“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Rebus tipped the bottle to his mouth again.

Fox managed to force out a smile, studying Rebus the way a skeptical employer might an underqualified job candidate. “We’ve met before, you know.”

“We have?”

“Sort of—we were on the same case one time, back in my CID days.”

“I don’t remember.”

Fox shrugged. “Not so surprising really—I don’t think you made it to a single briefing.”

“Probably too busy doing real work.”

“With a mint on your tongue to mask the smell of booze.”

Rebus gave him a hard stare. “Is that what this is about—me not giving you the time of day? Did I nick your sweets in the playground and now you need to get your own back?”

“I’m not that petty.”

“You sure about that?”

“Quite sure.” Fox was rising to his feet. “One more thing,” he said. “You know there’ll be a physical? If you go ahead with your application, I mean.”

“Constitution of an ox,” Rebus declared, thumping his chest with a fist. He watched the other man leave, then finished his caramel wafer before heading outside to the smoking zone.

14

Rebus had brought the MisPer files with him to Gayfield Square. He made sure Page saw him lugging them to Siobhan Clarke’s desk. It took three trips, the Saab parked out front with its POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign prominent.

“Thanks for the help,” Rebus said to the room at large. He was sweating, so removed his jacket and draped it over Clarke’s chair. A female officer came across to ask him about the boxes.

“Missing persons,” he explained. “Three of them, between 1999 and 2008. All last seen on or around the A9, just like Annette McKie.”

She lifted the lid of the topmost box and peered inside. She stood a little over five feet tall, short dark hair in what Rebus might have called a pageboy cut. She reminded him of an actress—maybe it was Audrey Hepburn.

“I’m John,” he said.

“Everybody knows who you are.”

“Then I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Detective Constable Esson. But I suppose you can call me Christine.”

“You always seem to be glued to your computer,” he told her.

“That’s my job.”

“Oh?”

She placed the lid back on the box and gave him her full attention. “I’m our link with the online community.”

“You mean you send e-mails?”

“I contact networks, John. Missing persons networks. I’ve been posting on Twitter and Facebook, plus updating the L and B website.”

“Asking for sightings?”

Esson nodded. “Making sure her photo is disseminated as widely as possible. An ask can circulate the globe in seconds.”

“These networks,” Rebus asked, “would they have details of historic cases?”

Esson looked at the boxes again. “Might well have—want me to check?”

“Could you do that?”

“Give me their names and dates of birth, photos if you have them…” She paused. “I thought your theory was they’re all dead?”

“As of now that’s all it is—a theory. Worth challenging, wouldn’t you say?”