And that was the end of the conversation. Rebus stared at the display, cursing under his breath. He lit a second cigarette and paced the car park. It was hemmed in by the two-story police station and the back of a Georgian tenement. Lots of windows; no signs of life. Pigeons on the rooftops, just getting on with things. A large red-brick chimney belonging to some art studio on Union Street. A plane making a sharp turn, heading for the airport. Car horns sounding from the direction of Leith Walk, and a siren in the distance, failing to come any closer.

“Life’s rich tapestry,” Rebus muttered, as if to the friendly cigarette held between his fingers. A couple of minutes later, he was readying to discard it when his phone rang. Not a number he recognized. He answered by giving his name.

“Something you’ve got to tell me?” Hammell inquired. All business; no time for chat.

“It isn’t Thomas Robertson,” Rebus stated.

“So?”

“It just isn’t. You need to let him go or stop hunting him down.”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Depends if you have him or not.”

“What makes you so sure he’s not the guy?”

“He was in jail when one of the women disappeared.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t snatch Annette.”

“Yes, it does. We’re pretty confident they’re all linked.”

“Convince me.”

“Have you got him or haven’t you?”

“This is bullshit, Rebus.”

Rebus pondered his options for a moment, then took a deep breath. “It looks like there are at least two other victims we didn’t know about. One was snatched in November 2009. Robertson was in Peterhead at that time. Both these new victims, photos were sent from their phones, same as with Annette.” Rebus paused. “I could get in trouble for telling you this, but I need you to understand.”

“All right, I understand. But I never did find that little gobshite.”

Frank Hammell ended the call.

The rest of the day felt a lot like limbo. Things were happening, but not in the vicinity of Gayfield Square. Page had taken Clarke with him for his meeting at HQ with the Chief Constable. Rebus had asked her to text him updates, but she’d probably thought it bad manners to whip her phone out in the middle of the Chief’s office.

Northern Constabulary had requested copies of everything Page’s team had. Esson and Ogilvie were given the job of collating and sending it. Gavin Arnold called Rebus from Inverness to tell him the station was buzzing. Rebus decided the corridor was the best place to continue their conversation.

“We’re having to draft officers in from all over,” Arnold went on. “Dingwall’s the nearest cop shop of any size, but it’s too far from Edderton. It’ll be Portakabins on site and a loan of some land.”