A Song for the Dark Times

15

At 7.30 a.m., Rebus stood outside the bungalow, the wind stinging his face. The door was locked, no sign of life within. Samantha must already have left; she’d be picking up Carrie from her friend’s house. He realised he didn’t know where that was. As he was heading back to the Saab, a marked patrol car drew up, blocking him in. The sole occupant got out. He was in uniform and knew better than to bother with headwear of any kind — he wasn’t about to let the swirling gusts have their fun.

‘You John Rebus?’

‘Depends.’

‘It’s just that you look more like a tramp than an ex-cop. DS Creasey sent me to get your prints.’

‘Right.’

‘So if you’ll step into my office...’

By which he meant the patrol car’s passenger seat. The fingerprint kit was in the back. The uniform fetched it and got to work.

‘You’re taking my daughter’s, too?’ Rebus asked.

‘It’s all in hand, sir.’ The man smiled at what he probably thought of as his little joke.

Job done, the prints sealed in a clear polythene bag tagged with Rebus’s name and date of birth, the officer dismissed him with a gesture and got busy on his official-issue radio.

‘Nice doing business with you,’ Rebus muttered, crouching to wipe his fingertips on the grass and watching as the patrol car reversed out onto the main road, heading to its next destination.

The Saab still didn’t sound too healthy, but it started and its wheels turned when Rebus asked them to. Slowly he drove to the primary school. Parents were arriving with their offspring, heads angled into the unceasing wind. Rebus got out of the car and stood by the gates. Many of the parents seemed to know who he was, gave him a wary greeting or just stared at him as they passed. Eventually he saw Carrie. She was holding hands with a girl the same age as her. He couldn’t think what to say, so said nothing. The woman with them ushered the girls through the gates, a peck on the top of the head for each, before turning to face him, folding her arms.

‘I’m Samantha’s dad,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘How’s Carrie?’

‘The girl’s not daft — she knows something’s happened.’

‘Samantha hasn’t told her?’

‘She’s tried.’ The woman watched the two girls skip across the playground, backpacks swinging. ‘And before you ask, I offered to keep Carrie off school today, but Sam wants things as normal as possible. She knows she’s asking the impossible, but who am I to deny her?’

‘You call her Sam?’ Rebus commented with the beginnings of a smile. ‘I’m only allowed to use “Samantha”. I was hoping to talk to her...’

‘Police have taken her to Thurso. They need her to identify the body, though you wouldn’t have thought that was necessary. I said if she waited I’d go with her, but she was adamant.’

‘How long ago was this?’ The fingerprint cop had almost certainly known, but hadn’t said anything. Samantha would have her prints taken either before or after the identification. Christ...

‘They were at the door first thing.’ The woman paused. ‘I can see from your face you think you should be there. Trust me, I told her the same.’

‘She was adamant?’ Rebus guessed.

The woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Julie Harris, by the way.’ Rebus gripped it. ‘Jenny’s mum.’ Her accent sounded local.

‘Thanks for all the help you’re giving Sam and Carrie. And if you could keep putting a word in on my behalf...’

‘She’s got a lot to process, you need to understand that. Right now, you’re collateral damage.’ Harris saw the look he was giving her. ‘I’m a nurse. Used to work in A&E before Jenny came along and I decided to be a full-time mother instead.’ She paused again. ‘You’re going to go haring off to Thurso now, aren’t you, try and get her to let you help?’

‘I’m that transparent?’

‘No, you’re just a lot like your daughter, Mr Rebus. It’s worth bearing that in mind.’

Leaving Naver, heading east, the road widened to two lanes. Rebus caught glimpses of distant inland wind farms and, to his left, occasional apparently inaccessible bays and beaches, hemmed by steep cliffs. Eventually he spotted the bulbous form of Dounreay’s reactor, the same reactor Keith had been busy helping decommission. The large car park was filling with workers’ vehicles. He realised he didn’t know what specific role Keith had played. He wasn’t management, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t skilled. Quite the opposite, in Rebus’s experience.

He had the compilation CD playing softly; recognised The Clash and Jethro Tull but not the three songs that followed. As he hit the outskirts of Thurso, he saw land beyond the water to the north. Orkney, he guessed. The signpost to the ferry at Scrabster hadn’t been too far back along the road. Samantha and Keith had taken Carrie there a few times, Samantha rhapsodising about the place in phone calls afterwards.

‘You didn’t even let her know you were moving,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Your own bloody daughter...’

There was a road sign pointing in the direction of the hospital, which was where he assumed the mortuary would be. He’d considered calling Deborah Quant to see if she could pass word on to whichever pathologist was going to be in attendance, make sure Rebus was allowed past the door. But that would have entailed a bit of explaining — and probably a warning about not overtaxing himself. So instead he planned to wing it. Why break the habit of a lifetime?

Having stopped behind a line of kerbside cars to allow traffic past in the opposite direction, he decided to wind down the window and get some air. That was when he noticed that one of the parade of vehicles was a patrol car. A patrol car with Samantha in the back, looking pale and shaken. He called out, but to no effect. Cursing, he waited until the traffic had cleared, an eager local motorist so close behind that his front grille was almost kissing the Saab’s boot. Having passed the stationary vehicles, Rebus signalled and pulled over, waiting for the road to clear so he could do a three-point turn. Nothing for it but to follow Samantha back to Naver.

But then he remembered passing the village of Strathy, probably halfway between Naver and Thurso. He dug his phone out of his pocket and looked up Lord Strathy, aka Ramsay Augustus Ranald Meiklejohn. The range of photos he found showed a man every bit as fleshed-out as his name. Hair almost non-existent; face the colour of a poppy field in bloom. In one picture he was in full hunting gear, atop his horse and surrounded by eager-looking hounds. Another had been taken in front of Strathy Castle. The building was the full bagpipe-baronial, with turrets and a plethora of crowstep gables. Rebus’s phone was soon showing him a map of the castle’s whereabouts, a couple of miles inland from the village.

‘Don’t say I’m not good to you, Siobhan,’ he said to himself as he drove, turning up the volume on the CD player.

The patrol car must have been doing a lick, because he had failed to catch up with it by the time he reached Strathy. There was no sign in the village directing him towards the castle, but then again, there was just the one narrow road off to the left, heading away from the coast. He took it, the lane narrowing, fields to either side. Potholes filled with rainwater added to the fun, Rebus slowing to steer the Saab past as many of them as he could, while the engine whined and wheezed. An imposing gateway came into view, stone posts topped by statues, the ornate wrought-iron gates closed. A weathered wooden sign at ground level warned that what lay beyond was PRIVATE.

Rebus got out of the Saab and approached the gates. Looking up, he saw that the statues represented a lion and a unicorn, holding shields in front of them. Both had been eroded by the elements down the years.

‘You and me both, guys,’ he said, pushing at the gates, feeling them give. When they stood gaping, he got back into the Saab and continued up the drive.

