said, handing him the car’s chrome-plated lighter. Rebus took it, got the cigarette going, gave it back with the briefest of nods.
“It was always business with me, Rebus, back in the old days…”
“That’s a myth all you butchers use. You forget, Cafferty, I’ve seen what you did to people.”
Cafferty gave a slow shrug. “A different world…”
Rebus exhaled smoke. “Anyway, looks like you can rest easy. Your man was picked out all right, but not because of any co
“Whoever did it, he carries a grudge.”
“A big one,” Rebus conceded.
“And he knows about convicts, knows release dates and what happens to them after.”
Rebus nodded, scraping the heel of one shoe over the rutted tarmac.
“And you’ll go on trying to catch him?” Cafferty guessed.
“It’s what I’m paid for.”
“But it’s never been about the money to you, Rebus, never just been a job.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Actually I do.” Cafferty was nodding now. “Otherwise I’d have tempted you onto my payroll, like dozens of your colleagues over the years.”
Rebus flicked the remains of his cigarette onto the ground. Flecks of ash blew back, dotting Cafferty’s coat. “You really going to buy this shit hole?” Rebus asked.
“Probably not. But I could if I wanted to.”
“And that gives you a buzz?”
“Most things are within reach, Rebus. We’re just scared what we’ll find when we get there.”
Siobhan was out of the car, finger stabbing the bottom of the final sheet. “What’s this?” she was asking as she walked around the Bentley toward them. Cafferty narrowed his eyes in concentration.
“I’m guessing a Web site,” he said.
“Of course it’s a Web site,” she snapped. “That’s where half this stuff comes from.” She shook the sheets in his face.
“You mean it’s a clue?” he asked archly.
She’d turned her back, making for Rebus’s Saab, signaling to him with her arm that it was time to go.
“She’s really shaping up, isn’t she?” Cafferty told Rebus in an undertone. It didn’t just sound like praise either: to Rebus’s mind, it was as if the gangster was taking at least a portion of the credit.
On the way back into town, Rebus found a local news station. An alternative children’s summit was being held in Dunblane.
“I can’t hear the name of that place without shivering,” Siobhan admitted.
“I’ll let you in on a secret: Professor Gates was one of the pathologists.”
“He’s never said.”
“Won’t talk about it,” Rebus told her. He turned up the radio volume a little. Bianca Jagger was speaking to the audience at the Usher Hall.
“They have been brilliant at hijacking our campaign to make poverty history…”
“She means Bono and company,” Siobhan said. Rebus nodded agreement.
“Bob Geldof has not just danced with the devil, but slept with the enemy…”
As applause broke out, Rebus turned the volume down again. The reporter was saying that there was little evidence the Hyde Park audience was making its way north. Indeed, many of Saturday’s marchers had already returned home from Edinburgh.
“‘Dance with the Devil,’” Rebus mused. “Cozy Powell song, I seem to remember.” He broke off, slamming his feet on brake and clutch. A convoy of white vans was racing toward the Saab on the wrong side of the road. Headlights flashing, but no sirens. The windshield of each van was covered with a mesh grille. They’d streamed into the Saab’s lane to get past a couple of other vehicles. Cops in riot gear could be seen through the side windows. The first van careered back into its own lane, missing the Saab’s front wing by an inch. The others followed.
“Bloody hell,” Siobhan gasped.
“Welcome to the police state,” Rebus added. The engine had stalled, so he turned the ignition again. “Not a bad emergency stop though.”
“Were they some of our lot?” Siobhan had turned in her seat to examine the disappearing convoy.
“No markings that I could see.”
“Think there’s been trouble somewhere?” She was thinking of Niddrie.
Rebus shook his head. “If you ask me, they’re scooting back to Pollock Halls for tea and biscuits. And they pulled that little stunt just because they could.”
“You say they as if we’re not on the same side.”
“Remains to be seen, Siobhan. Want a coffee? I need something to get the old heart pumping.”
There was a Starbucks on the corner of Lothian Road and Bread Street. Hard to find a parking space. Rebus speculated that they were too close to the Usher Hall. He opted for a double yellow line, stuck a POLICE notice on the dashboard. Inside the café, Siobhan asked the teenager behind the register if he wasn’t scared of protesters. He just shrugged.
“We’ve got our orders.”
Siobhan dropped a pound coin into the tips box. She’d brought her shoulder bag with her. At the table, she slid her laptop out and switched it on.
“This me getting my tutorial?” Rebus asked, blowing across the surface of his coffee. He’d gone for regular, complaining that he could buy a whole jar for the price of one of the costlier options. Siobhan scooped whipped cream from her hot chocolate with a finger.