“It’s not bad,” Rebus informed him.

“Better not be. I told them what I’d do to them if the cheese was too stringy.” He took a bite. “I can’t abide stringy cheese.”

“You should write restaurant reviews.”

There was silence for a moment as the two men ate. “Know what I think?” Hammell said eventually. “I think they left the cheese out altogether.”

“One solution to the problem,” Rebus stated.

“So you and Cafferty,” Hammell went on, dabbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, “best of pals these days, eh?”

“News gets around.”

“Ever wondered what his game is?”

“All the time.”

“Bastard says he’s retired—as if carpet bowls and a pair of slippers were ever his style.”

Rebus took out his handkerchief to deal with the grease on his fingers. One slice of the pizza was enough.

“You don’t like it?” Hammell asked.

“Not as hungry as I thought.” Rebus lifted the whisky to his lips.

“Darryl tells me you’re working cold cases. So how come you’re suddenly interested in Annette?”

Rebus considered how to answer. “There may be a pattern.”

“What do you mean?”

“Other young women have vanished down the years. Three that we know of, the first in 1999. All of them were on the A9 or near it at the time.”

“First I’ve heard.”

“I wanted you to know.”

Hammell stared at Rebus, narrowing his eyes a little. “Why?”

“Because you’re probably drawing up a list of enemies, thinking one of them might have her.”

“What makes you think I’ve got enemies?”

“Business you’re in, I’d say it’s an occupational hazard.”

“You think I’ll go after your old pal Cafferty? Is that what this is about—you covering his arse?”

“If you want Cafferty, be my guest, but I think you’d be making a mistake.” Rebus put down the half-empty glass. “How’s Annette’s mum doing?”

“How do you think? It’s ripping her to shreds. You really reckon there’s some sick bastard out there who’s done this before? How come he’s kept himself under the radar?”

“As of now, it’s only a theory…”

“But you believe it?”

“It’s a theory,” Rebus repeated. “But one you need to be aware of, if things aren’t to get ugly.”

“Fair enough.”

“How long has Darryl been working for you?”

“Since before he left school.”

“I notice he kept his dad’s surname.”

Hammell glowered at Rebus. “Kid can do what he likes—free country last time I looked.”

“I assume the dad knows about Annette?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve known the family a while.”

“What business is that of yours?”

Rebus offered a shrug and watched Hammell do some thinking.

“Anything I can do to help?” the man asked eventually. Rebus shook his head. “A bit of cash, maybe? Case of hooch?”

Rebus pretended to consider this. “Maybe just don’t charge me for the pizza.”

“What makes you think I paid for it in the first place?” Frank Hammell answered with a snort.

16

Siobhan Clarke lived in a high-ceilinged first-floor flat that was part of a Georgian terrace just off Broughton Street. A five-minute walk took her to work each morning, and she liked the area’s mix of bars and restaurants. There was a cinema complex at the top of the hill, a concert venue nearby, and every kind of shop you could ever wish for on Leith Walk. The flat shared a drying green at the back of the building and she’d got to meet most of her neighbors down the years. Edinburgh had a reputation for being cold and distant, but she’d never found that. Some residents were shy or quiet, just wanting to get on with their lives without fuss or incident. Her neighbors knew her as a police officer, but had yet to ask for help or a favor. When one of the ground-floor flats had been broken into, everyone had gone out of their way to let Clarke know they didn’t blame her for the eventual lack of a result.