The castle appeared around a long curve. There was a gravelled parking area between the front door and a lawn with an out-of-commission fountain as its centrepiece. Not another dwelling for miles, the views expansive, but precious little protection from the prevailing weather. No trees, no hedges.

As Rebus parked, the heavy wooden door opened. A woman stood there, hands pressed together, almost as if in prayer. He studied her as he approached. Mid fifties, hair tied back in a bun, plain grey skirt with matching cardigan and blouse. Though he’d not met many, he was reminded of a type of nun.

‘Can I help you?’ she was asking.

‘I hope so. I was looking to speak to Lord Strathy if he’s about.’

Any trace of affability her face had carried now evaporated. ‘He’s not.’

‘That’s a pity. I’ve come all the way from Edinburgh...’

‘Without an appointment?’ She sounded incredulous at such a course of action.

‘We don’t often need them.’ Rebus slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘You’ve heard about the murder of the Saudi student?’

He got the impression that if she’d been wearing pearls, she might have clutched at them. As it was, she merely squeezed one hand beneath the other, as though wringing a dishcloth.

‘You’re with the police?’ Rebus said nothing, content to let her think what she would. ‘Has something happened to...?’ She broke off. ‘You better come in, please.’

‘Thank you.’

The hallway was everything he’d assumed it would be: stags’ heads on the walls; Barbour jackets on a row of pegs, below which sat an array of green rubber boots; a preponderance of dark wood and a brown, fibrous floor covering.

‘Tea?’ she was asking.

‘Lovely,’ Rebus said.

‘Would you like to wait in the morning room?’

‘The kitchen will be fine. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name...’

‘I’m Mrs Belkin. Jean Belkin.’

‘My name’s Fox,’ Rebus told her.

He’d been expecting the kitchen to be below stairs and he was not disappointed. They left the entrance hall behind and entered a narrow unadorned corridor, then down a flight of winding stone stairs to another corridor. The large kitchen had last been modernised in the 1960s, he guessed, and the Aga looked even older. He warmed his hands next to it while Belkin filled the electric kettle. She guessed what he was thinking.

‘Hob takes forever,’ she said, flipping the switch.

‘You’re here on your own, Mrs Belkin?’

‘If I had been, I’d not have let you over the threshold, not without seeing some ID.’

Rebus made show of patting his jacket pocket. ‘In the car,’ he apologised.

‘No matter, my husband Colin’s not far away. He’s gardener, handyman and whatever else the place needs.’ She was fetching mugs and teapot, milk and sugar. ‘A biscuit?’

‘Not for me.’

‘You’ve really come all the way from Edinburgh?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have you heard about our murder? It’s getting so nowhere is safe.’

‘Young man along by Naver?’ Rebus nodded. ‘A bad business.’

‘This world of ours is coming apart at the seams.’ She shook her head in bewilderment.

‘Hard to disagree.’

He watched her as she took her time deciding how to frame her next question.

‘Is it because of Lady Isabella, Inspector?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘She knew the Saudi gentleman — brought him here on a couple of occasions.’

‘Is that so?’

‘But she doesn’t come home very often, prefers the bright lights and what have you.’

‘This is more to do with Lady Isabella’s father. We’ve information that he might have been conducting some business with the deceased.’

‘What sort of business?’ She poured water from the kettle into the teapot. Her hand was steady as she concentrated on the task.

‘Does Lord Strathy have an office — a PA or secretary?’

‘In London, yes. Most of his business dealings are focused there.’

‘Is that where he is just now?’

A sudden flush came into Belkin’s cheeks. ‘We’re not quite sure where he is, that’s the truth of it.’

There was a sound behind them. The door to the outside world rattled open and a heavy-set, unshaven man stood there, eyes wary as they landed on Rebus.

‘Colin, this is Mr Fox, a detective from Edinburgh,’ Belkin began to explain.

‘Oh aye?’ He didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘Bit long in the tooth, aren’t you?’

‘I’m younger than I look.’

‘Bloody well have to be.’ The gardener went to the sink, rinsing his hands and drying them on a towel his wife handed him. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘The young Saudi,’ his wife informed him, as she filled another mug, ‘the one who came here...’

‘What of him?’

Rebus took a step forward. ‘We’re looking into any business dealings he might have had, and your employer’s name came up.’

Colin Belkin took a slurp of tea. ‘And how the hell would we know anything about that?’

‘It was Lord Strathy I came to see — your wife’s just been telling me he seems to have disappeared.’

‘Christ’s sake, just because a man takes a bit of time to himself,’ the gardener growled.

‘Is that what he’s done?’

‘Stands to reason.’ Belkin thumped the mug down onto the large wooden table. Then, to his wife: ‘Remember that business two years back? The reporter who said he wasn’t a reporter?’

‘What business?’ Rebus asked.

But the gardener had stretched a hand out towards him, palm up. ‘Let me see some ID.’

‘He told me he left it in the car,’ Jean Belkin said.

‘Then we’ll go to the car and check it out. Against the law to tell people you’re the police when you’re not.’

‘I can give you a number to call,’ Rebus countered. ‘You can ask for DI Malcolm Fox.’

Belkin dug a phone from his back pocket. ‘Let’s do that then.’

Rebus turned his attention to Jean Belkin. ‘What business?’ he asked her again, but she wasn’t about to answer.

‘Door’s there,’ her husband said with a gesture, ‘unless you want to give me that number...’

Rebus debated for a moment. ‘You’ll be hearing from us again,’ he said.

Colin Belkin was turning the door handle, still with his phone in his other hand. With a final glare at husband and wife, Rebus made his exit, rounding the property and climbing a sloping path back to where his Saab stood waiting.

At the end of the driveway, he left the gates gaping — it wasn’t much by way of payback, but what else did he have? — and pulled into a passing place. He switched on his phone, but found he had no signal. Had the gardener been bluffing then? It was entirely possible. He heard running footsteps, but too late to do anything about them. The driver’s-side door was hauled open and Colin Belkin grabbed a fistful of his lapel, teeth bared.

‘You’re no bloody copper, so who the hell are you?’

Rebus was trying to undo his seat belt with one hand while he wrestled Belkin’s vice-like grip with the other. The man was shaking him like a rag doll.

‘You keep your nose out of honest people’s business!’ Belkin barked. ‘Or you get this.’ He brandished a clenched fist an inch from Rebus’s face.

‘Which jail were you in?’ Rebus asked. The man’s eyes widened, his grip faltering slightly. ‘I can smell an ex-con at fifty yards. Does your employer know?’

Belkin drew his fist back as if readying to throw a punch, but then froze at the sound of his wife’s voice. She was standing in the gateway, pleading for him to stop. Belkin brought his face so close to Rebus’s that Rebus could feel his oniony breath.

‘Come bothering us again, you’ll be getting a doing.’ He released his grip on the lapel and reared back, turning and walking in the direction of his waiting wife.

