After the briefing in Page’s airless office, Rebus headed outdoors for a cigarette. He punched Nina Hazlitt’s number into his phone, but she wasn’t answering. He was in the car park, just about invisible to prying journalists. For some reason he had an image in his mind of the tattoos on Thomas Robertson’s knuckles. There had been no mention of them on the original charge sheet, and he wondered if they had been part of the prison experience. Robertson had barely been out of his teens when Sally Hazlitt had vanished; not that this meant he couldn’t be responsible. Zoe Beddows had disappeared not long before he’d attacked the victim outside the nightclub. The thing was, the nightclub attack had been brutal and stupid—he’d been apprehended straight away by people nearby who had heard the screams. Could the same person have plucked four women from the world without leaving evidence behind? Rebus doubted it. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t done something to Annette McKie. Spotted her, gone after her, left her somewhere. Sometimes you had to allow for coincidence—the same road; photos sent from mobile phones. A song jumped into his head—“Connection”; not the version by the Stones, but a cover by a band called Montrose. He had bought their album thinking they came from the town, but they were American. Connection versus no connection. Just random events, given shape by sheer force of a mother’s will. On cue, his phone rang and he placed it to his ear.

“Hello,” he said.

“Sorry,” Nina Hazlitt explained, “I had to come outside. They’re not keen on phones in the library.”

“You’ve been doing your research, then?”

“Yes.”

“But leaving enough time to talk to the BBC?”

“A news agency, actually. They must have passed it along.”

“Everything you told them, it could only have come from me.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Are you going to get in trouble?”

“Would that bother you?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“I’m not so sure, Nina.”

He waited for a response, but heard only the passing traffic on George IV Bridge.

“You know that book you gave me?” he continued. “I started it last night. A lot of things people used to believe turned out to be just stories.”

“Feel free to mock me, John—don’t imagine for a second that you’re the first.”

“I’m not mocking you.”

“You think I’m seeing things that aren’t there.” She paused. “I don’t have time for this. The agency are taping an interview with me in an hour. Everyone needs to be aware, John. Someone out there knows what happened.”

“I’m on your side, Nina.”

“I don’t need anyone on my fucking side! I’ve managed this far with a minimum of effort from the likes of you…” Her voice had grown shrill. It cracked on the last few words.

“Nina?”