A Song for the Dark Times

6

Rebus had awoken on the sofa to find a pair of eyes watching him intently.

‘Where’s my daddy?’ Carrie asked softly.

He sat up and checked his watch. It was just gone seven. His granddaughter was still in her pyjamas.

‘I heard Mummy crying,’ she continued. ‘Did Daddy leave because Mummy was shouting?’

‘Shouting?’

‘They both were. But Daddy was trying not to.’ She pushed her bottom lip out.

Rebus blinked the sleep from his eyes. ‘They were having an argument? The night Daddy left?’

‘Because I told Daddy we’d been to see the chickens.’ She was on the verge of tears.

‘It’s not your fault, Carrie, none of it.’ Rebus paused. Then: ‘Whose chickens?’

‘Jess’s,’ his granddaughter sniffled.

‘You should get dressed,’ Rebus said. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast. Don’t worry about anything, okay?’

Without saying another word, she padded off to her room. Rebus got into his clothes quickly and folded the duvet as best he could, then opened the window to air the room. It had rained in the night but the sky was clearing. He could hear the wind, though. It caught the curtains and shook them. Samantha had poured them both a few whiskies the previous night as they’d sat and talked — safe topics mostly; desperate not to fall out. Now she was tapping at the living room door, fetching him a mug of coffee.

‘Sleep okay?’

‘Like a baby.’

‘You all right with cereal? We’ve not got much else.’

‘Coffee usually does me.’

She nodded, mind elsewhere.

‘No news.’ It was statement rather than question.

She shook her head. ‘I’ll get started on breakfast,’ she said, turning to leave.

‘Something I forgot to ask yesterday, Samantha — the Volvo’s passenger seat was damp.’

‘The window was down.’

‘When you found it?’

She gave another nod. ‘Rain got in.’

‘Any idea why it was down?’

‘I’ll get started on breakfast,’ she repeated.

‘Hang on — there’s something else. The night Keith walked out, you’d had an argument, hadn’t you? About visiting Jess Hawkins?’

Samantha’s face darkened. ‘That little madam.’

‘You can’t go blaming her — she’s already doing enough of that for herself. But you didn’t think to tell Creasey?’

‘So?’

‘So if he goes asking and someone else tells him instead...’

‘It was nothing, Dad, really. Keith wasn’t happy I still visited, but I like the people there. They’re on my wavelength.’

‘More on your wavelength than Keith?’

‘I don’t know... in some ways...’ She stared at her father. ‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘I’d much rather it came from you.’

‘And I’d much rather you kept the hell out of it.’ She left the room, slamming the door after her.

Rebus waited until he could hear the hubbub from the kitchen — mother and daughter discussing some school project — before making for the bathroom and a hot shower. By the time he reached the kitchen, they had almost finished eating. He glanced at the remaining bowl and spoon, conscious that both were placed in front of what would be Keith’s chair. He stayed standing, trying not to get in the way. Samantha was reeling off a checklist as she placed things in the dishwasher.

‘Got it’ or ‘done it’ Carrie would say in reply to each item.

‘Just coat and bag then,’ Samantha eventually said, closing the dishwasher door.

‘Okay if I walk with you?’ Rebus asked. Carrie looked wary at this breach of the normal routine.

‘I don’t know if that’s really necessary,’ Samantha said coldly.

‘I’d like to, though.’ Rebus’s eyes were on his granddaughter. ‘Would that be all right with you?’ he asked. Eventually Carrie nodded.

‘Thank you,’ Rebus said.

They walked in silence for a minute or two, Carrie casting glances back over her shoulder towards the house, Samantha with her phone held in her free hand like a talisman. Naver, despite its size, boasted both a primary and a high school, both with rolls in the tens rather than hundreds. Samantha had always been enthusiastic about the quality of teaching, and when asked, Carrie reeled off her current teacher’s good points.

‘It’s keeping the teachers that’s the problem,’ Samantha added.

Entering the village proper, Rebus saw that the bonnet of his Saab was open, a man in blue overalls and a padded cotton jacket leaning down into the engine.

‘I’ll leave you here,’ Rebus said to his daughter and granddaughter. ‘Have a good day at school, Carrie.’

She managed a non-committal sound and skipped away ahead of her mother. Rebus watched them leave, hoping Samantha might turn towards him so he could wave. But she didn’t. May Collins was emerging from The Glen with a mug of tea. The mechanic paused in his work to take it from her. She gave Rebus a welcoming smile.

‘This is John,’ she informed the mechanic. ‘He’s Samantha’s father.’

‘Mick Sanderson,’ the man said, waving oily fingers to excuse the lack of a handshake. He was in his mid twenties, with curly red hair and a heavily freckled face.

‘Thanks for doing this,’ Rebus said. ‘Any joy?’

‘Just getting started,’ Sanderson explained. ‘Might be something or nothing. Older a car gets, the more TLC it needs.’

‘I might have been lax in that regard.’

‘Believe me, I can tell.’

‘If it’s fixable,’ May Collins broke in, ‘Mick’s your man. There’s a tractor on the commune that should be in a museum by rights — Mick seems to get it going year after year.’

‘Is that what it is, Mick?’ Rebus asked. ‘A commune?’

The mechanic shrugged. ‘Good a term as any. We live communally, share the workload — you’re welcome to visit.’

‘I might do that.’ Rebus paused. ‘It won’t be news to you why I’m here?’

‘Heard about Keith, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘You know him, then?’

‘He visited one time with Samantha.’

‘He didn’t take to the place the way Samantha did?’ Rebus watched Sanderson shrug. ‘Or maybe it was the people he didn’t take to?’

‘People and place are much the same thing in my experience.’

‘He works at a nuclear power station — not much of a New Age angle there.’

‘He’s dismantling it, though, isn’t he? Making it safe. No quarrel with that. Whereas this gas-guzzler...’ Sanderson rapped his knuckles against the Saab.

‘In my defence, I bought it in the days before global warming.’

May Collins laughed and even Sanderson managed the beginnings of a smile.

‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ May said. ‘Can I make you a tea, John?’

‘I’m okay, thanks.’ Then, to Sanderson: ‘Has May given you my number?’

‘When there’s news, I’ll let you know. I’m assuming you’d be happy if it’ll drive as far as a garage?’

‘If that’s what’s on offer.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks again. By the way, does your commune have a name?’

‘Not really.’

‘And opening hours for visitors?’

‘Day and night, you’ll find someone there.’ Sanderson had placed his mug on the tarmac and was leaning down into the engine again.

‘The day Keith disappeared, Samantha and Carrie had been to visit.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘To see the chickens.’

‘I might’ve been busy elsewhere.’

Rebus watched the man work for a few more seconds. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’

May Collins squeezed his arm. ‘We open at noon,’ she said. ‘Bring Samantha in for lunch. It’s only soup and sandwiches, but it might be good for her.’

‘I’ll ask,’ Rebus said.

Her grip on his forearm tightened. ‘See that you do.’

Rebus walked back to the bungalow with hands in pockets, jacket buttoned to the neck. It was probably only three or four degrees colder than Edinburgh, but the wind was from the north and not about to be tamed, it seemed, even in summer. The door to the house had been left unlocked. He went inside but felt restless. He found the keys to the Volvo. It had been brought back from the lay-by and stood outside. He scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table — didn’t want Samantha thinking Keith had returned and taken the car. But she was approaching the house as he made his exit.

‘Just going for a drive,’ he said.

‘My company’s not good enough for you?’

‘It’s not that. But I work best when left to my own devices.’

‘So you’re not just going for a drive?’

‘I probably am, though. And while I’m doing that, you can be phoning Keith’s workmates and pals — see if there’s any news; maybe there’s someone you missed when you rang round before.’

She studied the phone in her hand. ‘That detective called.’

‘Creasey?’

‘After I’d dropped Carrie off. More questions about me and Jess.’ She gave Rebus an accusing look.

‘I’ve not said a word. Did you mention the argument?’

‘It wasn’t an argument.’

‘Even so.’ Rebus paused. ‘I’ll be back for lunch — May Collins said we should go eat at the pub.’

‘Maybe,’ Samantha eventually conceded.

Rebus leaned forward to peck her on the cheek, but she drew away. Nothing for it but to head to the car.

He drove away from the village, west on the A836. He had the coastline — albeit largely hidden from view — to one side of him, and hillside with the occasional grazing sheep to the other. Eventually he noticed a makeshift sign alerting him to a backpacker hostel and café. This comprised a fair-sized solid-looking house with a modern single-storey extension. He pulled in to the unpaved car park and walked towards a wooden door that boasted another handwritten sign proclaiming ‘Yes, we really are open — try the handle!’ He did, and entered a room big enough for four tables and a serving counter. A man around his own age stood behind the counter and greeted him with a wave.

‘How can I help?’

‘Just a coffee,’ Rebus said, taking a look around. One wall was covered in photographs and postcards. The cards were from hill-walkers grateful for the welcome they’d received along with the hot drinks, scones and cakes. The photos showed visitors posing with the café as backdrop, or else pausing on a hillside, laden with rucksacks and wrapped in as many layers as manageable. The man turned from the coffee machine.

‘I’m guessing you’re not a walker — not today, at any rate.’

‘The clothes give it away?’

‘The lack of boots primarily.’

‘I’m into history more than geography.’

‘Camp 1033?’

Rebus approached the counter. ‘That’s right. Local history group told me about this place.’

‘They come in,’ the man acknowledged with a slow nod.

‘You’ve heard one of their number’s gone missing?’

‘Keith Grant, yes.’ The man fixed Rebus with a look. ‘And you’re Samantha’s father, pretending to be a casual tourist. News travels, you know.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘And that’s Keith’s car you’re driving.’

‘My daughter’s up to high doh,’ Rebus confessed. ‘I’m just asking around in the hope of finding some answers.’

‘I don’t really know your daughter, but Keith was — is — a regular. They’d almost have to drag him away from the camp at dusk. Then they’d pull two tables together so they could sit round and pore over their maps and notes and photographs. Doubtful I’ll ever retire on the proceeds, though.’ He broke off and held up the coffee he’d just finished pouring. ‘You still want this, or was it merely a pretext?’

‘I definitely want it.’ The mug was placed on the counter and Rebus picked it up. ‘When you talk about retirement,’ he said, ‘I can’t help thinking...’

‘That at my age I should already be retired?’ The man ran his fingernails down one ruddy cheek. His eyes sparkled beneath bushy silver brows. ‘Well, you’re not wrong. Wife and I moved up here after we sold our business. We’re Lancaster originally. She passed away last year.’ He looked at his surroundings. ‘This was her idea — she liked being around folk. Not in the sense of living in a city, but visitors, you know? She’d cajole the life stories from most of them, then write a few lines about them in one of her notebooks — a sort of hobby, you might say.’

‘Sounds like a local history group might have been her thing.’

‘Oh, it was. That’s one reason they started coming here — my Rosemary even suggested Camp 1033 as their pet project.’

‘I’m sorry she’s no longer with us.’

‘Me too.’ The man stuck out a hand for Rebus to shake. ‘I’m Ron Travis, by the way.’

‘John Rebus. So you’ll know Keith fairly well, Ron?’

‘Which is why I’m as in the dark as you are. Completely out of character, if you ask me.’

‘An accident then, maybe?’

Travis considered this, rubbing at his cheek again. ‘Is that what your daughter thinks?’

Rebus studied the man. ‘I’m realising this is a hard place to keep secrets.’

‘Keith had Camp 1033, she had Jess Hawkins and his lot.’

‘The commune’s not far from here?’

‘Five more minutes along the road.’

‘Close to the camp?’

Travis nodded. ‘All sorts wash ashore here, John. People like me and Rosemary, looking for a change, and people like Hawkins and company, after much the same thing. Doesn’t always go down well with the locals, the ones who’ve been here for decades, scratching a living.’

‘Samantha and Keith are incomers, too.’

‘But they’ve got a kid — that helps get you accepted. Half the folk in the local history group came here from elsewhere. Funny that they’re the ones who show a passion for keeping the stories alive.’

‘Keith certainly seems to have been doing that for Camp 1033. He’s turned his garage into a museum.’

‘Well, it’s an interesting story — and practically forgotten. Have you seen the camp?’

‘I’m heading there next.’

‘You know it housed all sorts? When war broke out, scare stories weren’t far behind. Italians and Germans who’d been in the country for generations found themselves locked up. Later on, it was proper war criminals — Nazi hard-liners and the like. The Poles even locked up their own countrymen if they didn’t like the look of them. Half this coastline was patrolled by Polish infantrymen.’ He saw the look Rebus was giving him. ‘Can’t help listening in sometimes when the group gets talking. They have this dream of a community buyout for the camp, turn it into a tourist attraction. That was Keith’s idea, as I recall. Won’t happen, though.’