Rebus’s heart was pounding and he felt light-headed. He pressed a hand against the outline of the inhaler in his pocket but didn’t think it would help. Instead he sat for a moment, watching in the rear-view mirror as Belkin closed the gates with an almighty clang, his wife steering him back towards the castle. When they disappeared from view, he pushed down on the accelerator, feeling a slight tremble in the arch of his right foot. The perfect time for the CD to decide he merited John Martyn’s ‘I’d Rather Be the Devil’.

Back on the A836, he checked his phone again and found he had one bar of signal, so he pulled over and called Siobhan Clarke.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘Lord Strathy’s not been seen by his staff for a while.’

‘Must be in London then.’

‘That’s not the impression I get. I’d say they’ve been trying to rouse him without success.’

‘What do you make of it?’

‘That’s your job rather than mine.’

‘I’ll check with his London office. Maybe ask his daughter, too.’

‘One other thing — the staff mentioned some press interest a couple of years back. Any idea what that’s about?’

‘Hang on.’ He could hear her sifting paperwork, and a muttering from Malcolm Fox as she asked him about it.

‘Strathy’s fourth wife,’ Clarke eventually said. ‘Seems he collects them like hunting trophies. She walked out on him.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Renounced the high life for the pleasures of hippiedom.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’

‘According to reports, she joined some New Age cult.’

‘Based between Naver and Tongue, by any chance?’

‘Why ask if you already know?’

‘It was more of an educated guess. Do you have a name for her?’

‘Angharad Oates. Cue tabloid headlines about wild oats being sown.’

‘Can you send me what you’ve got on her?’

‘Or you could google it, same as Malcolm did.’

‘He’s keeping you busy then?’

‘Just a bit.’

‘Funny that, when he’s just been up here asking questions at Strathy Castle...’

‘Keeping your usual low profile?’

‘Just remember who’s doing all your dirty work.’

‘How’s everything else? With Samantha, I mean?’

‘She’s hanging in.’

‘And you?’

‘Do me one last favour, will you? Run a check on a Colin Belkin. He’s the groundsman and general factotum at Strathy Castle.’

‘And?’

‘I’m betting a pound to a penny he’s got previous.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

16

‘Tell me what you see,’ Malcolm Fox said, turning his head towards Siobhan Clarke. He had driven them to Craigentinny golf course, passing the scene of Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder on the way.

Clarke saw some parked cars, most of them the makes and models preferred by middle-management types — indeed, the sort of car Malcolm Fox himself drove these days. A couple of silver-haired gents were exiting the clubhouse at the end of their morning round, bags of clubs slung heavily over their shoulders.

‘Your future?’ she pretended to guess. Then: ‘Maybe just spit it out, eh?’

‘Watch and learn.’ Fox killed the engine and undid his seat belt before opening the driver’s-side door. Clarke hated him when he was like this. He could never just share a finding or what he thought might be an inspired inkling — there always had to be a song-and-dance. He was walking towards the barrier they’d just driven through. It was a weighted white pole, which could be lowered as necessary. The car park was unmanned, though signs warned of penalties and restrictions. Once Clarke had caught up with him, Fox slapped a hand against the barrier.

‘They close it at night — I called and checked.’

‘Okay,’ Clarke agreed.

‘Closed and locked — you see what that means?’ He waited, but she didn’t respond. ‘Salman bin Mahmoud has been here in daylight, played golf here. The car park is a good place for a meeting, he thinks.’ He made a circle in the air with a finger. ‘No CCTV, no security guard.’

‘He doesn’t know it’s not usable at night?’ Clarke concluded.

‘Thwarted, he drives to the first car park he finds.’

‘The warehouse.’ She was nodding now. ‘All of which assumes the meeting was his idea, yet we’ve found nothing on his phone.’

‘Maybe there’s another phone we don’t know about; or the meeting was planned some other way. Could even have been arranged face to face. All I’m saying is, this gives us the reason he ended up being killed where he did. Added to which, maybe the meeting was to be about the golf course.’

Clarke saw the excited look on Fox’s face.

‘Any time you’re ready,’ she said, folding her arms.

‘I got talking to my business reporter contact. Craigentinny’s a public course, meaning the city owns it, but it’s no secret Edinburgh Council’s strapped for cash and desperate to save and make money. A consortium made an approach.’

‘To buy the golf course?’

‘Apparently not just this one — and not just in Edinburgh.’

‘This is connected to Stewart Scoular’s plan for the golf resort up north?’

‘Same names keep popping up.’

‘Including the bin Mahmoud family and Lord Strathy?’

Fox nodded like a bright kid whose teacher had just taken note. Clarke kept her face emotionless as she thought it through.

‘John says Lord Strathy’s done a vanishing act. I tried his London office but they’ve all got degrees in evasion.’

‘His daughter?’

‘Not answering her phone. I left a message.’ Clarke gnawed at her bottom lip. ‘How often did Salman bin Mahmoud play here?’ Fox shrugged. ‘The game with Scoular was how long ago?’

‘You know as much as I do, Siobhan.’

‘We need to talk to Scoular again, don’t we?’ The shrug became a slow nod. ‘And how much of this do you report back to Big Ger Cafferty?’

‘That’s probably best kept between me and him, wouldn’t you say? Last thing I want is for you to be dragged into this.’

‘In case it becomes messy?’

‘I’ve got a certain level of body armour.’

‘Better hope whoever comes for you doesn’t aim for the head then.’ Clarke unfolded her arms and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘let’s go and see if we can get under the skin of a certain reptilian property developer...’

He didn’t exactly look pleased to see them.

They had tracked him down to a restaurant just off George Street, where he was hosting a business lunch. He was still chewing as he left his guests and entered the foyer.

‘Just a couple of questions,’ Clarke said, this being as much of an apology as she was willing to offer. ‘You played golf with Salman bin Mahmoud how many times?’

‘Three, I think.’

‘How many of those at Craigentinny?’

‘Just the one.’

‘And this,’ Fox interrupted, stepping closer as a waiter squeezed past, ‘was because of your consortium’s interest in taking Craigentinny into private ownership?’

Scoular swallowed whatever was in his mouth. His eyes moved between the two detectives.

‘What’s this got to do with Salman’s murder?’

‘That’s what we’re attempting to ascertain.’

Before Scoular could add anything, Clarke lofted another question in his direction. ‘How long ago was your final game with the deceased?’

‘Maybe three weeks.’

‘Three weeks before he died?’

‘I’d have to check my diary, but thereabouts.’

‘And this was at Craigentinny?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the pair of you were discussing financing the purchase of the course?’

‘Along the way, yes.’

‘I’m guessing buying it would be a cheaper option than building a new resort from scratch elsewhere?’ Fox enquired.

‘That depends on negotiations.’

