“Divvy the list up, Christine,” Clarke told Esson. She saw that Rebus was studying the photos submitted by the public, comparing them with the one from McKie’s phone. “Any of them take your fancy?”

“A couple.” He tapped them with his finger. Clarke had to agree.

“Where are they from?” she asked.

“One’s the A838 south of Durness.”

“That’s way up in the northwest, isn’t it?”

Rebus showed her on the map. “Miles from anywhere.”

“What about the other?”

“The A836. Little place called Edderton.”

“Where’s that?”

Rebus shrugged, so Clarke went to her computer and let it do the work. Two minutes later she had her answer.

“The Dornoch Firth,” she said. “Not more than a couple of miles off the A9, just north of Tain.”

“Where they make Glenmorangie?” Rebus asked.

“You’d know better than me.”

Rebus traced the A9 north from Inverness. It cut across the Black Isle and skirted the Cromarty Firth, heading inland again until it reached the Dornoch Firth, hugging the coast from there until Wick. Tain was marked, and so was the A836. Not many major roads up that way, and thousands upon thousands of inland acres of wilderness.

“We’ve got plenty more contenders,” Clarke cautioned, as Ogilvie’s telephone rang again. “So let’s just keep at it.”

27

27

By the end of the day, they felt numb. Ogilvie said he was willing to stay another hour by himself, manning the phone. Clarke shook her head.

“We all need a break. I’ve asked one of the uniforms to take over until nine. After that, the switchboard will make a note of numbers and say we’ll call them back in the morning. Good work, though, everybody—I mean it.”

These would normally have been Page’s words, but he was at Fettes HQ, attending yet another briefing. Clarke rubbed tension from her forehead as she walked over to the wall map. Rebus was standing in front of it, looking thoughtful.

“There’ll be more to do tomorrow,” he advised, “with a bit of luck.”

“The e-fits of the three women? You really think we’ll get sightings?”

“It would be nice to think so.” He turned towards her. “So what do you make of it?”

She studied the map. “How many votes does that make for Edderton?”

“Four and counting.”

“Must be just about the whole population.”

Rebus managed a smile. “Three for Lochgair, but it’s way over on the west here.” He tapped the map. “Next to Loch Fyne.”

“And a couple for Durness,” Clarke added. The map was studded with drawing pins, and a further cluster had been added to the wall beneath the map’s bottom edge.

“Offerings from England?” Clarke surmised.

“And Wales and Northern Ireland.”

She puffed out her cheeks and expelled a blast of air. “Isn’t this the sort of thing profilers are supposed to be good at?”

“Don’t start.”