“Sympathy from the devil,” Rebus said. “That’s all I need.”
“A killer with a social conscience,” Siobhan added in an undertone.
“I wouldn’t be the first...” Cafferty’s voice drifted off. He rubbed a finger along the underside of his nose. “In fact, maybe that’s what’s landed on your plate.” He reached into the car again, opening the glove box this time. Drew out some rolled-up sheets of paper and made to hand them to Siobhan.
“Tell me what they are,” she asked, hands on hips.
“They’re your case, DS Clarke. Proof that we’re dealing with a bad bastard. A bad bastard who likes other bad bastards.”
She took the papers but didn’t look at them. “We’re dealing with?” Quoting his own words back at him.
Cafferty’s attention turned to Rebus. “Doesn’t she know that’s the deal?”
“There was never a deal,” Rebus stated.
“Like it or not, I’m on your side in this one.” Cafferty’s eyes were on Siobhan again. “These papers cost me some substantial favors. If they help you catch him, I’ll accept that. But I’ll be hunting him, too...with you or without you.”
“Then why help us?”
Cafferty’s mouth twitched. “Makes the race that bit more exciting.” He held open the back door of the Bentley. “Bags of space in the rear...make yourselves at home.”
Rebus joined Siobhan on the backseat, while Cafferty sat in the front. Both detectives were aware of Cafferty’s gaze. He wanted them to be impressed.
Rebus, for one, was finding it hard not to give anything away. He wasn’t just impressed; he was amazed.
Keogh’s Garage was in Carlisle. One of the mechanics, Edward Isley, had been found murdered three months back, his body dumped on waste ground just outside the city. A blow to the head and a toxic injection of heroin. The body had been naked from the waist up. No witnesses, no clues, no suspects.
Siobhan met Rebus’s eyes.
“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 beginning to get to him. He tried to light a cigarette, but the breeze kept extinguishing the flame. Heard the door of the Bentley open and close.
“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 connection to you.”
“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 pover
ty 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.
“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 scanning the outside world for a sign of her. “She was going to Usher Hall.”
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 manners prevailed. He led them into the living room. There was a dining room off, its table spread with newspapers. “Seem to spend all of Sunday reading them,” Jensen explained, tucking his spectacles into his pocket. He motioned for them to sit down. Siobhan settled herself on the sofa, while Jensen himself took an armchair. Rebus, however, stayed standing by the glass doors to the dining room, peering through them toward the array of newsprint. Nothing out of the ordinary, no particular stories or paragraphs marked...
“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.”