‘Job satisfaction?’
‘Up there with sewing mailbags. Why the interest?’
‘I’ve got a missing person.’
‘How old?’
‘He’s nineteen. Still lives at home; his parents are worried.’
She was shaking her head. ‘Needle in a haystack.’
‘I know.’
‘Did he leave a note?’
‘No, and they say he’d no reason to leave.’
‘Sometimes there aren’t reasons, not any that would make sense to the family.’ She straightened in her chair. ‘Here’s the checklist.’ She counted fingers as she spoke. ‘Bank accounts, building society, anything like that. You’re looking for withdrawals.’
‘Done.’
‘Check with hostels. Local, plus the usual cities — anything between Aberdeen and London. Some of them have charities who deal with the homeless and runaways: Centrepoint in London, for example. Get a description out. Then there’s the National Missing Persons Bureau in London. Fax any details to them. You might ask the Sally Army to keep their eyes open too. Soup kitchens, night shelters, you never know who’ll turn up.’
Rebus was jotting in his notebook. He looked up, watched her shrug.
‘That’s about it.’
‘Is it a big problem?’
She smiled. ‘Thing is, it’s not a problem at all, not unless you’re the one who’s lost somebody. A lot of them turn up, some don’t. Last estimate I saw said there could be as many as a quarter of a million MisPers out there. People who’ve just dropped out, changed their identity, or been dumped by the so-called “caring” services.’
‘Care in the community?’
She gave her bitter smile again, drank some of her drink, checked her watch.
‘I can see Shiellion must have come as a welcome break.’
She snorted. ‘Oh yes, like a camping trip. Abuse cases are always a breeze.’ She turned thoughtful. ‘I had a double rapist a few weeks back, he ended up walking. Crown cocked it up, prosecuted it as a summary case.’
‘Maximum sentence three months?’
She nodded. ‘He wasn’t up for rape this time, just indecent exposure. The Sheriff was furious. By the time remand was taken into account, the bastard had under two weeks to serve, so the Sheriff put him back on the streets.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘Psych report said he’d do it again. Probation and community service, with a bit of counselling thrown in. And he’ll do it again.’
He’ll do it again. Rebus was thinking of Darren Rough, but of Cary Oakes too. He checked his own watch. Soon Oakes would be touching down at Turnhouse. Soon he’d be a problem...
‘Sorry I can’t be more help about your MisPer,’ she said, beginning to stand. ‘Is it someone you know?’
‘Son of some friends.’ She was nodding. ‘How did you know?’
‘No offence, John, but you probably wouldn’t be bothering otherwise.’ She lifted up her briefcase. ‘He’s one out of quarter of a million. Who’s got the time?’
12
There were reporters waiting inside the terminal building. Most carried mobile phones with which they kept in touch with the office. Photographers chatted to each other about lenses and film speeds and the impact digital cameras would eventually have. There were three TV crews: Scottish, BBC and Edinburgh Live. Everyone seemed to know everyone else; they were all pretty relaxed, maybe even looking a bit tired by the wait.
The flight was subject to a twenty-minute delay.
Rebus knew the reason why. The reason was that the Met officers at Heathrow had taken their time transferring Cary Oakes. Oakes had spent over an hour in Heathrow. He’d visited the toilet, had a drink in one of the bars, bought a newspaper and a couple of magazines, and taken a telephone call.
The telephone call had intrigued Rebus.
‘He was paged,’ the Farmer had informed him. ‘Someone got a call through to him.’
‘Who would that be?’
The Farmer had shaken his head.
Now Oakes was bound for Edinburgh. Detectives had accompanied him on to the flight, then had left again, keeping their eyes on the plane right up until it left London air space. Then they’d called their colleagues at Lothian and Borders HQ.
‘He’s all yours,’ was the message.
The ACC (Crime) was putting the Farmer in charge. The Farmer didn’t usually stray from his office: he was happy to delegate; trusted his team. But tonight... tonight was a bit special. So he was seated alongside Rebus in the squad car. DC Siobhan Clarke sat in the back. It was a marked car: they wanted Oakes to know about it. Rebus had been out to recce the scene, reporting back with news of the journos.
‘Anyone we know?’ Clarke asked.
‘Usual faces,’ Rebus said, accepting another piece of chewing gum from her. This was the bargain they’d made: he wouldn’t smoke so long as she bought the gum. His reconnaissance had been an excuse for a ciggie.
The dashboard clock said the plane would be touching down any minute. They heard it before they saw it: a dull whine, lights flashing in the dark sky. They had one window down, stopping the car from steaming up.
‘Could be the one,’ the Farmer stated.
‘Could be.’
Siobhan Clarke had all the paperwork beside her; she’d been doing her reading on Cary Dennis Oakes. She wasn’t sure that they were serving any purpose here other than curiosity. Still, she was curious.
‘Shouldn’t take long,’ she said.
‘Don’t bet on it,’ Rebus said, opening his door again. He was digging in his pocket for a cigarette as he made towards the terminal doors.
He circumvented the huddle of pressmen and made for a No Entry sign. Showing his ID, he made his way towards the arrivals hall. He’d already had a word, and Customs and Immigration were waiting for him. He knew what happened with international transfers: there were no checks at Heathrow. Often, there were no checks at Edinburgh either: it depended on staff rotas; the cutbacks had bitten hard. But there’d be the full panoply of checks tonight. Rebus watched as the passengers from the Heathrow flight filtered into the terminal and began the wait for baggage. Businessmen mostly, carrying briefcases and newspapers. Half the flight carried hand-luggage only. They made their way briskly through Customs, cars waiting in the car park, families waiting at home.
Then there was the man wearing casual clothes: denims and trainers, red and black check shirt, white baseball cap. He carried a sports holdall. It didn’t look particularly full. Rebus nodded to the Customs officer, who stepped out and stopped the man, bringing him over to the counter.
‘Passport, please,’ the Immigration officer said.
The man dug into his shirt-breast pocket and produced a new-looking passport. It had been applied for over a month back, when the Americans had known they’d be freeing him. The Immigration officer flipped through it, finding little but empty pages.
‘Where are you travelling from, sir?’
Cary Oakes’s eyes were on the man in the background, the man who’d arranged all this.
‘United States,’ he said. His voice was an odd mix of transatlantic inflexions.
‘And what were you doing there, sir?’
Oakes smirked. He had the face of a weathered schoolboy, the classroom joker. ‘Passing time,’ he said.
The Customs officer had decanted the contents of his bag on to the counter. Washbag, change of clothes, a couple of razzle mags. A manila folder was full of drawings and photos clipped from magazines. They looked like they’d been pinned to a wall for a long time. There was a good luck card, too, telling him to ‘fly high and straight’ and signed by ‘your buddies on the wing’. Another folder contained trial notes and newspaper court reports. There were two paperback books, one a Bible, the other a dictionary. Both looked well-used.