“We’re wasting our time here,” Clarke told Rebus.

“Isn’t that what Stefan just said?” Soames commented.

But Clarke was already heading back to the car.

26

26

James Page had been busy.

Esson’s e-fits of the missing women had been released to a few favored media outlets. TV liked them, and that evening’s Scottish news would carry them. The public had also started suggesting locations for the photo sent from Annette McKie’s phone. Some had even submitted their own photos to back up their hunches. Page had made space on a wall of the CID room, and Esson had pinned them up. More were arriving all the time. Page led Clarke and Rebus into his office.

“Is he a serious suspect?” was Page’s first question.

“I’m not sure,” Clarke admitted.

“The fact that he ran…”

“He’s the type who acts without thinking.”

“A wanderer,” Rebus added. “Never seems to stay anywhere for long.”

“Do we have any idea where he would go?”

“Aberdeen or thereabouts,” Clarke speculated.

“Worth letting Grampian Police know they should keep an eye out?”

“Wouldn’t do any harm.”

Page glanced at his watch. “I’m briefing the Chief in an hour. Is there anything more substantial I can give him?”

“Everybody’s working flat out.”

“Thus far without a result. And the longer that situation persists…”

“If Annette got a lift,” Rebus said, “it would be in a vehicle heading north. Any of the suggestions or photos from that stretch of the A9?”

“Between Pitlochry and Inverness, you mean?” Page checked his computer screen. “Not that I can see,” he concluded.

“A nice big wall map is what we need,” Rebus told him. “That, and plenty of drawing pins…”

Throughout the rest of the day, people phoned and e-mailed their thoughts and suppositions. Some had no firm ideas, but just wanted to say the team were doing a grand job. At which point they’d be thanked and gently nudged off the line with the explanation that other callers were waiting.

Rebus had driven home and returned with his own map, sticking it to the wall with Blu-Tack.

“I see you’ve already highlighted the A9,” Esson commented. “That was fast work.”

Yes, and there were pinholes, too, near Auchterarder, Strathpeffer and Aviemore.

“Okay,” Esson said, taking a sip of hot water before beginning to recite the list: “Appin, Taynuilt, Salen, Kendal, Inveruglas, Lochgair, Inchnadamph…”

“Slow down,” Rebus complained. “I don’t know where half these places are. And you made that last one up.”

“I’ve been to Inchnadamph,” Ronnie Ogilvie piped up, his hand smothering the mouthpiece of his phone.

“John’s got a point, though,” Clarke said. “Let’s pinpoint them on Google Maps, and when we know where they are, we flag them up on the wall.” She looked around the room. “Everyone happy with that?”

There were nods of assent.