‘Always assuming you intended keeping it as a golf course. I’m guessing if the membership sums didn’t add up, you could always apply to rezone it and build a lot of nice executive homes...’

Scoular glared at Fox. ‘Which of my competitors have you been talking to? Not one of them’s to be trusted — and baseless gossip can lead to a libel action, Inspector.’

It was Clarke’s turn to step closer to Scoular as a couple of new diners entered the restaurant. ‘Seen anything of Lord Strathy recently?’ She watched his jaw tighten as he turned his attention towards her.

‘Ramsay?’ he eventually said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘He’s one of your investors, isn’t he? Maybe I should even say “partner”?’

‘What if he is?’

‘He seems to have gone to ground.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’ve not heard from him?’

Scoular made show of looking at his watch. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Just for confirmation, Salman bin Mahmoud was what we might call a business associate? He had control of the family money and some of that money was being put towards projects you were in charge of?’

‘I’m a facilitator, that’s all.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘I’ve told you as much as I can. If you’ve not found me cooperative, it might be time for me to get my lawyers involved. Meantime, maybe you could busy yourselves elsewhere — finding whoever killed Sal would be an excellent start.’

He pushed his way back through the curtain into the dining room. Clarke and Fox had a view of the tables. They all looked full. Having waited a few seconds, Clarke crooked her index finger at Fox and pushed open the curtain. The room was L-shaped, and as they turned the corner, they saw a separate, glassed-in private area. It contained a single oval table around which sat six diners. Scoular was apologising while one waiter topped up glasses and another cleared the empty plates. Four men, all in suits and ties; one woman. Lady Isabella Meiklejohn.

Clarke pushed open the door and walked in, Fox right behind her.

‘This is intolerable,’ Scoular began to object. Clarke ignored him.

‘I left you a message,’ she told Meiklejohn.

‘Did you?’ Meiklejohn wore a crimson jacket over her short black dress. Her lipstick matched the jacket. She smiled what she probably thought would suffice as an apology, her eyes on her glass as she raised it to her mouth.

‘We’ve been trying to reach your father,’ Clarke told her.

‘Whatever for?’

‘Do you know his whereabouts?’

‘I do not; nor do I especially care.’ She smiled for the benefit of the other guests.

‘Get a message to him,’ Clarke commanded. ‘Tell him to call me.’ She watched as Meiklejohn made show of giving a toast with her glass. ‘Better let you get back to the sales pitch then...’ She stared at each of the four men in turn, as if to memorise their faces.

Fox shifted slightly, allowing her to leave the room ahead of him. With a slight bow of the head, he followed her, catching up only when they reached the pavement. Clarke was removing a parking ticket from the windscreen of his car. She handed it to him.

‘Recognise any of them?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Maybe we should have brought along your man from the business pages.’

‘Gut feeling, though — bankers, maybe councillors.’

Clarke nodded. ‘And Issy Meiklejohn for window-dressing.’

‘Nothing more?’

Clarke stared at him. ‘What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’

‘She wouldn’t be the first woman in history to mask her intelligence.’

‘You reckon she’s running the family firm?’

‘Not so different from Salman bin Mahmoud’s role — maybe that was the initial connection between them: kids with their eyes on the prize.’

Clarke couldn’t help but agree; not that she was about to give Fox the gold star he seemed to be expecting. She gestured towards the parking ticket he was holding. ‘Make sure you pay that. The fine doubles if you don’t, and I’m not sure your body armour works where Edinburgh’s wardens are concerned.’

17

Camp 1033 was still cordoned off. Rebus pulled in next to a yellow Portakabin that had been placed adjacent to the gate. As he opened the door of his Saab, a gust caught it. He thought the hinges might snap as it blew all the way open. Climbing out, it took him two goes to close it again. The door to the Portakabin was locked, no one answering his knock. The solitary uniform the other side of the cordon gave him an unwelcoming look.

‘The very definition of a short straw,’ Rebus told the man as he approached.

‘Change of shift in the offing. Is there something I can help you with?’

‘I’m related to the deceased. Wondered if DS Creasey is available.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘I got that impression,’ Rebus said, looking around.

‘You the one who found the body?’

‘That’s me,’ Rebus admitted.

‘I was told I might be seeing you. Message is: bugger off and leave us to get on with it. I know you used to be on the force, so you’ll appreciate the sentiment.’

‘You’re only doing your job, son. Fact they’ve stuck you out here tells me all I need to know about the esteem you’re held in by your fellow officers.’ Rebus turned to head back to his Saab. ‘Make sure Creasey knows I need a word.’

‘I’ll be sure to do that, aye.’ The officer cleared his throat and spat on the ground.

Rebus sat in the Saab and considered his next move. His phone pinged, signalling the arrival of a text from May Collins.

Plenty of time before then, so he drove a little further along the road, heading towards Tongue. A hand-made sign on a post caught his eye. It pointed down a rutted track. The only word on the sign was WELCOME.

‘Nice to feel wanted for a change,’ Rebus said to himself, manoeuvring the car along the track. It ran between a series of hillocks, clumps of thistles the predominant vegetation. Eventually he caught sight of what looked like a farm steading. Smoke rose from the chimney of the timber-framed main house. A couple of large barns stood behind it, and there was a smattering of tired-looking caravans. A man, topless, shirt tied around his waist, was splitting logs with an axe. Rebus recognised him as Mick Sanderson and gave a wave.

He parked the Saab next to a familiar-looking Volvo and got out. He saw powder marks on the Volvo’s doors, dashboard and steering wheel. Forensics had been busy — and hadn’t bothered tidying up after themselves. He approached the chopping block, noting a motorbike propped against a nearby tree. A couple of young women were scattering feed to some hungry chickens, while another couple worked on the vegetable beds. Sweat glistened on Sanderson’s torso.

‘Saab’s still working then.’ He nodded towards his handiwork.

‘Running better than ever,’ Rebus said.

‘We both know that’s a lie. If you want to get back to Edinburgh, you’ll let a proper garage give a diagnosis.’

‘I wanted to thank you anyway.’ Rebus held out a hand. Sanderson rested his axe against the woodpile and took it. ‘Also wanted to offer something by way of payment.’

‘No need for that.’

‘If you’re sure?’ Rebus gave a shrug, looking around at the young workers nearby. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘Changes all the time. Some stay a few weeks, others longer.’

Rebus nodded, feigning interest. ‘I notice my daughter’s here. Maybe I’ll just go say hello...’

Sanderson started to say something, but Rebus was already heading for the farmhouse. Before he got there, however, the door was opened by a man in his fifties, face lined, long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore grubby denims and a blue shirt that had lost almost all its colour.

‘You must be John,’ he said, cracking a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. The eyes were blue and piercing, the pupils small. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his wrists were festooned with cotton bracelets of various designs. He leaned with one hand on the door frame, the other on his hip.

‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘I’m Jess.’