‘I saw the sums.’

‘Even if they could raise the cash, I doubt the owner would sell.’ Travis chuckled. ‘He had plans to turn this whole area into a spaceport.’

‘A what?’

‘Launching satellites. Fell through, though. After that, it was to be a dark-sky park — to attract stargazers. Big new hotel and lots of guest lodges. Still on the drawing board as far as I know, though now with a golf course and country club attached.’

‘You own this place, though?’

Travis nodded. ‘But I’m pretty well hemmed in by thousands of acres belonging to Lord Strathy — who of course lives in London rather than up here.’

‘Lord Strathy owns the land the commune’s on too?’

‘But he reckoned without Jess Hawkins. Hawkins had the tenancy agreement structured in such a way that it’ll be hellish pricey to shift him if he’s not for shifting. I hear Strathy has a bunch of expensive lawyers trying to find loopholes. So far, no joy.’

‘I’ve never heard of this Lord Strathy.’

‘Surname’s actually Meiklejohn — one of probably dozens of landowners you’ve never heard of. Doesn’t stop them owning a decent chunk of the country you and I call home. You know the theatre company 7:84?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Called themselves that because of the statistic — seven per cent of the population owned eighty-four per cent of the wealth. That was a while back, mind.’

‘You don’t sound as though you think those figures will have changed for the better.’

‘I sometimes think I ended up here so I could stop having to live with it. Rosemary and me, we used to be active — go on marches, sign petitions and all that. CND, anti-apartheid, Friends of the Earth. We were drunk for two days when Tony Blair got elected.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Made not a jot of difference really.’

‘Yet I don’t sense you have much time for the commune.’

‘To my thinking, they’ve turned their backs on the world. As long as they’re all right in their little bubble, the rest of us can go burn. And Hawkins... well, he’s obviously got something, or they wouldn’t stick around, but I’m damned if I can see what it is.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Samantha saw it, though. I’m assuming you’ve heard about that?’

‘I’ve heard. But it didn’t last long and she patched things up with Keith.’

‘A patch is a patch, though — reminds you there’s damage beneath.’

Two motorcyclists pulled up outside, their bikes laden with camping gear. The riders dismounted and began peeling away layers of leather and tugging off their crash helmets. Both were silver-haired.

‘First of the day,’ Travis commented.

‘NC 500?’ Rebus watched Travis nod. ‘How much do I owe for the coffee?’

‘Two seventy-five. Toilet’s to the left when you head outside — you won’t find much at Camp 1033.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Good luck, John. Tell your daughter I’m thinking of her.’

‘I will.’

The bikers said hello to Rebus as he passed them. He got the feeling they were Scandinavian. They looked ruddy-faced and wholesome and comfortable with their place in the world. He felt his heart pounding after the injection of caffeine. His knees and back still ached from the previous day’s long drive and his head was slightly thick from the whisky he’d imbibed with Samantha. He sat in the Volvo and composed a text to Siobhan Clarke, updating her on the Saab and hoping Brillo wasn’t pining too much. He tried to imagine being out on a bike all day and then setting up a tent and crawling inside, sheltering from the elements; doing it all again the following day.

‘Different strokes,’ he muttered to himself, wishing he hadn’t had to give up the cigarettes.

His phone announced that it had a signal by ringing suddenly. An Edinburgh number, but not one he recognised. He answered anyway.

‘Hello?’

‘John? It’s John Neilson. I heard you’d moved.’

Ex-cop, a decade older than Rebus. Stationed at Gayfield Square and the high street when Rebus had known him. They used to share the occasional drink and story.

‘Who grassed me up?’ Rebus asked.

‘Kirsty.’

Owner of the Oxford Bar. One of a select few Rebus had confided in.

‘She didn’t think you’d mind me knowing.’

‘As it happens, she’s right.’

‘Is it the COPD?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Neither of us is getting any younger. Just calling to check you’re managing.’

Rebus thought of something. ‘You still keeping your nose in a few books, John? Maybe you could help me. I’ve taken a sudden interest in Second World War prison camps.’

‘A cheery subject.’

‘There’s a list of documents and books I’m trying to track down.’

‘It’s not a library you need, it’s the internet.’

Rebus had forgotten that since his retirement Neilson had developed an interest in computers. He’d boasted once of recovering a wiped hard drive. ‘How would I find out what sites are useful?’ he enquired.

‘Camps in Germany?’

‘The UK,’ Rebus corrected him. ‘Internment rather than POW, and specifically Camp 1033.’ He sensed Neilson picking up a pen and beginning to write.

‘I’ll send you some links. What’s your email?’

Rebus spelled it out for him.

‘AOL, John?’ Neilson chuckled. ‘You really are a dinosaur. Leave it with me.’ He paused. ‘So the move’s gone okay? I know it can all be a bit traumatic. When do I get to see the place?’

‘Let me finish unpacking first. You’ll get that gen to me?’

‘Wee bit of police work — I miss it every bit as much as you do.’

Rebus ended the call, started the Volvo and got back on the road.

7

He managed to drive past Camp 1033 without really noticing, mistaking it for tumbledown farm buildings. Realising his error, he doubled back, parking on the grass verge and trudging to a broken-down metre-high fence. He recalled from the photos in Keith’s garage that back in the 1940s a high fence topped with barbed wire had formed the camp’s perimeter, along with a tall gate. None of that remained. The replacement gate came up to just past Rebus’s knees and could be stepped over by those younger and nimbler than him. There was no lock as such, the height of the grass serving to keep it closed.

A forceful push and he was inside the compound. Overgrown paths were laid out between the shells of elongated Nissen huts, their roofs mostly gone, windows shattered. There was a bit of graffiti, but not much. A large blue tarpaulin, weighted with rubble, showed where the history group’s archaeological dig was taking place.

As Rebus moved further into the camp, he became aware that it was larger than he’d thought. He remembered the plans in the garage. They had shown not just accommodation blocks but a water plant, cookhouse, surgery, guardrooms and more. It was a bleak spot, which made it perfect. If anyone absconded into the hills, they might be lost for days, growing weaker and weaker without ever reaching civilisation. If they headed for the road, they would easily be spotted in their inmates’ garb. He peered through the gaping doorway of one of the accommodation huts. It would have contained bunk beds and a stove and probably not much else. There would almost certainly have been no insulation to speak of, just thin breeze-block walls and a corrugated roof.

He took out his phone and noted that the single bar denoting already minimal signal had disappeared altogether. Rain was blowing in again. No cars passed him and there were no signs of livestock. No birds in the sky either. He had seldom felt further from the comforts of home. Having not heeded Travis’s advice, he felt his bladder make sudden complaint, so found a section of wall out of view of the road and unzipped his fly. When he was done, he trudged further into the camp, trying to visualise it filled with men — internees and guards both. Hundreds of the former; presumably dozens of the latter, armed with rifles and pistols.

There was yet another accommodation block to his left, and in a slightly better state of preservation, in that both its roof and door were intact, though again what windows Rebus could see lacked the glass they would once have had. The door still possessed a handle, which he turned. Walking in, he noticed the skeletal remains of a couple of bunk beds. Blackened embers and grey ash showed where a makeshift fire had been lit a long time back, possibly by the partygoers who had left a couple of rusted beer cans nearby. There was something at his feet. A brown leather satchel. He picked it up, but it was empty. Then he saw the boots protruding from behind one of the bed frames. He sucked in a slow lungful of air and composed himself before taking a few steps forward.

The face was turned away from him, the body twisted and stiff. Rebus knew a corpse when he saw one — and knew a likely crime scene, too.

‘Christ’s sake, Keith,’ he said in a low voice. He crouched and tried the throat and wrist for signs of a pulse, knowing it would be a miracle if he found one. Knowing too that this was not a time of miracles. A few flies were busy in the gaping wound visible at the back of the dead man’s skull. He tried waving them away, but then remembered that their larvae could be useful for establishing a rough time of death — Deborah Quant had told him often enough. He stood up again and checked his phone — no signal. How was he going to break it to Samantha? What was he going to tell her? Keith hadn’t run away, hadn’t committed suicide or been the victim of an accident.

He studied the floor, seeking the weapon. He lifted his phone and photographed the empty satchel. Then, with a final silent apology to Keith, he walked out of the hut, taking a few steadying deep breaths as he headed to the Volvo.

He was within sight of Travis’s hostel before he tried his phone again. Still no signal. Nothing for it but to pull up outside the café and go in. The bikers were finishing their scones and coffees. Travis was busy at the sink.

‘Can I use your landline?’ Rebus asked.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Travis joked, before quickly realising the import of both Rebus’s demeanour and his voice. He led him behind the counter into a cramped office and then retreated. Rebus tapped in the number the detective had given him.

‘DS Creasey,’ the voice eventually answered.

‘It’s John Rebus. I’ve just found Keith Grant’s body.’

‘Where?’

‘Accommodation block at Camp 1033.’

‘The internment camp?’

‘The very same.’

‘Did he fall or something?’

‘Hit from behind. His skull’s cracked open.’

‘Who else knows?’

‘Right now, just you and me.’

‘It’ll take me a couple of hours to get a scene-of-crime team there. I’ll call Thurso. I’m sure they can spare a uniform or two until then, secure the locus if nothing else.’ Creasey paused. ‘What took you there, John?’

‘Questions later,’ Rebus said firmly. ‘For now, get the ball rolling.’ He ended the call, staring at the handset while squeezing the bridge of his nose, trying to organise his thoughts. After a few moments, he walked back into the café. Travis was clearing the visitors’ table. Rebus watched their bikes roar off in the direction of Tongue.

‘Don’t worry,’ Travis said, reading his mind. ‘They’ve no plans to stop at the camp.’ Then: ‘Sweetened tea’s supposed to be the thing for shock...’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But I need to do a spot of guard duty — maybe a couple of filled rolls to take away?’

‘I can do you a flask of something hot to go with them?’

‘Great, aye, thanks.’

‘Am I allowed to ask what’s happened?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘The poor lad. I did warn him about sleeping there.’

Rebus stared at Travis. ‘You did?’

‘He had a sleeping bag, mind, but you can still catch hypothermia, even in summer.’

‘When was this?’

‘A month or so back. After the trouble at home. I was driving past one night and saw his car parked by the fence. He was in one of the huts. I told him I had a bed for him here, but he said no.’

Rebus opened his phone and found the photo of the satchel. ‘Recognise this?’ he asked, turning the screen towards Travis.

‘Looks like his bag. Kept his history stuff in it.’ Travis paused. ‘And his laptop, of course.’ He seemed to realise the import of the photograph. ‘It wasn’t the cold that killed him?’ he guessed.

Rebus shook his head, saying nothing.

‘Oh.’ Some of the blood left Travis’s cheeks. ‘I’ll fetch you that flask,’ he said distractedly, shuffling off towards the kitchen area. ‘Ham or cheese for the rolls?’

‘Maybe one of each.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Five minutes later, Rebus was back on the road, having warned Travis not to say anything to anyone. He parked in the same spot as before but stayed in the car this time, one window lowered until the rain started blowing in. The radio was failing to find stations on any of its wavelengths. The flask was filled with lentil soup, which poured like sludge into the cup and was saltier than Rebus liked. Not that he really tasted it; same went for the rolls. Travis had added lettuce and tomato, Rebus tossing both onto the verge.

It was the best part of an hour before he heard the approaching engine. The patrol car’s blue lights were flashing as it pulled to a skidding stop alongside the Volvo, effectively blocking the road. Rebus got out and watched four uniformed officers — three men, one woman — decant from the vehicle.

‘Blues and twos all the way from Thurso, eh?’ he enquired.

‘We were told to hurry.’

‘Well, you’ve successfully alerted every living thing within forty miles that something’s happened. Rumour mill will be grinding as we speak.’

‘Who are you anyway?’ the driver asked, reckoning attack a better tactic than defence.

‘I’m the one who alerted CID. How long till the SOCOs get here?’

‘So you found the body?’ All four officers turned to look towards the camp. One reached into the back seat of the patrol car and brought out a roll of blue-and-white tape with the word POLICE printed on it.

‘Whole camp is a crime scene until we know otherwise,’ Rebus said. ‘With you four guarding the perimeter, meaning the fence.’ He nodded towards the tape. ‘I’d say you’re probably a few hundred metres short if that’s all you brought.’

