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“Can you see the screen all right?” she asked. Rebus nodded. “Then watch this.” Within seconds, she was online and typing names into a search engine:
Edward Isley.
Trevor Guest.
Cyril Colliar.
“Plenty of hits,” she commented, scrolling down a page. “But only one with all three.” Her cursor ran back up to the first entry. She tapped the touch pad twice and waited.
“We’d have checked this, of course,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Well…some of us would. But first we’d have needed Isley’s name.” Her eyes met Rebus’s. “Cafferty has saved us a long day’s slog.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m about to join his fan club.”
The welcome screen from a Web site had appeared. Siobhan studied it. Rebus moved a little closer for a better view. The site seemed to be called BeastWatch. There were grainy head-and-shoulder shots of half a dozen men, with chunks of text to the right.
“Listen to this,” Siobhan said, tracing the words on the screen with her finger. “‘As the parents of a rape victim, we feel it is our right to know the whereabouts of her attacker after his release from prison. The aim of this site is to allow families and friends-and victims themselves-to post details of release dates, along with photos and descriptions, the better to prepare society for the beasts in our midst…’” Her voice died away, lips moving silently as she read the rest to herself. There were links to a photo gallery called Beast in View and a discussion group, as well as an online petition. Siobhan moved the cursor to Edward Isley’s photo and tapped the pad. A page of details came up, showing Isley’s expected release date from prison, nickname-Fast Eddie-and areas he would most likely frequent.
“It says ‘expected release date,’” Siobhan pointed out.
Rebus nodded. “And nothing more up to date…no sign they knew where he was working.”
“But it does say he was trained as a car mechanic…mentions Carlisle, too. Posted by…” Siobhan sought out the relevant details. “It just says Concerned.”
She tried Trevor Guest next.
“Same set-up,” Rebus commented.
“And posted anonymously.”
She returned to the home page and clicked on Cyril Colliar. “That same photo’s in our files,” she said.
“It’s from one of the tabloids,” Rebus explained, watching more photos of Colliar pop up. Siobhan swore under her breath. “What is it?”
“Listen: ‘This is the animal who put our beloved daughter through hell, and who has blighted our lives ever since. He’s up for release soon, having shown no remorse, or even admitting his guilt despite all the evidence. We were so shocked that he will soon be back in our midst that we had to do something, and this site is the result. We want to thank all of you for your support. We believe this may be the first site of its kind in Britain, though others like it exist elsewhere, and our friends in the USA in particular have given us such help in getting started.’”
“Vicky Jensen’s parents did all this?” Rebus said.
“Looks like.”
“How come we didn’t know?”
Siobhan shrugged, concentrated on finishing the page.
“He’s picking them off,” Rebus went on. “That’s what he’s doing, right?”
“He or she,” Siobhan corrected him.
“So we need to know who’s been accessing this site.”
“Eric Bain at Fettes might help.”
Rebus looked at her. “You mean Brains? Is he still talking to you?”
“I haven’t seen him in a while…”
“Not since you gave him the brush-off?”
She glowered at Rebus, who held up his hands in surrender. “Got to be worth a try, all the same,” he admitted. “I can do the asking, if you like.”
She sat back in her chair, folded her arms. “Bugs you, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“I’m the DS, you’re the DI, yet Corbyn’s put me in charge.”
“No skin off my nose…” He tried to sound slighted by the accusation.
“Sure about that? Because if we’re going to work together on this…”
“I only asked if you wanted me to speak to Brains.” His irritation showed now.
Siobhan unfolded her arms, bowed her head. “Sorry, John.”
“Just as well you didn’t have espresso” was all he said in reply.
“A day off would have been nice,” Siobhan stated with a smile.
“Well, you could always go home and put your feet up.”
“Or?”
“Or we could go talk to Mr. and Mrs. Jensen.” He wafted a hand toward the laptop. “See what they can tell us about their little contribution to the World Wide Web.”
Siobhan nodded slowly, dipped her finger back into the whipped cream. “Then that’s what we should probably do,” she said.
The Jensens lived in a rambling four-story house overlooking Leith Links. The basement level was daughter Vicky’s domain. It had its own separate entrance, reached by a short flight of stone steps. The gate at the top of the steps boasted a lock, and there were bars on the windows on either side of the door, plus a sticker warning potential intruders of an alarm system.
None of this had been deemed necessary before Cyril Colliar’s attack. Back then, Vicky had been a bright eighteen-year-old studying at Napier College. Now, ten years later, she still lived at home, as far as Rebus was aware. He stood on the doorstep, hesitated a moment.
“Diplomacy’s never been my strong point,” he advised Siobhan.
“Then let me do the talking.” She reached past him and pushed the bell.
Thomas Jensen was removing his reading glasses as he opened the door. He recognized Rebus and his eyes widened.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing to worry about, Mr. Jensen,” Siobhan assured him, showing her ID. “Just need to ask a few questions.”
“You’re still trying to find his killer?” Jensen guessed. He was medium height and in his early fifties, hair graying at the temples. The red V-neck sweater looked new and expensive. Cashmere, maybe. “Why the hell do you think I’d want to help you?”
“We’re interested in your Web site.”
Jensen frowned. “Pretty standard practice these days if you’re a vet.”
“Not your clinic, sir,” Rebus explained.
“BeastWatch,” Siobhan added.
“Oh, that…” Jensen looked down at the floor, gave a sigh. “Dolly’s pet project.”
“Dolly being your wife?”
“Dorothy, yes.”
“Is she at home, Mr. Jensen?”
He shook his head. Looked past them as if sca
Rebus nodded as if this explained everything. “Thing is, sir, we’ve got a bit of a problem…”
“Oh?”
“It’s to do with the Web site.” Rebus gestured in the direction of the hallway. “If we could come in and tell you about it…?”
Jensen seemed reluctant, but good ma
“The problem is this, Mr. Jensen,” Siobhan was saying in mea sured tones. “Cyril Colliar is dead, and so are two other men.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And we think we’re looking at a single culprit.”
“But…”
“A culprit who may have plucked the names of all three victims from your Web site.”
“All three?”
“Edward Isley and Trevor Guest,” Rebus recited. “Plenty more names in your hall of shame…I wonder who’ll be next.”
“There must be some mistake.” The blood had drained from Jensen’s face.
“Do you know Auchterarder at all, sir?” Rebus asked.
“No, not really.”
“Gleneagles?”
“We did go there once, a veterinarians’ conference.”
“Was there maybe a bus trip to the Clootie Well?”