to an intruder. Besides, why that particular night? That location? The world’s media hitting town...
A very public gesture.
And Steelforth...well, Steelforth wanted it all swept away. Nothing must deflect attention from the G8. Nothing must be allowed to perturb the various delegations. Rebus had to admit, the reason he was holding on to the case was simply to piss off the Special Branch man. He got up from the table and went into the kitchen, made himself another mug of coffee, and brought it back through to the living room. He changed channels on the TV but couldn’t find any feeds from the march. The Hyde Park crowd looked to be enjoying themselves, though there was some sort of enclosure directly in front of the stage, sparsely filled. Security maybe; either that or media. Geldof wasn’t asking for money this time around; what Live 8 wanted was to focus hearts and minds. Rebus wondered how many concert-goers would afterward heed the call and trek the four hundred miles north to Scotland. He lit a cigarette to go with his coffee, sat down in an armchair, and stared at the screen. He thought again of the Clootie Well, of the ritual played out there. If Ray Duff was right, they had at least three victims, and a killer who had made a shrine of sorts. Did that mean someone local? How well known was the Clootie Well outside Auchterarder? Did it appear in travel books, tourist brochures? Had it been chosen for its proximity to the G8 summit, the killer guessing that all those extra police patrols were bound to mean his grim little offering was found? In which case, was his spree now finished?
Three victims...no way they were going to keep that away from the media. CC Rider...Keogh’s Garage...a cash card...The killer was making it easy for them; he wanted them to know he was out there. World’s press gathered in Scotland as never before, giving him an international stage. And Macrae would relish the opportunity. He’d be out there in front of them, chest puffed up as he answered their questions, Derek Starr right beside him.
Siobhan had said she would call Macrae from the march, let him know the lab’s findings. Ray Duff meantime would be doing more tests, trying for DNA fingerprints from the blood, seeing if any hairs or fibers could be isolated and identified. Rebus thought about Cyril Colliar again. Hardly a typical victim. Serial killers tended to prey on the weak and the marginalized. A case of wrong place, wrong time? Killed in Edinburgh, but the scrap from his jacket ends up in the woods in Auchterarder, just as Operation Sorbus is getting started. Sorbus: a kind of tree...the CC Rider’s patch left in a wooded glade...If there was any hint of a connection with the G8, Rebus knew the spooks would wrench the case out of Siobhan’s hands and out of his. Steelforth wouldn’t have it any other way. The killer taunting them.
Leaving calling cards.
There was a knock at his door. Had to be Siobhan. He stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and took a look around the room. It wasn’t too bad: no empty beer cans or pizza boxes. Whiskey bottle by the chair; he picked it up, put it on the mantelpiece. Switched the TV to a news channel and headed for the door. Swung it open and recognized the face, felt his stomach clench.
“That’s your conscience salved then, is it?” he asked, feigning indifference.
“Pure as the driven fuckin’ snow, Rebus. But can you say the same?”
Not Siobhan. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Dressed in a white T-shirt bearing the slogan MAKE POVERTY HISTORY . Hands in trouser pockets. Slid them out slowly and held them up to show Rebus they were empty. A head the size of a bowling ball, shiny and all but hairless. Small, deep-set eyes. Glistening lips. No neck. Rebus made to shut the door on him, but Cafferty pressed a hand to it.
“That any way to treat an old pal?”
“Go to hell.”
“You look like you’ve beat me to it—did that shirt come off a scarecrow?”
“And who dresses
A very public gesture.
And Steelforth...well, Steelforth wanted it all swept away. Nothing must deflect attention from the G8. Nothing must be allowed to perturb the various delegations. Rebus had to admit, the reason he was holding on to the case was simply to piss off the Special Branch man. He got up from the table and went into the kitchen, made himself another mug of coffee, and brought it back through to the living room. He changed channels on the TV but couldn’t find any feeds from the march. The Hyde Park crowd looked to be enjoying themselves, though there was some sort of enclosure directly in front of the stage, sparsely filled. Security maybe; either that or media. Geldof wasn’t asking for money this time around; what Live 8 wanted was to focus hearts and minds. Rebus wondered how many concert-goers would afterward heed the call and trek the four hundred miles north to Scotland. He lit a cigarette to go with his coffee, sat down in an armchair, and stared at the screen. He thought again of the Clootie Well, of the ritual played out there. If Ray Duff was right, they had at least three victims, and a killer who had made a shrine of sorts. Did that mean someone local? How well known was the Clootie Well outside Auchterarder? Did it appear in travel books, tourist brochures? Had it been chosen for its proximity to the G8 summit, the killer guessing that all those extra police patrols were bound to mean his grim little offering was found? In which case, was his spree now finished?
Three victims...no way they were going to keep that away from the media. CC Rider...Keogh’s Garage...a cash card...The killer was making it easy for them; he wanted them to know he was out there. World’s press gathered in Scotland as never before, giving him an international stage. And Macrae would relish the opportunity. He’d be out there in front of them, chest puffed up as he answered their questions, Derek Starr right beside him.
Siobhan had said she would call Macrae from the march, let him know the lab’s findings. Ray Duff meantime would be doing more tests, trying for DNA fingerprints from the blood, seeing if any hairs or fibers could be isolated and identified. Rebus thought about Cyril Colliar again. Hardly a typical victim. Serial killers tended to prey on the weak and the marginalized. A case of wrong place, wrong time? Killed in Edinburgh, but the scrap from his jacket ends up in the woods in Auchterarder, just as Operation Sorbus is getting started. Sorbus: a kind of tree...the CC Rider’s patch left in a wooded glade...If there was any hint of a connection with the G8, Rebus knew the spooks would wrench the case out of Siobhan’s hands and out of his. Steelforth wouldn’t have it any other way. The killer taunting them.
Leaving calling cards.
There was a knock at his door. Had to be Siobhan. He stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and took a look around the room. It wasn’t too bad: no empty beer cans or pizza boxes. Whiskey bottle by the chair; he picked it up, put it on the mantelpiece. Switched the TV to a news channel and headed for the door. Swung it open and recognized the face, felt his stomach clench.
“That’s your conscience salved then, is it?” he asked, feigning indifference.
“Pure as the driven fuckin’ snow, Rebus. But can you say the same?”
Not Siobhan. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Dressed in a white T-shirt bearing the slogan MAKE POVERTY HISTORY . Hands in trouser pockets. Slid them out slowly and held them up to show Rebus they were empty. A head the size of a bowling ball, shiny and all but hairless. Small, deep-set eyes. Glistening lips. No neck. Rebus made to shut the door on him, but Cafferty pressed a hand to it.
“That any way to treat an old pal?”
“Go to hell.”
“You look like you’ve beat me to it—did that shirt come off a scarecrow?”
“And who dresses
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