‘Who are you?’ the driver asked again, with a quizzical look on his face.

‘I’m a man who’s dealt with more than a few homicides in his time. If you don’t want a bollocking from the murder team when they get here, you’ll take instructions from me — understood?’

‘You’re not our boss,’ the driver stated, taking a step towards Rebus and sizing him up. ‘Far as I can see, you’re nobody’s boss. So do us all a favour and point us in the direction of the body. Then — and I say this with all due respect — piss off back to wherever you came from.’

Two of his colleagues weren’t going to wait. They had already started climbing over the low gate. Seconds later they were tramping towards the nearest line of buildings. Rebus gave a shrug of resignation and retreated to the Volvo, watching as all four uniforms headed into the camp and out of sight. He knew he was going to stay put; partly because Creasey and his team would be on their way, but mostly to defer playing the role waiting for him back in Naver. He remembered Carrie watching him as he slept on the sofa.

Where’s my daddy?

I heard Mummy crying.

Many more tears, he knew, would be shed before the day was finished.

8

There had been another attack overnight, a Chinese student shoved from behind, then kicked several times as she lay on the pavement. She had been checked at A&E and then released. Tess Leighton and George Gamble had been sent to interview her at her flat.

‘Her English wasn’t exactly fluent,’ Gamble said, his eyes on his notepad. ‘A friend did the translating.’

‘Didn’t help that she was in a state of shock,’ Leighton interrupted, arms folded tightly across her chest. They were in the MIT office, the rest of the team listening intently. DCI Sutherland had checked the crime scene on the wall map, circling it in pencil. Argyle Place in Marchmont.

‘It’s mostly shops at ground level,’ Leighton told him. ‘Pub on the corner. No real witnesses as yet. Another student on their way home heard her groaning. Helped her to her feet. Reckoned she’d tripped and fallen.’

‘Let’s do door-to-door,’ Sutherland said. ‘And check if there’s any CCTV. No description of the assailant?’

‘She had her eyes on her phone, earbuds in and music playing. First she knew about it was when she was sent flying.’

‘Universities and colleges are going to reinforce the safety message,’ Christine Esson added. ‘And the local media websites are leading with it.’

‘Did the assailant take anything?’

‘Just her phone,’ Leighton said. ‘Which makes me think it’s a straightforward mugging. Despite which, the media are already yelling race crime.’

‘Students and rich kids have always been seen as fair game,’ Fox cautioned. ‘No obvious reason to connect it to Salman bin Mahmoud.’

‘Which won’t stop social media doing exactly that,’ Sutherland growled. ‘So give me some good news.’ He looked around the room, his eyes fixing on Clarke and Fox. ‘Siobhan?’

‘We spoke to Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli last night — mostly about the attack on Mr Morelli. They seem to be bearing the loss of their friend pretty well.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Let’s say they weren’t exactly in mourning. Had a night out planned at the Jenever Club. They also didn’t look jittery, but that may be down to breeding. I’d say they’ve led pretty insulated lives.’

‘I think what Siobhan’s saying,’ Fox interjected, ‘is that if they knew why their friend had been targeted, they were pretty good at hiding it, and they seemed relaxed that they’re not about to share his fate.’

‘Nice bit of mansplaining,’ Esson said, pretending to clap.

‘I was just trying to—’

‘Enough.’ Sutherland held up a hand. ‘Last night’s attack will be investigated, but our focus remains the homicide. I still don’t know nearly enough about Mr bin Mahmoud. The Met are being their usual slow selves, and we’re getting precious little joy from either his bank or his phone and internet providers. More effort needed, people.’

‘Can we ask the government to apply some pressure?’ Esson asked.

‘That’s gone a bit quiet,’ Sutherland admitted. ‘If you ask me, the Saudis have shrugged their shoulders. If they wanted a result, they’d be letting ministers and diplomats know, and we’d be getting a regular boot up the arse.’

‘This is because the victim’s family isn’t flavour of the month?’ Clarke asked.

‘So no trade deals are in danger of being compromised, whatever the outcome.’

‘Unless it turns out he was bumped off by Saudi agents,’ Leighton said. When Gamble snorted, she turned towards him. ‘Stranger things have happened, George.’

Fox, trying to avoid Clarke’s eyes, was relieved when his phone began vibrating. He lifted it and studied the screen. Number withheld. He looked to Sutherland for guidance. Sutherland gave a jerk of the head in response. Fox answered the call as he made his exit.

‘DI Fox,’ he said, closing the door after him.

‘Malcolm.’

That steady drawl, slightly nasal. ‘Cafferty,’ he said. ‘How did you get this number?’

‘Good to see you last night. I hope you got what you came for.’

‘We came to see if you were shifting any cocaine.’ Fox listened to the momentary silence and the barked laugh that followed.

‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘What?’

‘The unvarnished truth.’

‘What is it you want, Cafferty?’

‘I hear there’s been another mugging. Anything taken?’

‘Victim’s phone — why?’

‘I was going to offer my services. Now that cops like Rebus are history, you lot have lost a valuable resource.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Snitches, grasses, eyes and ears on the street.’

‘Human intelligence is the term these days. You’re offering to put the word out — mind if I ask why?’

‘Call me a concerned citizen. Not going to be in anyone’s interests if people are scared to go out at night.’

‘Night being when you do most of your business.’

‘Guilty as charged.’ There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘Now that I’ve got you, though...’

‘Finally he gets to the point.’

‘Know what? That tone of voice is making me change my mind. Might be better taking it direct to your boss.’

‘I can give you his number.’

‘I don’t mean Sutherland.’

Fox’s brow furrowed. ‘Who then?’

‘Your boss at Major Crime, Assistant Chief Constable Jennifer Lyon.’

‘And what exactly is it you think she needs to know?’

‘Best done face to face, Malcolm. You know the address?’

‘I was there last night.’

‘I mean my home address. Half an hour — probably best make some excuse to Siobhan. Your boss would want it that way, trust me...’

Cafferty’s flat comprised the top three storeys of a contemporary glass-and-steel construction in what for a long time had been the grounds of the city’s main hospital, now rebranded as Quartermile. Fox was there within twenty minutes, having exited the police station without bothering to give a reason. He pressed the bell and was buzzed into the building, taking the lift to the penthouse. The door off the landing was open, Cafferty himself standing there, a tomato juice in his hand.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said by way of welcome, leading the way.

The hallway led to a vast open space with a mezzanine above. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave uninterrupted views across the Meadows towards Marchmont and the Pentland Hills beyond. To the east could be seen Arthur’s Seat and Salisbury Crags, the outlines of hardy tourists visible on the peak.

‘Not bad, eh?’

‘Crime pays, as the saying goes.’

Cafferty laughed, gesturing towards the kitchen area. ‘Coffee or anything?’ Fox shook his head.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said.

‘All brisk and businesslike — good man.’ Cafferty settled himself in a leather armchair, unsurprised that Fox stayed standing. ‘So here’s the thing...’ He broke off. ‘Sure I can’t get you a drink?’

‘Spit it out.’

Cafferty raised the glass he was holding. ‘I would, but it’s one of my five a day. Doctor says I’ve to take care of myself. Don’t want to end up like poor old Rebus, can’t even manage a flight of stairs.’ He gave a sigh when Fox remained mute and as still as a statue. ‘Here’s the thing then — your boss, ACC Lyon. Way I hear it, her career progression’s ongoing. Chief Constable will be put out to pasture in a year, maybe two at most. He’d be gone by now if he had his way, but they won’t let him. Poor bugger’s knackered, though, put body and soul into getting the organisation back on an even keel. Budget still needs sorting out, but I doubt that’ll ever change.’ He fixed Fox with a look, gave a wide smile. ‘As you can tell, Police Scotland has become a bit of a hobby.’

‘I’m still not hearing why I’m here.’

‘You’re here because Jennifer Lyon’s frictionless upward trajectory might be about to go into free fall.’ Cafferty’s free hand made a downward corkscrew motion. ‘Which would be a shame for her. And the irony is, it’s not even her fault, not exactly. It’s all because of her husband.’ He took a sip of his drink, eyes apparently on the view outside his window.

Fox slid his hands into his pockets; not much of a reaction, but a reaction nonetheless.

‘So here’s what you need to do, Malcolm...’ Cafferty broke off again. ‘Sure you don’t want a seat, by the way? You’ve gone a bit pale.’

‘Just tell me.’

He took another sip of his drink first, seeming to savour it. Then, when he was good and ready: ‘I can make it all go away — the photos and the video. Now, she may not want to hear that, so if you like, what you tell her is that you can make it all go away. My name doesn’t have to feature, if that’s the way you want to play it. What matters is that this is your fast track to promotion once she’s installed in the top job.’

Fox’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t going to give Cafferty the satisfaction of asking the obvious question. Cafferty smiled into his near-empty glass. The juice had left red stains around his mouth.

‘I still haven’t heard what it is you want,’ Fox said quietly.

‘The answer is: not much. And nothing illegal.’

‘So tell me.’

Cafferty made show of rising to his feet. ‘Maybe a wee top-up first...’

‘Fucking tell me!’

Cafferty eased himself back to sitting, a contented look on his face. Then he started to speak.

The Scottish Crime Campus was based at Gartcosh in Lanarkshire, purpose-built on the site of an old steelworks, the land around it still largely undeveloped. Nominally, Police Scotland’s HQ was at Tulliallan, but everyone knew Gartcosh was where the serious business got done.

ACC Jennifer Lyon always strode the corridors and open areas of Gartcosh with a sense of purpose. Fox had deduced long ago that this was more to do with deterring people from collaring her with a request than because she had anywhere she needed urgently to be. He’d been weighing up his opening gambits ever since starting the hour-long drive from Edinburgh. Even so, the sight of her walking towards him, multiple lanyards swinging from her neck, almost caused his mind to go blank. He was about to be the bearer of bad tidings, and recipients never forgot.

‘Malcolm,’ she said, by way of stony-faced greeting. ‘I take it there’s news?’

‘News?’

‘The murder case.’

‘Not as such, ma’am.’

She tilted her head slightly. Her hair was straw-blonde, no slivers of grey allowed, and cut to resemble a protective helmet cupping her skull.

‘Well then,’ she prompted.

Fox cleared his throat. ‘Best done in private, ma’am.’

She looked around at the huge open atrium. Staff shuffled past quietly, some whispering into phones, others glancing in the direction of the feared and powerful ACC.

‘Please tell me I’m not going to have to cover your arse for something.’ Fox shook his head. ‘Well, that’s a blessing.’ She started walking again, Fox maintaining a slight distance.

No one was waiting in the reception area attached to her office. Her assistant glanced up from her computer, recognised Fox and gave the thinnest of smiles in acknowledgement. Lyon was behind her uncluttered desk by the time Fox had closed the door. He stood for a moment, but her glare told him to sit. The chair was tubular, solid, and not built for comfort. Fox’s throat felt a little dry. He cleared it again.

‘It’s a message of sorts,’ he began. ‘Not from someone we’d classify as friendly. I’ll tell you who if you like, but ignorance might work in your favour.’

‘Maybe give me the message first.’ She leaned her elbows on the desk, angling her body forward a little to signal that he had her undivided attention.

‘Something about your husband, ma’am. Photos and video — I’m guessing involving him — that could prove an embarrassment to you and maybe even affect your career.’

He watched as Jennifer Lyon digested the information. Her eyes lost their focus momentarily. She eventually lifted her elbows, leaning back in her chair, her shoulders stiffened.

‘All right,’ she said in a toneless voice. ‘Who was it told you?’

‘You’re sure you want to know?’

‘Just tell me, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

‘Aka Big Ger.’ She nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Photos and video?’

It was Fox’s turn to nod. ‘Not that he showed me any.’

‘Unlikely to be a bluff, though?’

‘He sounded fairly confident.’ Fox paused. ‘You’ve always managed to keep your personal life private...’

‘You know who my husband is, though?’

Yes, Fox knew. His name was Dennis Jones; he was vice chancellor of one of the newer west-coast universities. ‘I’m guessing it’s not financial impropriety,’ he posited. ‘Not sure that would yield much in the way of interesting footage.’

Lyon’s mouth twitched. ‘An affair,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the desktop. ‘Not a student, before you ask — a member of staff, also married. Brief, stupid and finished.’

‘Speaking of stupid... Could the two of them have enjoyed a night out in Edinburgh? Maybe at a club on the Cowgate?’

‘Cafferty owns one, does he? Covered by plenty of cameras, I assume.’ She picked up a pen, studied it and tossed it back onto the desk. ‘Why are men such bloody idiots?’

