“Too late for our early edition. Throw me a bone here, will you? The internet’s killing us.”

Dempsey gave a theatrical sigh. “There seem to be human remains, but we don’t know much more than that. Now off you go.”

When the reporter tried asking a further question, she shooed him away. He gave a lopsided grin. “See you at Mum’s on Sunday, then?”

She nodded, avoiding eye contact with Rebus. The reporter was already on the phone to his newsroom, having turned back the way he’d come.

“Is Raymond his first name or his last?” Rebus inquired.

“First,” Dempsey confided. “And before you say anything, he’s my nephew. Doesn’t mean he gets special treatment.”

“I thought he just did.” She made no response. “Well,” Rebus went on, “I hope he’s got sharp elbows—when word gets out, there’s going to be a media scrum.” They stood in silence for a moment. “How many are we up to?” he asked eventually.

“Five, I think. Four in an advanced state of decay.”

“And the other?”

“I wouldn’t bet against it being Annette McKie.”

Rebus watched as Page and Clarke emerged from the woods, Page removing his shoe protectors. Clarke was stony-faced as she checked her phone for a signal. Page looked pale and queasy. He turned away and dry-heaved, hand clamped to his mouth to muffle the sound. Rebus offered him what water was left in his bottle. Page accepted it with a nod of thanks. Clarke had got through and was talking to either Esson or Ogilvie, letting them know the game plan had just changed.

“I need to get back to Inverness,” Dempsey announced. “Gee up some pathologists and see what can be done before morning.” She studied the three Edinburgh detectives. “You lot should get your heads down—big day in front of all of us…” She started walking towards her car, shoulders slumped. Page was offering Rebus’s water back to him.

“It’s yours now,” Rebus said. Clarke had ended her call.

“Will the restaurant still be open at the hotel?” she asked.

Rebus shook his head. “A sandwich in the bar if you’re lucky. Crisps on the side.”

“Can you pair stop talking about food?” Page requested, angling his head away from them as another wave of nausea struck.

45

45

Almost two a.m.

Page had retired an hour back, and Esson and Ogilvie soon after. The original plan had been for the pair of them to head to Edinburgh at day’s end, but Clarke hadn’t wanted either of them nodding off at the wheel. Neither had seemed to mind. They had interviewed the parents of the Golspie and Fort Augustus victims, gleaning not very much in the process.

“It was weird seeing Jemima’s bedroom,” Esson had said. “It really is exactly as she left it. Some people just can’t let go, can they?”