“Kept all their daughter’s things. Here’s the picture they were sent.” Page was tapping the screen of his computer. Rebus walked around the side of the desk so he could see it.

“Christ,” was all he could think to say.

It was Edderton, no doubt in his mind at all.

That night, Rebus stayed late at the office. Clarke had volunteered her services and the two of them were giving some order to the boxes, sorting out what might be important. Page wanted a precis, something he could take to the Chief Constable. Northern Constabulary would need to be persuaded to cooperate in the inquiry—the area around Edderton searched; local people questioned at length and in detail—and that meant putting together the facts, while trying to predict queries and problems, then prepping possible responses. Clarke was working on the timeline.

“Do we add Sally Hazlitt or not?” was one of her questions.

Rebus didn’t really know.

“1999, 2002, 2008 and 2012. To which we can add 2007 and 2009.” She stared at the figures. “I know what a profiler would say.”

“Enlighten me, if you must.”

“They’d say serial offenders start out slow, then become more prolific the longer they get away with it.”

“Oh aye?”

“Three possibilities: one, it’s because they want to be caught; two, it’s precisely because they’re not being caught; three, it’s because they’re becoming addicted to it—each new victim satisfying them for a shorter time.”

“Is that the sort of stuff you need to know these days to be a DI?”

“I think it’s worth looking at those essays Christine printed out. Our guy has given us one big problem: no disposal sites to work with. But we do have Edderton. It has to mean something to him.”

“Unless he chose it at random to throw any police investigation off the scent. Could be somewhere he stopped just the once. Maybe someone else snapped the original picture and he got hold of it somehow.”

Clarke considered this, trying not to look too disheartened. They worked in silence for a few more minutes until she asked him about Inverness and he filled her in on the details of his trip.

“And the Saab didn’t break down?”

“Not ready for the knacker’s yard just yet.”

“Apparently not.”

Rebus stretched his spine and rolled his shoulders. “We about done here?”

“I should type all this up.”

“Ready to present to Page first thing?”

“It would make sense.”

“A cold drink would make sense, too.”

“Give me another half-hour.”

“And what will I be doing all that time?”

“Getting your Inverness adventure down on paper,” Clarke suggested.

Afterward, they walked to a bar on Broughton Street, Clarke sucking in lungfuls of the night air as if tasting freedom after long captivity.