‘You said it’s over — is that because you found out?’

‘And made the usual ultimatum.’

‘Recently?’

She gave him a hard stare. ‘Does it matter?’ But then she relented. ‘A couple of months back.’ She sprang to her feet, walking behind her chair, gripping its frame with both hands. ‘So what now?’ she asked.

‘He says he can make it all go away if we do him a favour.’

Lyon shook her head determinedly. ‘You know we can’t do that.’

‘If it helps, it’s nothing illegal. He just wants us to mount an operation, do some digging, maybe a spot of surveillance...’

‘Against a competitor?’

Fox shrugged. ‘I’d assume so. We might have a better idea afterwards.’

‘What does he expect us to find?’

‘I’m not sure he knows.’

‘And who’s the target?’

‘A developer called Stewart Scoular.’

‘I know the name.’

‘He was an MSP for the shortest time. I happened to see him yesterday evening.’

‘Oh?’

‘Drinking in Cafferty’s club. He was with a couple of friends of Salman bin Mahmoud.’

‘He’s part of your investigation?’

Fox shook his head. ‘He’s not been flagged up as yet.’

‘Well, I’d say he’s been flagged up now, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Nothing as yet to suggest Saudi state involvement?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll keep Special Branch posted.’ Lyon considered for a moment before sitting down again. ‘I should meet with Cafferty.’

‘With respect, that would be reckless. I’m happy to act as intermediary.’

‘Do we have anything at all on this man Scoular? He’s not come onto our radar at any point?’

‘Is there any harm in looking?’

‘You tell me, Malcolm. How far would you trust your chum Cafferty?’

‘No distance at all. But he wants something and he thinks we’re his best chance of getting it. And I am intrigued by his interest in Scoular...’

‘So we humour him until we have an answer?’

‘Or until he hands over the photos and video.’

Lyon pointed a finger at Fox. ‘You need to be shown what he’s got, Malcolm. I don’t want to see it, but you should. Just so we know we’re not dealing with a bullshitter.’

‘Understood.’

‘And any digging that happens, the quieter it’s done the better.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘In fact, the case you’re attached to is perfect — just lasso Scoular and make him part of it. Can you do that without attracting undue attention?’

‘I doubt I could raise a surveillance operation.’

‘Depends what you dig up, doesn’t it?’ There was the merest edge of need to her voice and her demeanour.

‘I’ll do everything in my power, ma’am,’ Malcolm Fox said.

9

When Rebus answered the knock at the door, May Collins was standing there, solemn-faced and holding out two large carrier bags.

‘They’re yours if you want them,’ she said. ‘Belonged to my late husband. You’re about the same size. I mean, I’m assuming you’ll be staying put, and you won’t find many clothes shops around here...’ She broke off.

Rebus accepted both bags and peered into one of them. ‘You’ve heard, then?’ he said.

‘Oh John, isn’t it terrible?’ Her voice cracked. ‘How’s Samantha doing?’

‘She’s taken Carrie to a friend’s.’

‘Were you the one who broke the news?’

Rebus sucked in some air, nodding while exhaling.

‘That must have been terrible.’

Terrible? Rebus wasn’t sure the word was strong enough. Samantha had backed away from him, lashing out when he tried to touch her, wailing and roaring and inconsolable. Shock soon replaced the look of horror: what would she say to Carrie? What words would lessen the blow? She had looked at her phone, checking the time. She would have to go to the school. Where was her coat?

Her father: you need to sit down first. Just take five minutes.

‘Haven’t you done enough?!’ A yell of accusation, a howling at the only thing in the world at that moment close enough to deserve it. And when Rebus tried reaching out again, she slapped at his hands. ‘I’ve managed fine without you all these years...’

Despite Rebus having given no answer, May Collins was nodding as if he had — a nod of sympathy and understanding. ‘I could make you a cup of tea, but I’m not sure that would help. A belt of whisky maybe?’

Rebus shook his head, watching as Collins remembered something. ‘Mick got your car started. He’s not saying it’ll get you home, but I’ve got the key.’

Rebus took it from her. ‘What do I owe him?’

‘I doubt he’d accept anything — especially now.’ She gave another sigh. ‘If you need me, you know where I am.’

They both turned at the sound of vehicles speeding past. Two cars, one van, no markings. Professionals who were about to be busy at Camp 1033.

‘I’m not sure I should be asking,’ May Collins said quietly, ‘but did he do away with himself?’ Rebus’s face remained impassive. ‘An accident then?’

‘No accident,’ he said.

Her mouth formed a large O, her eyes widening at the realisation.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose I’d better...’ She was twisting the top half of her body, motioning to leave while hoping he would invite her to stay.

‘Thanks for the clothes,’ Rebus said, going back into the bungalow and closing the door.

In the bathroom he selected a few items and changed into them, then went into the kitchen and stuffed his own clothes into the machine, selecting the quickest wash available. A car was drawing up outside. He beat Creasey to the door and was waiting for him.

‘Mind if I come in?’ the young detective sergeant enquired, as solicitously as any funeral director. Rebus led the way to the living room.

‘Samantha’s at a friend’s.’

‘How’s she doing?’ Rebus could only shrug. ‘And the little one?’

Another shrug. ‘I wasn’t there when Samantha told her — if she’s told her.’

Creasey settled on the edge of the sofa. ‘It’s bloody awful news, of course, and it’ll take time to sink in...’

‘But you need to interview her all the same?’

‘You know we do. And Forensics are going to want to inspect the Volvo.’

‘They’ll find my prints.’

‘And mine,’ Creasey said. ‘So we’ll need yours and Samantha’s for purposes of elimination.’

‘You’ve been to the camp; you’ve seen him?’ Creasey gave a slow nod. ‘The empty satchel — he used to keep his notes and laptop in it, according to the guy who runs the café along the road.’

‘We’re in the process of getting a statement from Mr Travis.’

Rebus realised he had lowered himself onto the arm of one of the chairs — he wasn’t about to get comfortable.

‘Keith slept there a few nights after he found out about Samantha and Jess Hawkins.’

‘We’ll be talking to everyone, John, trust me.’ Creasey paused. ‘You are going to trust me?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because of everything I’ve learned about you; because you’ve worked your whole life in the central belt and you might think those of us based up here are a bit... rustic. I’m here to tell you that we know the job, and we’ll be every bit as thorough as you’d want and expect.’

Rebus was staring at the floor. ‘It has to be something to do with that camp,’ he stated.

‘Why?’

‘The missing laptop.’

‘The one thing any opportunist would take with them — portable and easy to sell on. His phone is missing too.’ Rebus was shaking his head, and Creasey gave him a disappointed look. ‘So what was it about the camp that was so important to Mr Grant?’

‘I don’t know, but the garage here is full of research. You need to talk to the local history group. They might have some answers.’

‘We’ll get round to it.’

‘I suppose the autopsy comes first? Cause of death as starting point? Fingertip search of the camp?’

Creasey was nodding along.

‘With my daughter as a suspect, maybe even the main suspect?’

‘You’ve been in my shoes; you know how this plays out. It doesn’t mean we won’t show discretion. And Victim Support will be here for your daughter and granddaughter as and when they need it.’ Creasey rose to his feet. ‘Volvo keys on the hall table?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll take them with me then. Samantha may have a spare set, but she’d be wise to leave the car untouched until we’re finished with it.’

‘I’ll make sure she knows.’

Creasey reached out his hand and clasped Rebus’s. ‘You need to be a father now, leave everything else to us.’

Rebus met Creasey’s eyes as he nodded. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Did they take his cash and credit cards?’

‘His wallet was in his pocket, untouched by the look of it.’

‘And you still think robbery’s a possible motive?’

‘Everything’s a motive at this point.’

‘Try not to forget that, son. Don’t get lazy.’

He saw the detective to the door, watched through the living room window as he got into his car and drove off, heading in the direction of the crime scene. When the engine noise had faded, he put his coat on and headed out to the garage. Settling himself on the fold-down chair in front of the trestle table, he began to read more thoroughly about Camp 1033.

10

Fox was halfway back to Edinburgh when he decided to answer Siobhan Clarke’s latest attempt at calling him.

‘What’s with the Houdini act?’ she enquired.

‘I was summoned to Gartcosh — boss there needed me.’

‘Must be nice to feel wanted. But meantime I’ve had a text from John.’

‘On his way back?’

‘The exact opposite — a body’s turned up. His daughter’s partner.’

‘Bloody hell. Suicide?’

‘Text didn’t say and I can’t get him to answer his phone — it’s almost like he’s taking lessons from you.’

‘I was in a meeting.’

‘But you’re on your way back now?’

‘Another half-hour or so — where will we meet?’

‘I’m taking Brillo to the Meadows. Need to pick up a couple of things from John’s flat.’

‘I’ll see you there.’ Fox ended the call, checked his mirror, signalled, and pulled out to overtake. Almost thirty years he’d been driving, and never a ticket or a scratch or a dent. Because he was cautious. He stuck to the rules. He knew what he was doing.

He wondered whether he would cross the line — and how far — for Assistant Chief Constable Jennifer Lyon. And for his own prospect of promotion.

‘He’s going to have to go into kennels,’ Clarke said, watching as Brillo tracked yet another of the Meadows’ innumerable scents.

‘You might be right,’ Fox agreed. ‘Still heard nothing more from John?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t keep him shut up in my flat all day — or his owner’s, come to that.’

‘Is there maybe a neighbour?’ Clarke’s eyes bored into his. Fox lifted both hands. ‘No, no, no. I told you, I’m not an animal person. Besides which, I’m working the same insane hours as you.’

‘And neither of us with much to show for it.’

‘What about someone else in the office — Christine or Ronnie? You could pull rank on either of them.’

‘It’s crossed my mind.’ Clarke dug her phone out of her pocket and checked the screen. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, answering. ‘What can I do for you, Christine?’

‘We’ve just had the most colossal break in the case.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Time was you might have fallen for that.’

Clarke could hear the soft clatter of computer keyboards in the background.

‘Getting a bit bored in the office, are we?’

‘Obviously, but I’m phoning to see if you think John Rebus might be up for a night at the theatre.’

‘The theatre?’

‘Remember I told you Lee Child and Karin Slaughter are coming to Edinburgh? Well, it’s tonight and my date’s dropped out, meaning I’ve got a spare.’

‘John’s still up north.’

‘In which case, this is your lucky day.’

‘Have you asked Ronnie?’

‘He only reads comics.’

‘Graphic novels.’ Clarke heard Ronnie Ogilvie correcting Esson from across the desk.

‘I’ll let you know,’ she said. ‘Has my absence been noted yet?’

‘The DCI’s had another summons from our lords and masters. Ronnie and me are about to bask in front of several hours’ worth of CCTV.’

‘I won’t keep you then. Bye, Christine.’ Clarke ended the call and then whistled for Brillo to come to her, readying his leash. She glanced in Fox’s direction. ‘It was nothing earth-shaking then, your trip to Gartcosh?’

‘No,’ he said with a shake of the head.

‘No updates from London about Middle Eastern hit squads jetting in and out again?’

‘Passenger lists have been scoured. Special Branch are nothing if not thorough.’

‘You stressed that we’re all working ourselves to death here?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That’s fine then.’ Clarke had taken a couple of steps in the direction of Melville Drive, but stopped when she saw that Fox wasn’t about to accompany her.

‘I’m parked that way,’ he said, gesturing in the vague direction of the university buildings beyond the Meadows.

‘That’s miles away,’ Clarke said. He offered a slight wrinkling of his mouth.

‘Catch you back at base,’ he said, turning away from her.

She watched him go. He half turned his head as if to check on her, then quickened his pace. Clarke started walking in the opposite direction, Brillo looking up at her, wondering if she might morph back into his owner. He seemed happy enough when she scooped him up into her arms, turning to follow Fox. There was no good reason that she could think of for him to have parked so far away. He had his phone out, looking at it as he walked. Clarke made a slight detour off the path and onto the grass. There were plenty of pedestrians about, plenty of dog-walkers and students playing with frisbees and footballs. An observant eye might still spot her, but there were no further backward glances from Fox as he headed up Middle Meadow Walk. He took a left at the first café, heading into the Quartermile complex. There was an underground car park there, but it was pricey. Too pricey, she reckoned, for the frugal Malcolm Fox. Reaching the narrow footpath that led down the side of the café, she saw no sign of him. The street ahead was clear. So either he had descended into the car park or...