Rebus entered a large open-plan space. There was a log-burner in the fireplace, a chaotic kitchen area, futons and oversized beanbags instead of sofas and chairs. Against one wall were piled yoga mats in a range of colours. A woman sat at a table in the kitchen area, filling jars with cooked vegetables. Rebus nodded a greeting, but she ignored him. She was only a few years younger than Jess Hawkins, her face weathered, long straw-coloured hair starting to clump. On the floor next to her sat a contented toddler, chewing a toy of some kind.

A staircase led from the centre of the room to the upper floor. It looked hand-made and not particularly safe, bearing in mind the toys and clothes that littered most of its steps.

‘Just thought I’d have a word with Samantha,’ Rebus said, keeping his tone conversational. Hawkins gave him a pained look.

‘She’s not in a mood for talking, John. Space to breathe is what she needs.’

‘I’m right here,’ Rebus yelled up the stairwell. ‘I just want to help!’

Hawkins had placed a hand gently on his forearm, but removed it when Rebus glowered at him.

‘Space to breathe,’ Hawkins echoed softly. ‘When the time’s right, she’ll come back.’

Rebus was still staring at him. ‘Like she went back to Keith after her little fling with you?’ He gestured towards the woman at the table. ‘What did your partner make of that?’

‘We’re as free to love as we are to live,’ Hawkins countered. ‘Would you like some green tea? Maybe just water?’

‘Keith Grant died not far from here.’

‘I’m aware of that — the police have asked their questions.’

‘After he found out about you and my daughter, he slept at the camp — you probably saw his car parked there. It’s not like you wouldn’t recognise it.’

‘What point are you trying to make, John?’

‘Maybe he came here.’ Rebus was letting his voice rise, hoping Samantha would hear it loud and clear. ‘It’s what I’d do in his situation.’

‘You see similarities between the two of you? Or is this you projecting?’ Hawkins sounded as if he really wanted to know.

‘Do you sleep with all the women here, or just a chosen few? Maybe that’s why you set this place up after making and losing a fortune on the stock market. Internet’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Your story’s right there for anyone to find — all the way from a council estate to the City of London, then you take one risk too many and you’ve gone from Moët to muesli—’

‘You’re hurting, John. I wish there were some way to help you...’ Hawkins looked almost pitying as he turned away and approached the table, standing behind the woman and touching the back of her neck. She gave a warm smile he couldn’t see. Rebus took a couple of steps towards her.

‘Angharad?’

She looked up at him. ‘We know one another?’ The accent was unmistakably English upper class. Rebus looked from her to the babbling infant, then fixed his eyes on Hawkins.

‘No wonder he hates you,’ he commented.

‘Who?’

‘Lord Strathy.’

Hawkins smiled again. ‘It’s not hate, John, it’s simple greed.’

‘You’ll have known about that in your time, eh?’

‘We’re all looking for answers in our different ways. You were a policeman. You looked out when you should have been looking in. You’ve spent your whole adult life as part of the state apparatus, doing their dirty work so they could keep their own hands clean.’

‘Without people doing the job I did, everything breaks down.’

‘You might not have noticed, but everything is breaking down. And that job of yours ended up costing you your family.’

‘Fuck off.’

Angharad Oates tutted without pausing in her task.

‘You can’t hide out here forever,’ Rebus went on. ‘The world doesn’t stop at that welcome sign you’ve put up.’

‘I wish I could help you,’ Hawkins repeated, stretching out his arms.

‘Then bring my daughter down here to talk to me.’

‘She doesn’t feel she has your trust.’

‘She’s wrong.’

‘Give it time — give her the time she needs.’

‘Does everybody fall for this quack psychology of yours? Do you even believe it yourself?’

‘All that’s on offer here is an alternative to the world you seem happy to live in.’

‘Anger and ill will,’ Oates intoned, handing the infant a sliver of apple.

‘Anger and ill will,’ Hawkins echoed. ‘Rising levels of greed and stupidity. You’d be a fool to look out there for answers.’ He waved an arm in the direction of the world beyond the steading.

‘So how come my daughter chose Keith over all this?’ Rebus asked.

‘I thought about it.’ The voice came from the top of the stairs. Samantha was standing there, arms by her sides, tears drying on her cheeks. ‘I thought about it but I couldn’t.’

‘Because of love,’ Jess Hawkins said, nodding his understanding. Angharad Oates reached up, taking Hawkins’ right hand and squeezing it.

‘Samantha, can we talk?’ Rebus asked. But after a moment, she shook her head and disappeared into one of the rooms. Hawkins opened his mouth to speak, but Rebus silenced him with a pointed finger. ‘Any more pish about living and loving, I swear I’m going to smack you in the mouth.’

He watched as Oates’s free hand curled around the paring knife in front of her, angling it towards him.

‘Try it,’ she said, baring her immaculate teeth.

‘You might want to leave now, John,’ Hawkins said as he patted her shoulder.

‘Carrie needs her mum,’ Rebus stated.

‘I know.’

Hawkins was still nodding as Rebus walked to the door and left.

18

‘They’re all here,’ May Collins said, coming from behind the bar to lead Rebus to the corner table. ‘Took a bit more arranging than I thought.’ Four people sat waiting for him. Two walking frames were parked nearby.

‘This is my dad Joe,’ May said.

The small, hunched man looked to be having trouble with his breathing. The hand he held out had a perceptible tremor, the skin like crêpe paper. He wore glasses with thick lenses and his head was more liver spot than hair. Next to him sat a woman who could almost have been his sister.

‘Helen Carter,’ May said. Then, raising her voice, ‘Helen’s a bit deaf, despite the hearing aid. Aren’t you, Helen?’

The woman clucked and nodded.

Across the table sat a man of similar vintage, taller and thinner than Joe Collins, with angular features and no apparent need of glasses.

‘Stefan Novack,’ May Collins said. ‘Helen and Stefan both live in Tongue. Stefan was kind enough to give her a lift.’

Rebus took Novack’s hand while looking at the figure seated next to him. This young man held up his hands.

‘I know,’ he said.

‘This is Jimmy Hess,’ May Collins was explaining. ‘His grandad’s not great today.’

‘Your grandad being...?’

‘Frank Hess — Franz, actually, just like Joe is Josef.’ Jimmy gestured towards May Collins’ father. ‘And as I always say, no, we’re not related to Rudolf.’

‘Not that we ever see Frank in here,’ May went on.

‘Not really a drinker,’ Jimmy explained to Rebus. ‘Not these days.’

‘Get yourself seated and I’ll fetch you a drink,’ May Collins told Rebus, giving him a pat on the arm.

‘Just sparkling water,’ he said, settling himself at the head of the table.

‘Very sorry for your loss,’ Jimmy Hess said. He was a large man and ungainly with it. Late thirties maybe, no sign of a wedding ring. Dark hair receding rapidly at the temples.

‘I appreciate you standing in for your grandfather,’ Rebus said. ‘But this is probably a waste of your time.’

