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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.”
“Is rurality even a word?” Rebus asked.
Siobhan turned the ignition. “It is now.”
“And you’re still going to give her the notes?”
“Worth a shot.”
“Because we’re that desperate?”
“Unless you’ve got a better idea.” But he had no answer for that, and rolled down the window so he could smoke. They passed the old parking lot.
“Informatics,” Rebus muttered. Siobhan signaled right, making toward the Meadows and Arden Street.
“The anomaly is Trevor Guest,” she ventured, once a few more minutes had elapsed. “We’ve said that from the start.”
“So?”
“So we know he spent time in the Borders-doesn’t get much more rural than that.”
“Hell of a long way from either Auchterarder or Black Isle,” Rebus stated.
“But something happened to him in the Borders.”
“We’ve only got Tench’s word for that.”
“Fair point,” she conceded. All the same, Rebus got out Hackman’s number and gave him a call.
“Ready for me?” he asked.
“Are you missing me already?” Hackman replied, recognizing Rebus’s voice.
“One question I meant to ask…where in the Borders did Trevor Guest spend time?”
“Do I hear the sound of a hand grasping at straws?”
“You do,” Rebus conceded.
“Well, I’m not sure I can be much of a lifeguard. I seem to think Guest mentioned the Borders during one of our sessions with him.”
“We’ve not seen all the transcripts yet,” Rebus reminded him.
“Lads in Newcastle being their usual efficient selves? Got an e-mail address on you, John?” Rebus recited it. “Check your computer in about an hour’s time. But be warned-POETS day, meaning the CID cupboard might be a bit on the Mother Hubbard side.”
“Appreciate anything you can get for us, Stan. Happy trails.” Rebus clicked the phone shut. “POETS day,” he reminded Siobhan.
“Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she recited.
“Speaking of which-you still going to T in the Park tomorrow?”
“Not sure.”
“You fought hard enough for the ticket.”
“Might wait till evening. I can still catch New Order.”
“After a hard Saturday’s work?”
“You were thinking of a walk along the seafront at Portobello?”
“Depends on Newcastle, doesn’t it? Been a while since I took a day trip to the Borders.”
She double-parked and climbed the two flights with him. The plan was to have a quick recon of the case notes, decide what might be useful to Dr. Gilreagh, and head to a copy shop with them. Ended up with a pile an inch thick.
“Good luck,” Rebus said as she headed out the door. He could hear a horn blaring downstairs-a motorist she’d managed to block. He pulled the window open to let in some air, then collapsed into his chair. He felt dog tired. His eyes stung and his neck and shoulders ached. He thought again of the massage Ellen Wylie had wanted him to offer. Had she really meant anything by it? Didn’t matter-he was just relieved now nothing had happened. His waist strained against his trouser belt. He undid his tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. Felt the benefit, so worked the belt loose, too.
“Jumpsuit’s what you need, fatso,” he chided himself. Jumpsuit and slippers. And a home-help nurse. In fact, everything short of “Charlie Is My Darling.”
“And just a touch more self-pity.”
He rubbed a hand over one knee. Kept waking in the night with a sort of cramp there. Rheumatics, arthritis, wear and tear-he knew there was no point troubling his doctor. He’d been there before with the blood pressure: less salt and sugar, cut down the fat, get some exercise. Kick the booze and ciggies to the curb.
Rebus’s response had been shaped as a question: “Ever felt you could just write it on a board, stick it on your chair, and bugger off home for the afternoon?”