She tiptoed through the nearest gateway and glanced around a corner towards the entrance to the first of the modern apartment blocks. Its glass door was just rattling closed. She waited a moment, then moved towards the door, still cautious. Looking through the glass, she watched as the quartz display panel above the lift ticked over a series of numbers, pausing on a letter rather than a number.

P for penthouse.

Clarke met Brillo’s questioning eyes. ‘We know who lives there, don’t we, boy?’ she said in a whisper. Then, staring upwards, her neck arched: ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Malcolm. I really do...’

As soon as he left Cafferty’s block, Fox got on the phone to Jennifer Lyon.

‘It’s tame stuff,’ he informed her. ‘They’re in the Jenever Club. Upstairs at first, till a flunkey hands them a card. It confers VIP status, so they head to that area of the club.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s a bit of dancing... kisses and cuddles.’ He cleared his throat.

‘Yes?’

‘That’s about the sum of it. They’re intimate, but there’s no actual...’

‘I get the picture.’

‘Cafferty says it wasn’t their only visit to the place, but my guess is, if he had anything more incriminating he’d have shown it to me.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘It really is fairly tame.’

‘Nevertheless, he was sleeping with her. If Cafferty releases the footage, Dennis would have some explaining to do.’

‘He could always deny it went any further.’

Fox heard her sigh. ‘I’ve looked up this man Scoular online. He seems perfectly legit. Did Cafferty give you any more of a clue why he’s interested or what he thinks we might find?’

‘None.’

‘Then let’s go ahead and buy ourselves some time.’

‘By digging a bit deeper into Scoular’s life?’

‘As a salient part of the bin Mahmoud inquiry.’

‘Whatever you say, ma’am.’

‘I appreciate this, Malcolm. Don’t think I’ll forget it.’

‘Thank you.’

When the call ended, Fox found he had a bit of extra spring in his step as he headed towards his car. One thing he didn’t think Lyon needed to know about — the brief foray by her husband and his lady friend into the alcove occupied by Scoular and his associates. The line of cocaine offered and accepted. Followed by champagne and laughter and the sheer look of relaxed pleasure on Dennis Jones’s face...

‘See when I phone you, Benny,’ Cafferty snarled into his mobile as he stood by his apartment window, staring out across the city, ‘I expect you to pick up on the first fucking ring. Do you understand? I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a shit or a shag, nothing’s more important than my time.’

‘Sorry, boss. Need me to bring the car round?’

‘What I need you to do is get off your fat arse and go talk to a few people. Chinese student was mugged last night and her phone taken. If it’s some wee fud from the schemes, he’ll be blabbing about it. You need to go to those schemes and find out who he is.’

‘What for?’

‘Because I’m telling you to!’

‘Sure, boss, absolutely.’

‘Attack happened in Marchmont, so maybe start in the south — Moredun, Gracemount... psycho country, in other words. You got any contacts there?’

‘Some, aye.’

‘Fuck are you waiting for then? News or no news, phone me in two hours.’

Cafferty stabbed at his mobile, ending the call. He waited for his breathing to return to normal. Maybe sixty or seventy per cent of his job was act and attitude. He wasn’t like some of these younger thugs who needed to be tooled up to get what they wanted. A look and a word was usually enough — or it had been in the past. It was getting harder, the world was changing. The younger model of gangster tended to have no boundaries and no off-switch. They were creeping north from places like Manchester and Liverpool, muscling in on cities like Dundee where the last thing the resident population needed was a cheaper but altogether more venal and threatening source of drugs. So far Cafferty’s reputation had protected much of his Edinburgh operation, but he wasn’t sure that would last much longer. Even so, he still had his club, the boutique hotel in the New Town, the car wash and the betting shop.

And then there were the flats he rented out, many of the classier ones to overseas students. Predominantly these days those students were Chinese. One of their number got attacked with no comebacks, they might begin to wonder if Edinburgh was the place for them. Wouldn’t matter so much if there were other nationalities to replace them, but with the uncertainty of Brexit... A large part of his income was clean these days and he wanted to keep it that way. Property had proven a solid investment, and he was considering moving into commercial land development — Stewart Scoular’s domain, to be precise. It was a world he hoped would bring him closer to people of quality, people like Lady Isabella and the bin Mahmoud family. People like Giovanni Morelli.

And further all the time from Benny and his ilk.

Cafferty cast his eyes around the room he was standing in.

‘Never enough,’ he said to himself.

No matter how much and how far, it was never anything like enough.

11

The main street of Naver was busier than Rebus had seen it. Knots of locals deep in conversation, cars cruising up and down, their occupants drinking in every moment and interaction. Rebus knew that the media would be on their way, too, ready to swell the ranks of gawpers. He unlocked his Saab and turned the ignition. The engine started first time but didn’t sound one hundred per cent. When he pushed down hard on the accelerator, eyes turned to look at him. He turned the engine off and got out again.

He kept his head down as he walked, ignoring the couple of questioning voices, people who obviously knew who he was. The house he wanted was towards the end of the street. He rang the doorbell and waited. A woman in her seventies, slightly stooped, opened the door and gestured him inside as if welcoming a refugee. She gripped both his hands in her own.

‘A terrible, terrible shock to all of us.’

‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Mrs McKechnie.’

‘Not at all, not at all. Please, this way. And call me Joyce.’

The sitting room was small and cluttered, china ornaments everywhere, framed family photos covering the walls. The fire was lit and seemed to be sucking all the oxygen from the confined space. There was a metal tray on the coffee table, cups, best china, and biscuits laid out. A man a few years younger than Mrs McKechnie had risen to his feet.

‘Edward Taylor,’ he said, shaking Rebus’s hand.

‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ Joyce McKechnie commanded. ‘Let me sort this out.’ She lifted the teapot. ‘Edward takes his black.’

‘Spot of milk, thanks,’ Rebus told her, sloughing off his jacket. Taylor was offering the plate of shortbread but Rebus shook his head.

‘Dreadful news about Keith,’ Taylor said. ‘My condolences.’

‘Thank you.’ There was silence until McKechnie had settled herself. ‘And I want to thank you again for agreeing to speak to me.’

‘The very least we can do,’ McKechnie said. Her accent was local, but Rebus got the feeling Taylor was from further south.

‘Even from my short time here, it’s obvious to me that Keith loved the history group.’

‘He was our hope for the future,’ Taylor said. ‘The rest of us are in what some would call our twilight years.’

‘The other members?’ Rebus nudged.

‘I phoned Anna, but no answer,’ Joyce McKechnie said. ‘I don’t think they’re back from their holiday.’

Anna and Jim Breakspear: the two other names Rebus had found in Keith Grant’s notes.

‘A select gathering,’ he commented.

‘On paper, we’ve well over a dozen members, but not everyone can spare as much time as they’d like.’

‘On the other hand,’ Taylor added, ‘Keith held down a full-time job and still played his part.’ He began to fiddle with one of the buttons on his dun-coloured cardigan.

‘You’re all fairly spry, though,’ Rebus reasoned. ‘I saw the digging you’d been doing.’

McKechnie gave a chuckle. ‘We twisted a few arms and managed to rally volunteers from the youth club.’

Rebus nodded his understanding and switched on his phone, finding the photo he needed. He rose to his feet, turning the screen away from him and holding it out. ‘Keith’s satchel has been found, but it was empty. What would you expect to be in it?’

Taylor peered at the photo. ‘Maybe his latest notebook — he filled dozens of them.’

‘And his laptop,’ McKechnie added.

‘Any idea what he’d keep on the laptop?’

‘They’re not even called that these days, are they?’ Taylor interrupted before taking a sip from his cup. ‘Something to do with burnt knees and a lawsuit.’

McKechnie had been pondering. ‘Notes about the camp, of course. And photos, maps, that sort of thing.’

Rebus’s phone buzzed and he checked the screen, noting that he’d missed a few other calls. Two were from Laura Smith, crime reporter on the Scotsman newspaper. He switched the phone off and pocketed it.

‘Would you say the camp had become an obsession?’ he asked.

‘Probably,’ Taylor said, while McKechnie nodded her agreement.

‘Though I did wonder...’ McKechnie broke off, mouth tightening.

‘Anything you say could be helpful,’ Rebus prompted.

‘Well, the camp is practically next door to Stalag Hawkins...’

‘Stalag Hawkins?’

She gave a thin smile. ‘Keith’s name for it — we all found ourselves using it in time.’

‘You mean the commune?’

Taylor brushed a few crumbs from the legs of his trousers. ‘You know Samantha had become quite friendly with them?’

‘She told me about her and Hawkins, if that’s what you’re asking. But that was over and done with.’

‘Of course.’

Rebus focused on McKechnie. ‘The camp was a way for Keith to spy on the commune? It’s not even visible from there, is it?’

‘But cars coming and going are.’

‘He told you this?’

She shook her head. ‘We just wondered, that’s all.’

‘It hardly explains the amount of work he put in — all the costings to turn the camp into a visitor attraction.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ Taylor said, placing his cup back on the tray and refusing the offer of a refill. ‘The place got its talons into him.’

‘Ghosts don’t have talons, Edward,’ McKechnie said with a thin smile.

‘Ghosts?’ Rebus looked from McKechnie to Taylor and back again.

‘Plenty of people perished in and around Camp 1033 during its short existence. Some from illness and natural causes, others by firing squad or other means.’

‘Other means?’ Rebus echoed.

‘Murder; poisonings...’

‘And Keith was interested in all that?’

‘Quite interested,’ Taylor agreed.

Rebus rubbed a hand along his jaw. ‘I’ve been through all his notes I can find. I think I saw mention in at least one of the books he’d bought of deaths at other camps. But nothing about Camp 1033.’

‘He even recorded some interviews, didn’t he?’ McKechnie looked to Taylor, who nodded his agreement. ‘With those who remember the camp — and before you ask, Mr Rebus, it was slightly before my time.’

Rebus managed the smile she seemed to be expecting. ‘Just so I’m clear, you mean interviews with people living right here?’

‘He also wrote to a few survivors overseas — internees who’d returned to Germany or Poland after the war.’

‘Or England or the States,’ Taylor added.

‘Filmed interviews?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Audio, I think.’ Taylor looked to McKechnie, who offered a shrug. ‘Kept on a memory stick.’

Rebus tried to remember if he’d seen any in the garage. ‘We can’t be talking about many people,’ he said.

‘And fewer all the time,’ Taylor acknowledged.

‘I know he spoke to May Collins, but he interviewed her father too?’

‘Joe Collins, yes. And Frank Hess, Stefan Novack, Helen Carter...’ Taylor’s eyes were on Joyce McKechnie again.

‘I’m pretty sure those are all that remain,’ she agreed.

‘It would be a huge help to me,’ Rebus said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, ‘if you could maybe put your heads together and write down anything you can remember about those interviews and the deaths at Camp 1033. Would that be possible?’

‘The ghosts didn’t kill him, Mr Rebus,’ McKechnie said, not unkindly.

‘I’m just trying to get a sense of who he was. I really wish I’d taken the chance while he was alive.’

‘We quite understand,’ Taylor said. ‘And we’ll do whatever we can.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet.

Samantha was in Carrie’s bedroom, packing a bag. Her eyes were red-rimmed when she looked at him.

‘Your stuff will be dry soon. Where did the clothes come from?’

‘May Collins.’

‘Her husband’s?’

‘Aye.’

‘She kept her dead husband’s clothes?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Carrie’s going to stay with Jenny.’

‘You’ve told her?’

She puffed out her cheeks and expelled air. ‘Where have you been anyway?’

‘Talking to the local history group.’

She gave him another look. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘He was found at the camp, Sammy.’

‘Please — it’s Samantha.’ She zipped shut the bag, considered for a moment. ‘Toothbrush,’ she said, squeezing past him. He followed her the few steps to the bathroom.

‘Can we talk?’

‘What about?’

‘Keith’s satchel was at the camp. Looks like whatever was in it was taken.’

‘So?’

‘You never mentioned a satchel. Or his laptop — that’s missing, too, unless you know better.’

She froze, eventually turning to face him. ‘Who the fuck am I talking to right now? I really need to know it’s my dad standing there and not just another cop who’s pulled me in for questioning.’

‘Sammy—’

‘Samantha!’ She was choking back tears as she barged past him. By the time he caught up with her, she was circling the kitchen table, looking around her wildly as if trying to locate something irretrievably lost.