Hess held up his hands again. It was something he obviously did a lot, probably without even being conscious of it. ‘Thing is, Grandad used to talk to me all the time about the camp, and I sat in when Keith was asking his questions, so maybe I’m more useful than you think.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘As you all know,’ he began, addressing the table, ‘Keith was my daughter’s partner. Someone killed him at Camp 1033, and it looks like his computer and some of his notes were taken. I’ve been studying what’s left and I know the camp had become an obsession. I’m just wondering what he learned from talking to you.’

‘I didn’t catch all of that,’ Helen Carter said, leaning so close to Rebus they were almost touching. ‘You know I wasn’t a prisoner?’

Rebus smiled. ‘You worked in the dispensary. There’s a bit about it in Keith’s files.’

‘And you did marry one of the internees,’ Hess called across the table. ‘I’ve still got a toy horse Helen’s husband carved when he was inside.’ He looked to Rebus. ‘A lot of internees were let out to work the fields and take exercise.’

May Collins placed Rebus’s drink in front of him.

‘No nodding off now,’ she warned her father, whose eyelids were drooping.

‘Blame the conversation,’ he barked at her, his voice still heavily accented.

‘You were another of the prisoners who was able to leave the camp?’ Rebus asked him.

‘Of course.’

‘And you were a newly promoted officer, I think — meaning a different accommodation block to the lesser ranks?’

‘Correct.’

‘How did you end up in Camp 1033?’

‘My platoon was surrounded. We had no choice but to surrender.’

‘And you, Mr Novack?’

Novack’s right hand moved with slow deliberation towards the glass on the table in front of him. His fingers curled around it without making any attempt to raise it. ‘Before 1033 was a British camp, it belonged to the Poles.’

‘You got on the wrong side of General Sikorski? So you weren’t here at the same time as Mr Collins and Mr Hess?’

‘Not quite, no — though Helen was a constant throughout.’ Novack looked at Helen Carter and gave a slight bow of his head.

‘I only caught a little of that,’ Carter said, fiddling with her hearing aid.

‘Offer her a post-prandial rum, however,’ Novack said quietly, ‘and you will find her hearing miraculously unimpaired.’

The sly glance she gave him confirmed the prognosis.

‘I returned here immediately after the war,’ Novack continued for Rebus’s benefit. ‘I had fond memories of the place and the people — and I’d found that there wasn’t much of a life waiting for me back in Poland. Camp 1033 was still operational then, of course. It only closed in 1947. Internees were used as unpaid labour — no need to send them home, as there had been no official armistice at war’s end. And of course the country needed workers.’

‘Is that when you were released, Mr Collins?’ Rebus asked.

‘Exactly so.’

‘And like Mr Novack, you chose to stick around?’

A further twitch of the shoulders. ‘I had fallen in love.’

Rebus turned to Jimmy Hess. ‘And your grandfather?’

Hess was nodding. ‘Same thing.’

‘Odd, isn’t it?’ Helen Carter broke in. ‘I don’t think many British POWs stayed in Germany after 1945.’

‘You only have yourself to blame for being so accommodating,’ Novack said. ‘I don’t mean you personally, Helen, but Scottish people in general.’

‘So nothing but happy memories of the camp?’ Rebus enquired.

‘There was hardship,’ Novack said. ‘The place was freezing in winter, stifling in summer. Even after British soldiers replaced the Poles, there were incidents. It was thought someone had tried to poison the camp’s delivery of bread — isn’t that correct, Helen?’

‘A lot of the men got food poisoning. Just one of those things.’

Rebus’s eyes were on Novack. ‘You don’t think it was random chance?’

‘People were friendly in the main, but try to imagine it — exotic foreigners arrive in your midst and are free to walk around the community, charming your womenfolk...’

‘Leading to a certain resentment?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Best if Joseph tells it,’ Novack stated.

‘What is there to tell?’ Collins barked across the table.

‘A fellow internee died, Joseph.’

‘Died how?’ Rebus asked into the uncomfortable silence.

‘Firing squad. He’d shot and killed one of the guards.’ Novack’s attention turned to Helen Carter. ‘The guard was a friend of your sister’s, wasn’t he, Helen? I’m not quite remembering his name...’

‘His name was Gareth,’ she intoned in a voice that was almost a whisper, her rheumy eyes beginning to fill. ‘Gareth Davies.’

‘Two men, one woman.’ Novack offered a shrug.

Rebus turned his attention back to Joe Collins. ‘The revolver you kept on the wall behind the bar — what was that about?’

‘I found it washed ashore. Probably belonged to a guard, tossed away to mark the end of the conflict.’

‘You had it made safe?’

‘No need — the mechanical parts had seized; it was never going to work.’

‘When it went missing, what did you think?’

‘It is of no consequence.’

Behind Rebus the door clattered open, a shadow looming over the table.

‘What the hell are you up to?’ Robin Creasey demanded. Rebus turned to face him.

‘Just doing your job, DS Creasey. Someone has to.’

‘A word with you outside, right now.’

Rebus gave a sigh of apology as he rose slowly from the table, following the detective out onto the pavement.

‘You’ve been back to the camp,’ Creasey stated.

‘You got my message, then?’

‘So what is it you feel you need to tell me?’

Rebus made show of considering the question. ‘Now that I think of it, I’m not sure it’s anything you should concern yourself with. Probably got enough on your plate as it is.’

‘Whereas your plate should have been cleaned and put away by now.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning why the hell are you still here?’

‘My daughter’s partner was murdered, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘And the last thing I need is you trampling over that inquiry. What the hell were you doing visiting Strathy Castle?’

‘News gets around.’

‘The gardener has a mate who’s a copper in Thurso. Asked him to check if there’s someone on the force in Edinburgh called Fox. There is, sort of, but the description didn’t match. The real Fox is a couple of decades too young, for a start.’

‘Doesn’t mean to say it was me at the castle.’

‘Except you just admitted it.’

‘Stupid of me...’ Rebus stuffed his hands into his pockets. Both men turned as the door to the bar opened again. Stefan Novack was wrapping a scarf around his neck.

‘I have another appointment,’ he explained. ‘Josef has fallen asleep and Helen needs to get home to take her pills. I hope we were of some use to you.’

‘I’d have liked a bit more time,’ Rebus said. ‘Can we talk again?’

‘As you wish.’ Novack was holding the door open so that Helen Carter could manoeuvre her way out of The Glen with her walking frame. She didn’t seem to recognise Rebus. The pair of them headed to a waiting car, Novack unlocking the doors.

‘What was your little meeting about?’ Creasey asked.

‘Keith interviewed them, but there’s precious little sign of any of that in the papers in his garage. Whoever took his laptop had to have good reason. There was also a memory stick with the audio recordings — again, missing.’

Creasey screwed up his face. ‘Come on, John, we’ve already discussed this. Every housebreaker and mugger knows something like a computer or a mobile phone can be resold.’

