“Whoever sent it, if he’s being really clever, then he’s brought us here to waste our time and effort.”

She stared at him. “We’re praying he’s not that clever?”

Rebus nodded.

“Then let’s hope that’s the case.” She gestured towards the line of police vans parked on the carriageway past the Portakabin. They would have to head towards Aultnamain and circle back towards home—no way they could squeeze past the obstruction. Officers were being arranged into groups and shown maps, presumably marked with the grid they would be covering. “What is it they should be looking for?”

“Anything out of place,” Rebus advised. “Scraps of clothing, cigarette ends, a discarded bottle or can.” He paused. “How about the interviews?”

“A team of six,” she replied. “There really aren’t that many habitations for them to visit.”

“Would it be cheeky of me to ask them to check cafés and petrol stations too?”

“Within what sort of radius?” She had narrowed her eyes a little, as if reappraising him.

“Dornoch, Bonar Bridge, Tain—for starters, anyway.”

This merited the thinnest of smiles. “You know this part of the world?”

“A bit.”

“What’s your thinking?”

“A traveler—might not be someone who lives locally. But they must know the area.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” She had been about to add his rank until realizing she didn’t know it.

“I rose to the giddy heights of detective inspector,” Rebus informed her.

“Past tense?”

He nodded again. There was an incoming text on his phone.

“Lucky you,” Dempsey said. “I’m getting no signal.”

“Half a bar,” Rebus said. “And as Mr. Mellon will tell you, a gust of wind the wrong way and I’ll lose it.”

The message was from Clarke, letting him know they’d reached HQ in Inverness and were about to go into a meeting with “the brass.” But Rebus knew that the only “brass” worth dealing with was right there with him. When he looked up, Dempsey was on her way over to one of the search teams. They carried thin sticks and evidence bags and seemed enthusiastic about the task ahead of them. When Dempsey started giving them what Rebus guessed must be a pep talk, they paid close attention.

“A fine woman,” Mellon said in an undertone. “You’d be proud coming home to that of an evening.”

The uniform with the clipboard was standing by Rebus’s shoulder.

“Time to move your car, sir,” he said, as the air brakes on the flatbed gave a loud hiss. “If you want it kept in one piece…”

43

43

Mid afternoon. Neither Page nor Clarke had put in an appearance. From her texts, it seemed to Rebus that this was not Clarke’s favored strategy, but Page had lined up a series of meetings, presumably so he could listen to his own voice, and Clarke had felt obliged to stick with him.