‘They all think I had something to do with it,’ she blurted out. ‘Eyes on me as I walk past. Facebook and the rest ready to burn me at the stake. Your lot need fingerprints, a hair sample for DNA; they need a statement, a formal identification. And they’re just getting started.’ The fire inside her began to die back a little. ‘We’d had a row that night. Not much of one in the grand scheme of things, but your pal Creasey won’t see it like that. I’m so tired and I’m at my wits’ end and Keith’s dead and I have to keep Carrie from seeing me falling apart.’ She blinked the world back into some kind of focus. ‘Any words of wisdom, Detective Inspector?’

‘I’m here for you, Samantha.’

‘Same as you ever were, eh? Phone call twice a year if Mum and me were lucky.’ She sucked in some air and gestured towards the washer-dryer. ‘When that’s done, I want you to leave.’

‘Christ’s sake, Samantha...’

‘I mean it. I can manage. I’m going to have to.’ She wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘I heard they fixed your car, so there’s really no excuse.’

‘There’s every excuse — you’re the only family I’ve got, you and Carrie. I want to help.’

‘Then answer me this.’ Her eyes were boring into his as she approached, until their faces were inches apart. ‘Am I a suspect?’

‘The police need to be able to rule you out.’

‘And until then I’m ruled in, is that it? By you and them both?’ She shook her head slowly. Her voice when she spoke again had lost all its force. ‘Just go, Dad. Don’t be here when I get back.’ She hoisted the bag over one shoulder, paused at the door to the outside world.

‘A dead man’s clothes,’ she said, more to herself than for his benefit. And then she was gone.

He considered following her, tailing her all the way back into the village. Didn’t Carrie deserve to see him? Couldn’t Samantha be made to see sense? But instead he slumped onto one of the kitchen chairs and waited for the machine to finish its cycle.

Thirty minutes later, he walked into The Glen. The place was busy. Conversation quietened as he entered. One local was being interviewed by a journalist, a phone held up to record whatever story was being told. Rebus marched up to the bar. May Collins’ attention was on the two bags of clothes he was carrying rather than on Rebus himself. Eventually she lifted her eyes to meet his.

‘Don’t suppose this place has rooms?’ he asked.

12

A bar five minutes’ walk from the MIT base at Leith police station had become the team’s haunt of an evening. Graham Sutherland would sense that motivation was flagging or fatigue setting in and would announce that ‘The downing of tools will be replaced by the downing of beverages’. As ever, it was his debit card that paid for the first two rounds — boss’s rules. There was a corner table that seemed always to be available, supplemented by stools dragged from elsewhere in the bar. Sutherland had admitted to Siobhan Clarke that he phoned ahead and requested ‘the usual spot’.

‘Meaning a favour owed,’ Clarke had responded. ‘Careful, Graham, that’s a slippery slope.’

‘It’s not like in Rebus’s day. No trips to the back room for a bung or a bottle of Grouse.’ Not even a discount — Sutherland had checked that wasn’t happening, regardless of whose round it was.

There were six of them around the table this evening. Ronnie Ogilvie’s attention was on a TV quiz show, calling out the answers before any of the contestants. Esson and Leighton were busy on their phones, their drinks almost untouched. Fox was focused on the two bags of ridge-cut crisps that lay splayed on the table, licking his fingers after each mouthful.

‘Cheers,’ Sutherland said, hoisting his half-pint before taking a sip. Clarke had a gin and tonic with an extra bottle of tonic on the side. She thought again of Rebus’s generation, doubted many of them would have worried about being breathalysed. It wasn’t just that these were different times; it was more that Clarke and her colleagues were cut from very different cloth. There was still the occasional big night out, a release of pressure, but mostly they tended to treat the job as just that — a job. Gamble and Yeats had gone home, one to dinner cooked by his partner and the other to a regular five-a-side game. They were damned if police work was going to consume their every waking hour. Clarke looked across the table to Sutherland and wondered if that was why neither of them had managed to commit to the other, fearing their relationship would become swamped by the job and vice versa. A bit of breathing space was necessary.

Which was why she’d convinced herself to go to the author talk with Esson. They’d grab a quick bite somewhere near the venue, then switch off for a couple of hours. Turning her attention to Malcolm Fox as he washed more crisps down with a mouthful of Appletiser, she saw that his mind was elsewhere. He was pretending to be interested in the same quiz show as Ronnie Ogilvie, but only so he wouldn’t have to engage with anyone else. He was deep in thought, working things through, not perturbed exactly but filled with a nervous energy she doubted any of the others could see. He’d said nothing about his visit to Cafferty; had just got to work on his computer, going through the details of Salman bin Mahmoud’s friends and acquaintances, even phoning the Met to give them a further nudge. Walking past and pausing to listen, Sutherland had given him a pat on the shoulder by way of encouragement.

Fox shifted his eyes from the TV only when he realised his scrabbling fingers were failing to find any more crisps. Both packs were bare, save a few powdery crumbs. He saw that Clarke was watching and gave a shrug.

‘So how much was the parking at Quartermile?’ she asked. ‘Is it as dear as people say?’

‘I was in George Square,’ he told her. ‘That’s as much as my wallet will stand.’

‘Remember, all of you,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘try to keep receipts for any and all legitimate expenses and be sure to put in a claim. We’ve not gone over budget yet and I doubt we will.’

‘I could always go check out the Middle Eastern side of things if that would help,’ Esson said with a smile, without looking up from her screen.

‘The way Malcolm was pestering our friends in the Met,’ Sutherland replied, ‘I’m half expecting him to request a London trip.’

‘Probably not necessary,’ Fox stated. ‘The deceased spent most of his time down there. If someone from that part of his life had wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have met his end here.’

‘Unless they wanted to throw us off the scent,’ Ogilvie said, turning his attention from the game show’s closing titles.

‘I keep coming back to the locus,’ Fox added. ‘Why that godforsaken spot? Whose choice for a rendezvous — the victim’s or his killer’s?’

‘One thing we’ve learned — it’s been a popular stopping place in the past for drug deals and the dogging community.’

‘The dogging community?’ Esson laughed at Sutherland’s phrase.

‘Circles the victim moved in, I wouldn’t have thought he had need of either. If he wanted drugs, plenty VIP clubs and friends’ drawing rooms. And as for sex...’

‘Was he sleeping with Issy Meiklejohn, do we think?’ Esson asked her question of the table at large. ‘Only she seems tight with this Italian guy, and as they say in detective training, cherchez la femme.’

Sutherland smiled and held his hands up. ‘This was supposed to be a bit of R&R, in case you’ve forgotten. Somebody change the subject, s’il vous plaît.’

There was silence around the table. They lifted their glasses, toyed with their drinks. Tess Leighton was the first to give a sigh. ‘I’ve got nothing.’

‘Ditto,’ Ogilvie added.

After they’d all stopped grinning, Sutherland suggested another round, but Esson shook her head.

‘Me and Siobhan better get going.’ She reached down to the floor to lift her bag. ‘See you all in the office tomorrow?’

‘I might stay for one more,’ Ogilvie was telling his boss. Fox looked sceptical, and Leighton, while nodding at the offer, had gone back to texting.

Clarke followed Esson out of the bar. It was still light, and would be for a few more hours. They were halfway to the car when her phone pinged. It was a message from Graham Sutherland.

Later tonight?

She hesitated. Decided not to reply straight away. She’d have to think about it.

The talk was being held at the Usher Hall. They’d parked on Grindlay Street and managed a main course at Dine.

‘Who knew?’ Clarke said, watching the crowd of people making their way into the talk.

‘It’s a sell-out,’ Esson informed her, rummaging in her bag for their tickets.

Clarke had another message from Sutherland.

Heading back to Glasgow soon if you don’t need me for anything.

He had a key to her flat, but she knew he would never presume.

If you’re okay on your own, head to mine. Don’t know what time I’ll be back though. She was about to press send when she had a thought. Anyone sticking around the pub? Malcolm gone home?

A moment later, two texts arrived in tandem.

Thanks. I’ll wait up.

He sloped off just after you.

Clarke stared at the screen. She knew exactly where Fox had sloped off to.

‘What’s up?’ Esson asked. Clarke realised she had been studying her.

‘Ach, it’s nothing.’

‘No, it’s definitely something. Somewhere else you need to be?’

‘I can’t seem to switch off.’

‘Don’t think I hadn’t noticed. At dinner it was like talking to a wall.’

Clarke gave a tired smile. ‘I wasn’t that bad, was I?’

Esson made a shooing gesture with one hand. ‘Go. Do what you feel you need to.’

‘You sure? I’ll pay you for the ticket.’

Esson checked the time. ‘Box office will probably take it if I hurry. I think I saw a returns queue.’

‘Thanks, Christine. I really am sorry.’

Esson made the shooing gesture again and headed in the direction of the box office. With a final smile of apology, Clarke turned towards Grindlay Street, then remembered they’d come in Esson’s car. Her own was still in Leith. She looked across Lothian Road to the taxi rank outside the Sheraton. Three cabs waited there. She dodged the traffic and climbed into the back of the one at the head of the queue.

‘Where are we off to tonight?’ the driver enquired.

‘Queen Charlotte Street — the police station.’

‘Turning yourself in, eh? Hard to live with a guilty conscience.’ The driver started the engine and switched on his meter.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Clarke answered, too softly for the man to hear.

‘Evening, Malcolm,’ she said, walking into the MIT office. Fox flinched slightly.

‘Made me jump,’ he said.

Clarke had stopped by his shoulder and was reading the screen of his monitor.

‘Friends and associates,’ he explained.

Clarke nodded. ‘Nothing that couldn’t wait till morning.’ She looked around the empty office.

‘Not much waiting for me at home,’ he explained. ‘Besides, I like having this place to myself.’

‘Means nobody interferes,’ Clarke seemed to agree, easing herself onto a chair so that they were facing one another.

‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘What happened to the talk?’

‘Found I wasn’t in the mood. You had anything to eat?’

‘Shouldn’t have had those crisps.’ He patted his stomach, then watched as Clarke reached over to lift the pad he’d been scribbling on. She flipped its pages.

‘Busy boy,’ she commented. ‘You’re almost a one-man Stewart Scoular fan club.’

‘We saw him with Meiklejohn and Morelli; stands to reason he knew the deceased too. And word on the street is he’s been known to sell a bit of coke to his pals.’

Clarke gave a thin smile. ‘And who is it exactly that you know on the street, Malcolm? Always thought of you as more of a desk jockey. You’re not even Edinburgh these days.’

Fox’s face reddened. ‘Doesn’t mean I don’t have sources, Siobhan. I’m Major Crime — we rely on intel.’

‘Give me a name then.’ But Clarke held up a hand. ‘No, let me guess first. How about Morris Gerald Cafferty? Is there any chance he could have turned snitch for Major Crime and DI Malcolm Fox?’

‘Okay, you’ve had your fun.’ Fox folded his arms. ‘I assume you tailed me earlier?’

‘Did you go to him or did he come to you?’

‘A bit of both.’

‘And he handed you Stewart Scoular, just like that?’

‘More or less.’

Clarke was shaking her head. ‘Things are never that simple where Cafferty’s concerned. What’s going on, Malcolm?’

‘I really can’t tell you, Siobhan — not yet.’

‘Does it have anything to do with that trip you took to Gartcosh?’

‘Just stop.’ He held up a hand, his palm towards her.

‘Does Cafferty know something about Scoular and Salman bin Mahmoud?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So all he gave you was Scoular and a bit of coke-dealing? How does that tie in to the case we’re supposed to be working?’

A smile began to form on Malcolm Fox’s face. ‘I’m glad you asked me that.’

He signalled to the space next to him, so she sat down facing his computer screen, while he got busy with the mouse and a few keystrokes.

‘Who’d have thought the business pages of newspapers could be so enlightening,’ Fox began. ‘I was about to print out all this stuff, but in the meantime, take a look.’ He dabbed a finger against the screen. ‘Scoular’s company is involved in projects worldwide. Some years back, that included expensive apartment blocks in the Middle East. A lesson was learned along the way.’

Clarke watched as more stories appeared, this time to do with schemes in London, Toronto, Vancouver.

‘Not all of these got past the planners, but some did,’ Fox was saying.

‘The lesson being?’

‘People with money want that money to make them more money, but they also want it to be safe, and the Middle East has its risks. Salman’s father acted as a facilitator, not only sinking his own money into some of these projects but also sourcing other investors, investors who oftentimes stayed anonymous, sheltering behind company names, mostly registered offshore.’ Fox turned his head towards Clarke. ‘But with Salman’s father out of the picture...’

‘You think Salman took over the business? I don’t recall any of our searches flagging his name up.’

‘Agreed, but take a gander at this.’ A few more clicks, another story from the business pages; a single paragraph, easy to overlook. While Clarke read, Fox provided commentary.