‘His notebooks are gone too, though. You telling me they were going to sell those?’

‘So the story you’re trying to foist on me is that he was murdered in cold blood because of his interest in a Second World War internment camp? That makes more sense to you than a personal grudge, a falling-out or a robbery?’

Rebus jabbed a finger towards Creasey. ‘Are you pinning this on my daughter?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind.’

‘Who else have you got? Jess Hawkins?’

‘Why him especially?’ Creasey sounded genuinely interested.

‘Because his Jim Jones Brigadoon cult is practically next door to Camp 1033.’

‘And?’

‘And he or one of his minions could have decided it was the only way to deliver Samantha to the cause.’

The two men stared at one another in silence for a moment. Rebus exhaled noisily and ran his hand through his hair.

‘I don’t know, Robin. I really don’t.’

‘Where does Lord Strathy fit into your theories?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘A favour for an ex-colleague in Edinburgh.’

‘This guy Fox?’

‘Not him, no. You know Strathy owns a lot of the land around here, including Camp 1033 and Hawkins’ commune?’

Creasey raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure I did know that.’

‘Keith wanted the community to buy the land the camp’s on, turn it into a visitor attraction.’

‘And?’

‘And now his lordship seems to have dropped off everyone’s radar.’

Creasey looked a bit more interested. ‘Since when?’

‘Good question. I’m not really sure. But my gut tells me the gardener at the castle — guy by the name of Colin Belkin — might once not have been such good friends with cops.’

‘He’s got a record?’

‘Worth a bit of digging, I’d say.’

Creasey worked his jaw as he did some calculations. ‘My team’s pretty stretched as it is...’

‘They all stuck in that Portakabin?’

‘We’ve got the use of the police station in Tongue — just as soon as we track down whoever has the key so we can unlock it.’

‘I could always lend a hand if you’re short of bodies.’

‘Nice try, John, but... well, you know damned fine what I’m going to say.’

‘I should butt out, go home, keep out of your hair — something along those lines?’

‘You should be focusing on Samantha and Carrie — they need you a lot more than the dead do.’ Creasey studied his watch.

‘Don’t let me keep you.’

‘I’ve got a thing in Inverness tonight. Need to get going.’

‘Had a chance to check my prints against those found in the Volvo?’

‘Yours, mine, Samantha’s and Keith’s. Plus a child’s partials that we’re guessing belong to your granddaughter.’ Creasey paused. ‘You know Samantha visited Hawkins’ place the day Keith died? Don’t bother answering — I can see the answer on your face. Does that sound to you like her fling with the man was over?’

‘You’re not having her, Creasey. No way I’m letting that happen.’

Creasey stared at him. ‘Nothing I’ve said has made a blind bit of difference, has it?’

‘I can assure you I’ve taken it on board.’

The slow shake of the head the detective gave in response told Rebus he wasn’t fooled. He watched as Creasey crossed the road to his car and climbed in. The door to the bar opened and Jimmy Hess emerged.

‘Best be off,’ he said, shrugging himself into his fleece.

‘Thank you for coming. I hope your grandfather perks up soon.’

‘He’s ninety-three years old. I doubt perking up is on the cards.’

‘But his faculties are intact — enough for Keith to have put a few questions to him?’

‘The pair of them talked. Not sure my grandad was much help. His memory’s not what it was, and it was such a long time ago.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a word with him at some point.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Who looks after him, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Just me. We manage for the most part.’

‘Must be tough when you’re at work.’

Jimmy Hess’s face darkened a little. ‘I packed in my job so I could be more help. Part and parcel of being a family, eh?’ He looked up towards the gathering dusk. ‘You never know what’s round the next corner.’ He slipped the hood of his fleece over his head and began to walk.

After a moment or two, Rebus headed indoors. Joe Collins was napping at the table, hands resting in his lap. Music was playing through the speakers, but only just audibly. The bar was back to regulars again. The media had moved on; ditto the ghouls. Rebus hoisted himself onto one of the bar stools.

‘What’ll it be?’ May Collins asked.

‘Coffee, strong as you can make it.’

‘Bed not comfy last night?’

‘Brain wouldn’t switch off.’

‘You sure coffee’s the answer?’

‘I don’t know, May — what was the question again?’

She was laughing as she headed to the machine.

19

The Jenever Club hadn’t quite opened for the evening, but its door was unlocked, which was why Dennis Jones was able to walk in and demand to see Morris Cafferty.

‘People usually call me Big Ger,’ a voice barked from the mezzanine level.

Jones took the stairs two at a time. He had a large frame and still considered himself fit. Played badminton and squash. He’d been partnered with a colleague, Gillian Bowness, for a varsity doubles competition. That had been the beginning of his trouble.

Cafferty was seated at the last banquette along. He was on his own, and was folding closed the screen of his computer as Jones approached.

‘Take a seat,’ he said, ‘and tell me what’s on your mind.’

‘I think you already know.’ Jones was breathing hard, powered by adrenalin.

‘Does your wife know you’re here?’

‘All she told me was that someone had footage. Had to come from here, so I did a bit of digging. Didn’t take much in the way of detective skills.’

‘And now here you are, so what exactly is it I can do for you?’

‘I won’t let you do this to her.’

‘Who?’

‘Jenni.’

‘I assume you mean Assistant Chief Constable Lyon? What did she say to you?’

‘Just that she was fixing it and I wasn’t to worry. But if fixing it means dealing with trash like you...’

‘You’d rather it was all made nice and public?’ Cafferty gave the beginnings of a chuckle, stopping as he saw Jones’s hands forming themselves into fists. ‘Don’t do anything radically more stupid than you already have. Now sit down while I tell you something I haven’t yet told your good lady.’

He bided his time until Jones bent to his will and slid onto the banquette.

‘The footage we caught of you here is tame stuff — a smooch and a snog, a bit of powder up the nose. You should see what sometimes goes on. But I pride myself on knowing who’s who. Your uni job didn’t interest me, but your life partner did.’ He paused. ‘Which is why I had someone keep an eye on you for a week or two. That country park near your place of work — a beautiful spot and woefully under-used. Car park’s often completely empty...’ He was watching the effect his words were having. Dennis Jones began visibly to deflate. ‘Bit reckless really, don’t you think? Though I did admire your friend’s agility. Must be all that badminton.’ He paused again. ‘I can’t be sure what you told the missus, but pictures like that on the front page of a red-top... well, that’s a marriage killer right there.’

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘This isn’t about you, Dennis. I doubt Jenni’s too bothered about you and your career. Hers, on the other hand...’ He leaned back again. ‘How do you think she’d react if she knew you’d come here? I’ll tell you: she’d be apoplectic, because you’re in danger of royally pissing me off. One call to the media, one email attachment, and she’s all over the papers. So while I can quite understand the macho posturing, it’s time for you to slope off home and leave your wife to deal with the shitty nappy you’ve left on her pristine floor.’

