When he didn’t answer, Clarke asked again.

“I fucking work on it, don’t I?” he spat.

“Easy,” Lightheart said in warning.

“Look, yesterday it was all whether I’d seen that girl or not, but now it’s 1999 and 2008 and God knows what. Okay, I spent some time in the nick. Okay, I didn’t tell you the whole truth—it’s not something I go around shouting from the rooftops.” He leaned forward. “It’s not something I’m proud of,” he stressed. Having made his point, he sat back again, the chair making a single creak of protest.

Clarke let the silence lie, studying the paperwork again.

“You didn’t spend the Millennium in Aviemore?” she eventually asked.

“No,” Robertson answered, sounding suddenly tired.

“You’re sure about that?”

“Why the hell would I go to Aviemore?”

“Maybe someone invited you.”

“They didn’t.”

“It’s not that far from Aberdeen.”

Robertson just gave a slow shake of the head.

“Strathpeffer?”

He looked at her. “Couldn’t even place it on a map.”

“Auchterarder?”

“Nope.”

“And you didn’t see Annette McKie the day she disappeared?” Clarke held up the photo of the missing girl so it was facing Robertson.

“For the hundredth time—no.”

“We’ve got some officers going through the Portakabin where you sleep. Want to tell us what they’ll find there?”

“Dirty washing.”

“Anything else? A bit of hash, or speed?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Porn maybe?”

“One of the lads has a laptop.”

“Then it’ll be taken away and examined.”

“Making me Mr. Popular.”

“Do your workmates know why you went to jail?”

“Something tells me they’ll be finding out.” The look he gave Clarke had hardened. “You can’t pin the girl on me, so something else will have to do. And if all else fails, at least you’ll see me kicked out of a job.”

“You’re not being charged.” Clarke gathered up her papers.

“Is that it, then?” Robertson looked around the room. Clarke nodded towards Lightheart and he formally concluded the interview.

“Did you bring him here in a patrol car?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lightheart replied. “Send him back the same way?”

Clarke stared at Robertson. He was wiping perspiration from his palms onto his trousers.

“He can catch a bus,” Clarke said, striding from the room.

20

20

Not a good sign,” Clarke said, entering the office at Gayfield Square. DC Christine Esson was standing next to Clarke’s desk, looking fretful.

“What is it?” Clarke asked her.

“Best if you come see.”

So they followed Esson to her computer and stood either side of her as she sat down and got busy.

“Twitter?” Rebus said.

Clarke looked at him. “You know what it is, right?”

“Of course,” Rebus said.

“There’s a missing persons network,” Esson explained. “They use Twitter to get information out. Annette McKie’s got her own hashtag…”