‘Scoular’s firm, with an injection of Saudi money, is pitching to build a golf resort up north, on land owned by Lord Strathy.’

‘Lord Strathy being...?’

Another click, and Lord Strathy’s biography appeared, along with a photo of him in his ermine robes, roseate with privilege.

‘His name’s Ramsay Meiklejohn,’ Fox said. ‘He’s Issy Meiklejohn’s father.’ One further click produced a map of the north of Scotland. ‘The area in blue is everything he owns.’

‘That’s a lot of land.’ Clarke pointed to one coastal dot and then another. ‘Doesn’t quite cover Tongue and Thurso...’

‘Not too far off either, though. The ancestral home is halfway between the two, just along the road from Dounreay.’

The next photo was of a castle.

‘It’s not actually that old,’ Fox commented. ‘Mid nineteenth century. The style is Scots Baronial revived, hence the Disneyland turrets.’

‘Christ, Malcolm, when you dig, you dig deep.’ Clarke glanced at him. ‘Doesn’t require you to look so smug, though.’

‘But you have to admit, it’s starting to connect: Scoular in bed with Lord Strathy; funding from the Middle East; the victim and Isabella Meiklejohn...’

‘Getting us no closer to why someone might want Salman dead.’

‘Except,’ Fox said, ‘for this...’ A fresh page opened on the screen. ‘The same consortium had wanted to build a spaceport near Tongue. That fell through, partly from local concerns, but mostly because the money didn’t come together. Same problems seem to be besetting the golf resort plan. And it’s not like there haven’t been costs. With Ahmad bin Mahmoud under house arrest, his financial dealings limited, his son would be the one under pressure to cough up. Pressure in all likelihood applied by the likes of Stewart Scoular and Ramsay Meiklejohn.’

‘Any actual evidence of that happening?’

Fox’s face fell slightly. ‘I’ve contacted a couple of business journalists but not heard back yet.’

‘You’ve been talking to the press?’ Clarke was giving him a hard stare.

‘Only by email, carefully worded.’

‘Nevertheless, probably not the wisest move.’ Clarke scratched her forehead.

‘I don’t see anyone else around here pushing the case forward, Siobhan.’

‘You’re doing Cafferty’s bidding, Malcolm. He’s the one who kick-started this. Don’t you think that should give us pause?’

Fox was shaking his head. ‘If you ask me, Cafferty thought all we’d find was maybe Scoular giving or selling the odd bit of white powder to his mates. Probably doesn’t like that because it’s robbing him of prospective customers.’ He gestured towards the screen. ‘This goes way beyond that, and I’m the one who joined the dots. At the very least, it’s worth taking to the boss, no?’

‘Sure. But you sound like you’re thinking beyond “very least”.’ She studied him. ‘A wee chat with Stewart Scoular maybe?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Before taking it upstairs?’

Fox shrugged. ‘No time like the present, that’s what they say.’ He wasn’t quite smirking.

‘You’ve already arranged it?’ Clarke guessed.

He checked his watch. ‘Want to tag along?’

‘Now?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘At his office?’

He shook his head. ‘His home. This being a murder inquiry, I told him time was of the essence.’

‘What else did you say?’

‘That we were interviewing anyone who might have known the deceased, and his name had cropped up.’

‘He admitted knowing Salman?’

Fox was nodding while manoeuvring his arms into his jacket. ‘I might be a desk jockey, Siobhan,’ he said, patting a corner of the table, ‘but sometimes I ride a winner.’

Clarke wasn’t entirely convinced of that, but she followed him out of the office in any case.

What else was she going to do?

13

Stewart Scoular’s home was part of a Georgian terrace overlooking the Water of Leith in Stockbridge. There were two buzzers next to the front door, one marked ‘Office’ and the other left blank. Fox pressed the blank button. A few moments later, a voice crackled through the intercom. ‘In you come then.’

They pushed open the door and entered a cramped vestibule with two doors off, one of which swung open. Scoular wore an open-necked pale pink shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His feet were bare, Clarke noticed. No rings on either of his hands, no wristwatch or other jewellery. His hair was sandy-coloured and recently barbered, his face lightly freckled, teeth gleaming.

‘I see you brought backup,’ he said with a chuckle.

‘This is my colleague DI Clarke,’ Fox stated. ‘We appreciate you seeing us at this time of night.’

Scoular waved the formalities aside and led them into a large drawing room with high ceiling, ornate cornicing and sanded wooden floor.

‘Lovely place,’ Fox said, sounding as if he meant it. The furnishings looked expensive, but the room had an under-used feel to it. Clarke got the notion there would be a version of the man-cave elsewhere, boasting a big TV and all the accoutrements. The drawing room had no shelves and precious few knick-knacks. No books, magazines or family photos.

‘You live here on your own?’ she asked.

‘Not every night,’ Scoular said with another chuckle. ‘Can I offer either of you a drink?’

‘That’s kind of you, but no thanks.’ Fox had lowered himself onto the leather sofa. It had chrome fittings that would attract fingerprints, not that Clarke could see any. It was either brand new or its owner employed a meticulous cleaner. ‘We won’t keep you,’ Fox was saying, shifting a little to make room for Clarke. ‘Just a few questions to clarify how well you knew Salman bin Mahmoud.’

Scoular sat down on the sofa’s matching chair and crossed his legs so that his right foot rested on his left knee. Clarke felt he was trying just a bit too hard to appear relaxed and unconcerned. He angled his head upwards as if to aid his thinking.

‘I honestly doubt I’d met him more than ten or twelve times. At parties mostly.’

‘Including ones he hosted?’

‘Once, certainly.’

‘He lived a five- or ten-minute walk from here?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And Giovanni Morelli is even closer?’

‘Five tops. I’d say I know Gio slightly better than I knew Sal.’

‘People called him Sal?’

‘Some of us did.’ Scoular had gripped his exposed toes in one hand and seemed to be massaging them.

‘Hurt your foot?’ Clarke interrupted.

‘No.’ He seemed to realise what he’d been doing. ‘Sorry.’ He placed the foot back on the floor. ‘Touch of cramp earlier, after my run.’

It didn’t surprise Clarke that he ran. Probably had a home gym, too. He was lean and lightly tanned, almost certainly attractive to a certain type of woman. She imagined him pitching one of his projects to a room filled with people who envied his looks and self-confidence. They would see him as a maverick, too, expelled from his political party for being just a bit too edgy.

‘I should have asked,’ he was saying, ‘whether you’re making progress with your investigation.’

‘We’re moving forward,’ Fox assured him — a meaningless phrase, but one Scoular was happy to accept.

‘When I was an MSP, I had a strong interest in crime and justice. Struck me Police Scotland was underfunded and still doing a hell of a job.’

‘We try not to complain,’ Clarke said.

‘Turning back to Mr bin Mahmoud,’ Fox interrupted, ‘you met him socially a few times, but was that the extent of your relationship?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Ever visit him in London?’

‘No.’

‘But business takes you there?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Your business being...?’

‘Property developing — commercial mostly. Hotels and the like. Plenty of land in Edinburgh we could be doing more with.’

‘To maximise profit, you mean?’

‘To maximise potential. It’s not always about the money.’

‘Added amenities, quality of life?’

Scoular’s eyes were probing, wondering if Clarke was being sarcastic. ‘Correct,’ he said tonelessly.

‘We’ve established that you knew Mr bin Mahmoud and you know Mr Morelli,’ Fox said, ‘so you probably also know Lady Isabella Meiklejohn?’

‘Yes, I know Issy.’

‘Is there anyone else in Mr bin Mahmoud’s circle we should be talking to?’

Scoular thought for a moment. ‘Issy and Gio are the ones to ask. As I say, I was hardly Sal’s closest confidant...’

‘So in your opinion, who was?’

‘Issy probably.’

‘They were an item?’

‘You’d have to ask her. I never got the impression sex was Sal’s thing.’

‘So what was his “thing”, do you think?’

‘He liked clubbing. He liked wearing good clothes, driving nice cars, travelling...’

‘All paid for by his father?’

‘Unless he was doing bar work on the sly.’

Fox just about managed to return Scoular’s smile. ‘Ever had any dealings with Salman’s father?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘But you have done business in the Middle East?’

‘Not for some time and never with him.’ Scoular slapped his palms against his thighs as if readying to get to his feet. ‘That’s us pretty much done, don’t you think?’

‘Did Mr bin Mahmoud have any enemies, any sign of trouble in his life?’

‘No.’

‘And the last time you saw him...?’

‘At some club or other, I’d guess.’

‘The Jenever perhaps?’ Scoular stared at Clarke without answering. ‘We were told it’s one of your haunts.’

‘I’d hardly call it that. I might drop by a couple of times a month.’

‘You’ll know of its proprietor, though — man called Cafferty?’

‘Remember me saying I took an interest in crime and justice?’

‘So you do know Cafferty?’

‘Only by reputation.’

‘But despite that reputation, you’re happy to add to his profits?’

Scoular looked from Clarke to Fox and back again. ‘I’m not sure where this is heading.’

It was Fox who answered. ‘We’re just trying to paint as complete a picture as we can of Mr bin Mahmoud, his history, his lifestyle.’

‘He was fun to be around, the classic playboy, I suppose. There might be jealousy of that in some quarters, but to know him was to like him.’ This time Scoular did get to his feet, making show of stretching his calf muscles.

‘One last thing,’ Fox said, rising from the sofa. ‘Any idea what he was doing out by Seafield?’

‘I did wonder about that.’

‘And?’

‘Only connection I can think of is that we played golf out that way once.’

‘He was a golfer?’

‘Not much of one, no, but Sean Connery is. Sal always wanted to emulate his hero.’

‘Just the two of you, was it?’

‘Gio was there too. Not much better a player, though he definitely dressed the part. You know that scene in the film MASH? The pros from Dover — that’s who they reminded me of.’

‘You probably don’t laugh at them to their face, though?’ Clarke enquired. ‘Not when you need them opening their chequebooks for one of your projects.’

Scoular gave her a scornful look. ‘No chequebooks these days, Inspector. Strictly electronic. And I pride myself on never losing a single cent for any of my investors.’

‘The golf course up north?’ Fox added. ‘The one on land owned by Issy Meiklejohn’s father?’

‘What of it?’

‘With Mr bin Mahmoud dead, won’t funding be rather more problematic? Or had he already decided not to add any more to the pot?’

‘I think I’ve said all I’m going to.’ Scoular walked to the door and held it open. Clarke took her time getting to her feet, her eyes meeting his all the way to the threshold.

‘Thanks again for your time,’ she commented. Then, gesturing towards his bare feet: ‘Watch you don’t get chilblains...’

‘Interesting, no?’ Fox said once they were back on the pavement.

‘We certainly got him rattled.’

‘You reckon he’s holding back?’

Clarke nodded. ‘Same as you do. Question is: what do we do about it?’

‘There are forensic accountants at Gartcosh. I might offer it to them.’

Clarke was thoughtful for a moment. ‘For someone accused of racism, he has a demonstrably international taste in friends.’

‘As long as they’re rich and not Jewish.’

‘What about the golf course angle? The one near where bin Mahmoud was killed?’

‘You reckon there’s anything there?’

‘I’ve no idea, Malcolm.’ She checked the time on her phone.

‘Walkies for Brillo?’

‘Poor wee sod’s been waiting long enough. You coming along, or do you need to report back to Cafferty?’ She watched him start to scowl. ‘I’m just teasing,’ she said.

‘I don’t think you are,’ he answered, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning away.

‘You’ve nothing to apologise for,’ Clarke told herself in an undertone. ‘You’re not the one caught between a gangster and Special Branch...’

Cafferty was at his usual banquette on the mezzanine level at the Jenever Club, nursing his usual lemonade, when Benny called with news.

‘Might have something, boss. Good shout on Moredun. This guy lives just off Moredunvale Road, runs the local gang there. Not unknown to the cops.’

Cafferty took a sip of his drink. ‘A name would be nice, Benjamin.’

‘Cole Burnett.’

‘Like the stuff we used to mine?’

Benny spelled it for him.

‘Never heard of him,’ Cafferty admitted, more to himself than to his employee.

‘Want me to haul him in?’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Not yet. Got his address, though.’

‘And what makes you so sure he’s our guy?’

‘He has a taste for nicking phones. A shove and a kick and he’s off.’

‘Who does he sell them to?’ Cafferty listened to the silence as Benny tried to work out how best to tell him he had no idea. ‘Doesn’t matter. But yes, I want him hauled in. Maybe to the club, though let’s wait till it’s shut. Not much noise escapes the cellars — you could have the Hulk wired up to the mains and no one on the street outside would know.’

‘Car battery does the job just as well,’ Benny commented.

‘You’d know more about that than I would,’ Cafferty said, though both of them knew that wasn’t strictly true.

14

It was gone midnight by the time May Collins ushered the final customers out. She had been joined for the evening shift by a barman called Cameron. He was in his twenties and lived in a caravan behind the pub, which he shared with his tattoos and facial piercings.

‘The room you’re in is his by rights,’ Collins had explained to Rebus, ‘but he’d rather be where he is.’

Rebus helped clear the tables of glasses and other detritus, while Collins stacked stools and chairs and Cameron loaded the glasswasher.

‘Leave the floor till morning,’ Collins suggested.

‘Busiest we’ve been in a while.’ Cameron didn’t sound displeased. There had been no hassle, no rowdiness. The pub had become a community hub, inquisitive journalists given short shrift. Two of the journalists had been around the last drinkers to leave — one from Inverness, one from Aberdeen. The one from Inverness had approached Rebus at one point to tell him: ‘Laura Smith says hello and that you should call her back.’ To which Rebus had responded with a few choice words of his own, causing the reporter to retreat, spending the rest of the evening in a huddle with his fellow newshound.

There had been toasts to Keith’s memory and reminiscences from those who’d known him, but behind it all lay the vast whispered question: did they have a murderer in their midst? Rebus had eavesdropped on a few suggestions. It was travellers, strangers, immigrants. Hadn’t there been a murder in Thurso a couple of years back, the culprit never caught? And hadn’t that been caused by a blow to the skull too? Necessary stories, he knew — an attempt to deflect rather than explain the reality of the situation. One wilder theory saw a poltergeist placed squarely in the frame.

‘I’ve seen strange things out that way,’ the proposer had told his rapt audience. ‘Lights, sounds, shadows moving behind the main fence...’

Catching Rebus’s eye, Collins had shaken her head slowly.

He’d spent the evening nursing a single pint, which, once flat, he’d switched for a whisky, adding plenty of water.

‘Sorry not to be putting more into the coffers,’ he’d apologised, handing a five-pound note across the bar.

‘We’re doing grand without you,’ Collins had replied.

She opened the till now and scooped notes and coins into a bag. ‘Just going to put this in the safe,’ she told Cameron, disappearing through a doorway.

Cameron was behind the bar again, pouring himself a cider, everything done that needed doing. Rebus studied the gantry. Among the bottles sat a coat of arms, a few faded postcards from overseas, a fake twenty-pound note, examples of various foreign currencies, and a few snaps taken in the bar down the years.

‘That’s May’s dad,’ Cameron said, tapping one of the photos. ‘Used to run this place until it got too much for him. Long before my time, mind.’

‘Does he still come in?’

The barman shook his head. ‘I think the place holds too many memories. Good ones, I mean, but he’s a shadow of himself these days.’

‘I know the feeling.’

Cameron managed a wry smile. ‘You’re staying the night here, eh?’

‘Samantha needs a bit of space.’

‘Understandable, I suppose.’ He had finished the cider in a few hefty gulps. ‘That’s me then.’ He lifted his denim jacket from a hook.

‘Did you have much to do with Keith?’

‘Served him a few drinks now and then.’

Rebus’s eyes were on the gantry again. ‘What used to be there?’ He nodded towards a triangular arrangement of thin nails.

‘Believe it or not, a revolver.’ Cameron pointed to each nail in turn. ‘Barrel rested on that, trigger guard on that, grip on that. Think it belonged to Mr Collins, but I’m not sure. Rusted all to hell.’

‘What happened to it?’

The barman gave a shrug. ‘May tossed it, I guess. Not every drinker wants a gun staring at them while they try to cheer themselves up.’

‘And it just sat there?’

‘May might’ve got it down a few times — just for a joke at chucking-out time. Seemed to do the trick.’

‘I’m sure it did,’ Rebus said.

Cameron was giving the bar a final look-over. ‘Probably see you in the morning, then. May does us bacon rolls before we get the place ready for opening. Wonder if we’ll be as busy.’

‘The media circus will move on,’ Rebus stated.

‘Hopefully not for a day or two, though.’ Cameron gave a wave as he disappeared through the doorway, just as May Collins came back. She tucked a loose strand of hair back behind one ear.

‘A nightcap, I think,’ she said, placing a glass under one of the whisky optics. ‘I’m hoping you’ll join me.’

‘I shouldn’t.’

‘Not planning on driving anywhere, are you?’

‘It’s a health thing. I’ve got COPD.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Ach, go on then.’

They sat side by side on two of the high stools, clinked glasses before sipping. The silence settled around them, broken only by the hum of the glasswasher and the occasional voice outside.

‘She’ll come round, you know,’ Collins said eventually. ‘Samantha, I mean.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re her dad — I doubt she can stay mad at you. But right now she needs someone to blame, and you’re it.’

‘Should I be lying on a couch or something?’ Rebus said, remembering that Samantha had had a similar question for Robin Creasey.

‘Doesn’t take a psychologist, just someone who’s had plenty fallings-out with their own dad.’

‘Cameron told me your dad used to run this place.’

‘In later years, yes. His first wife died and he married my mum — Betsy, her name was. He found it harder and harder after Mum died.’

‘So you stepped in?’

‘With my husband Billy. Then he got the cancer and that was that.’ She took in her surroundings. ‘Not sure this was ever what I really wanted, but it was here and Dad needed me.’

‘Pretty sure I’m not what Samantha needs.’

‘Maybe not now, but...’

‘Thing is, May, I always enjoyed my job too much. My wife used to say it was like I was having an affair — staying out late, not home most weekends. And even when I did go home, the cases would still be in here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘And it wasn’t as if I could share any of it. No way I was going to introduce Rhona and Sammy to that world.’

‘Maybe that was your mistake then — they didn’t need a knight protecting them; Rhona needed a husband and Samantha a father, end of.’ She drained her glass and went for a refill, Rebus declining the offer. He watched her at her chosen optic.

‘Cameron was telling me about the gun,’ Rebus said.

‘Oh aye?’

‘You got rid of it?’

‘Not quite.’ She settled on her stool again. ‘It went walkies.’

‘Someone stole it?’

Collins shrugged. ‘At first I thought Dad must have it, but he didn’t. It’s rusted to buggery, though, so there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘But you reported it?’

‘It’ll turn up. Soon as one of the kids starts waving it about, I’ll know.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Month or so.’

‘What does your dad think?’

She took a sip before answering. ‘He’s surprised I hung onto it as long as I did.’

‘It dates back to the war?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘But your dad was a POW, right.’

‘He was an internee, yes.’

‘So he wouldn’t have had a gun.’

‘He found it washed ashore sometime in the fifties, so the story goes.’ She put her glass down. ‘What’s this about, John?’

‘Keith was passionate about Camp 1033. He’d even slept there a few nights. Whoever killed him probably took the contents of his satchel — meaning his research. I’m told he interviewed your father as well as you and a few other survivors, but there’s no sign of any of that among the stuff in his garage.’

Collins considered this. ‘You want to talk to Dad?’

‘And the others, if possible.’

‘I could invite them round.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘Phone them in the morning, see if it can happen before opening time. What do you say?’

‘I say thank you.’

‘You really think it’ll help?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Will the police want to talk to them too?’

‘If they’re being thorough.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘Creasey seems competent enough, but I know how these things work — they won’t all be like him.’

‘Well, we’ll see what happens tomorrow. For tonight, I’m just glad I’ve got a knight staying under my roof.’

‘Despite his creaking armour?’

‘Not forgetting his clapped-out steed.’ Collins couldn’t hide the fatigue as she slid off the stool. ‘Let’s put the lights out and head up.’

‘You probably knew Keith a lot better than I did. In truth, I hardly knew him at all. What was he like?’

‘He was quiet, but he had personality. Everyone loved him, and you could see he doted on Carrie.’

‘When Samantha started seeing Jess Hawkins, that must have hurt. Do you really think they patched things up? Properly, I mean?’

‘They seemed all right.’ Collins considered for a moment. ‘I suppose we all tiptoed around it.’

‘There was never any reckoning between Keith and Hawkins?’

‘Maybe some words, but not blows as far as I know.’

‘Samantha told me they only met the once. Sounded like that was well before the falling-out.’

‘Maybe I’m wrong then.’

‘You know he found out about Hawkins from an anonymous note — any thoughts on who would do something like that?’

‘I don’t like the idea that anybody would do that.’ She made eye contact with Rebus. ‘If you’re asking me whether Keith might have bottled his feelings up — it’s entirely possible. I’m sure it rankled that the whole village knew. Must have gnawed away at him, wondering why none of them had said anything. He was definitely a bit more withdrawn afterwards.’

‘And putting all his efforts into Camp 1033...’ Rebus’s phone alerted him to an incoming text.

‘Samantha?’ Collins enquired.

‘Edinburgh,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘I might just phone back before I head upstairs.’ He thought of something. ‘Actually, can I use the computer in the office?’ John Neilson had come good a couple of hours back, mailing various links to internet sites. Rebus had checked his emails on his phone and found Neilson’s message there. But if he was going to read screeds, he wanted a decent-sized screen.

Collins was nodding her agreement. ‘I’m setting the alarm, though, so don’t go wandering too far. See you in the morning.’

‘Bacon rolls, I hear.’

‘Night, John.’

Rebus walked over to one of the windows. The glass was frosted, so he couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t completely dark out, despite the hour. He knew they would pay for it come the short winter days, though. No more voices, just a solitary car cruising past. He texted Clarke — Okay to speak? — and when she answered in the affirmative, he made the call.

‘We’re a couple of night owls,’ he said. ‘Everything okay with Brillo?’

‘He’s here in the flat with me.’

‘Your flat?’

‘My flat. How’s it all going?’

‘Keith was killed.’

‘I saw online, but the story was vague.’

‘Whacked with a blunt object, not yet identified. The forces of law and order are grinding into action. Samantha’s in a state, as you can imagine. Carrie’s gone to stay at a friend’s.’

‘Did he have any family?’

‘A sister in Canada — I wonder if Sammy will remember to let her know.’

‘No obvious suspects as yet?’

‘No,’ Rebus admitted.

‘So you’re rolling up your sleeves?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘You’ve a pretty full schedule then?’

Rebus paused, taking in her tone of voice. ‘What is it, Siobhan?’

‘A tenuous connection between my victim and where you are right now.’

He listened as she explained about Stewart Scoular, the bin Mahmoud family, the golf course scheme, Isabella Meiklejohn and Lord Strathy.

‘Not the first time I’ve heard his name,’ he commented when Strathy was mentioned. ‘Want me to do a bit of digging?’

‘Not especially...’

He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yet here you are calling me in the middle of the night to tell me all about it. I can see through you like a freshly cleaned window, DI Clarke.’

‘It would have to be kept off the books, John.’

‘Naturally.’

‘And if you find anything the least bit relevant...’

‘I bring it to you straight away.’

‘You’re sure you’ve got time for this? I know Samantha’s need is a lot greater than mine.’

‘Leave it with me, Siobhan, I’ll see what I can do. Now get yourself tucked into bed and tell Brillo I’m missing him.’

‘Will do, John. And thanks.’

‘Speak soon.’

Rebus ended the call and tapped his phone against his chin as he walked through the open bar flap. The light switches were next to where the missing gun had been displayed. He stared at the nails for a moment before plunging the bar into darkness and heading for the office.

Three hours later he lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring towards the ceiling. It would be light again in a couple of hours. He reckoned he knew now why Keith had been so interested in Camp 1033. It was to do with how people were treated during the Second World War. Neighbours were locked up just because they had been born outside the UK. People began to distrust their bakers, grocers and restaurant owners. The Isle of Man had for a time become one huge internment camp, as had the Isle of Bute. ‘Collar the lot,’ Churchill had said, after which it became a free-for-all, everyone of foreign extraction considered a potential fifth columnist, the situation exacerbated when Sikorski, who led the thousands of Polish troops stationed in the UK, began locking up people who disagreed with his politics. Keith had written several long pieces, which Rebus had found filed in the garage along with various rejection letters from magazines and newspapers. His anger at the injustice shone through — perhaps too baldly. In one article, he compared the attitude then to what he saw happening in the here and now. The piece had been called ‘The Never-Ending Witch Hunt’.

‘Looks like you were one of the good guys,’ Rebus whispered to the night.

So why had he been fated to die at someone else’s hands?