He opened the computer lid again, signalling the end of the meeting.

‘You’ve not heard the last of this,’ Jones blustered, getting to his feet.

‘You best hope I fucking well have,’ Cafferty responded with a glare before turning his attention to his screen.

He listened to the footsteps stomping back down the staircase, then slid out from his seat and checked over the balcony. His visitor had gone. Taking out his phone, he made a call.

‘Malcolm?’ he said when it was answered. ‘You still at your desk? Be downstairs in fifteen minutes...’

It was a large black Mercedes, its rear windows heavily tinted. As Fox exited Leith police station, the driver emerged, closing the door after him. Fox crossed the street. The driver wasn’t very tall, but he looked as if he could handle himself, all wired nerves and attitude, wrapped in a leather bomber jacket.

‘Back seat,’ he stated.

Fox got in next to Cafferty. The driver stayed on the pavement, lighting a cigarette and checking his phone.

‘Problem?’ Fox asked, skipping the pleasantries.

‘Just thought you ought to know I’ve had a visit from Casanova.’

‘I assume you mean Dennis Jones?’

‘My thinking is, he sees something’s not right, the way his missus is acting, and she eventually blurts it out.’

‘Telling him everything?’

‘Not quite — but he’s savvy enough to walk it back to me.’

‘And?’

‘And I don’t want that happening again. Only room for three in this relationship, Malcolm — you, me and your boss.’

‘It’s not a relationship.’

‘Can’t disagree with that, insofar as I’ve heard hee-haw from either of you.’

‘Trust me, we’re working on it.’

‘And?’

‘And we’re at the start of the jigsaw. Edges nearly finished but a lot still to fill in.’

‘So show me the outline.’

Fox was shaking his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Soon then?’

He half turned so he was facing Cafferty. ‘Is this to do with Salman bin Mahmoud? Dirty money mixing with clean? Golf resorts and landed gentry?’

‘Okay, so you’ve been busy,’ Cafferty accepted with a slow nod. ‘But I need those pieces filled in sooner rather than later.’

‘Keeping you company isn’t helping with that.’

‘You going to tell Lyon about her stoked-up husband?’

‘Looks like I might have to.’

‘Guy like that, impetuous and hot-blooded...’

‘What?’

‘He might need keeping an eye on. Who’s to say his straying days are behind him?’ Cafferty’s eyes were on Fox. ‘Got to admit, though, you’re a lot craftier than I gave you credit for.’

‘How’s that then?’

‘Look on his face when I mentioned the footage of him and the coke. He didn’t know I had it, which tells me his missus doesn’t know — and that means you kept that detail to yourself. Didn’t want her knowing more than she needed to, afraid she might take it out on you?’ He wagged a finger. ‘I should have known someone with the name Fox would have a bit of slyness about them. Now bugger off and get busy on Stewart Scoular. Clock’s ticking, Malcolm...’

Fox shoved open the door and got out. The driver was grinding what was left of his cigarette underfoot. He crossed the road and re-entered the station, passing through security and climbing the stairs. There was water damage to the ceiling above him, a pail readied on the top step for the next time it rained. The station had been built early in the nineteenth century as a courthouse, before becoming the home of Leith Council for a time. It was a solid stone edifice, but like many police stations of similar vintage, upkeep was prohibitive. He wondered how many more years it had.

‘More than me, in all likelihood,’ he said to himself, his breathing a little laboured as he reached the landing.

Clarke was at their shared desk. Most of the rest of the team had clocked off for the day or were in the process of doing so, but Siobhan Clarke was sticking around. The records from the victim’s mobile phone provider had come through, six months’ worth. They’d already accessed his phone so knew about the more recent calls, and had spoken to everyone he’d been in touch with on the day he died. An upmarket wine and spirits shop in central London featured, as did two private banks (one London, one Edinburgh), a local tailor specialising in tweed and sporting wear, and a Michelin-rated restaurant in Leith. The banks had proved stubbornly resistant to questions about their client’s financial situation. A far-from-complete set of printed statements had been brought from Salman bin Mahmoud’s Edinburgh home, and showed a balance in the low five figures.

‘Not being cheeky,’ Christine Esson had said, ‘but that doesn’t seem much.’

Then again, as Graham Sutherland had pointed out, the super-rich often had other means of salting away and accessing funds. Forensic accountants were busy both at the Met in London and at Gartcosh. It hadn’t been difficult for Fox to add Stewart Scoular’s name to the mix, alongside Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli.

Nor did the deceased own either of his sports cars — both were leased. The home in Edinburgh was owned outright by the family, purchased as a long-term investment most likely, while the London penthouse was a rental costing almost exactly double what Fox earned in a month.

Fox sat alongside Clarke and picked up the two books sitting on the desk. They were hardback thrillers.

‘Present from Christine,’ Clarke explained. ‘One for me, one for John.’

Fox opened one of the books at the title page. ‘Signed and everything,’ he said. ‘Now if only you had some downtime...’

‘What did Cafferty want, by the way?’ Fox stared at her. ‘The office has windows, Malcolm. You get a call, and quarter of an hour later you say you’re heading to the gents.’

‘I’d put my jacket on,’ Fox realised.

‘Which strictly speaking isn’t needed for a call of nature. So I walk over to the window and see a big shiny car and a big shiny heavy.’

‘He was just after an update.’

‘You really can’t be doing this.’ Clarke frowned. ‘Did you ask why he’s so interested in Stewart Scoular?’

‘He’s keeping his cards close to his chest.’

‘He’s not the only one. There’s stuff you’re not telling me, and I can’t honestly say I like it.’

‘I told you about Special Branch,’ Fox said, lowering his voice.

‘That’s not it, though.’ She shook her head. ‘One thing I sense is that you think you have the brass on your side — hence all that guff about having a certain amount of armour.’

‘Leave it, Siobhan.’

‘You know me better than that. What’s Cafferty trading? Something too juicy for your bosses not to let him have his way?’

‘I said leave it.’ Fox’s voice had stiffened. He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Isn’t Brillo due an evening walk?’

‘I took him out at lunchtime, remember?’

‘That was six hours ago.’

‘How many walks do you think he needs?’

‘Maybe you should check that with John.’

‘Yeah? And maybe you should check with Special Branch how happy they are about you bringing a known gangster into this inquiry.’

The silence between them lengthened, Fox’s jaw flexing as he clamped his teeth together. ‘Any word from Rebus?’ he eventually asked.

Clarke gave a sigh. ‘We seem to be back to radio silence.’

‘And the elusive Lord Strathy?’

‘Ask as many questions as you like — I’m not forgetting that you’re keeping stuff back from me and it’s going to keep pissing me off until you tell me.’

‘Understood. But to get back to Lord Strathy?’

‘Still nothing. I got the Met to pay a visit to his various London haunts.’

‘They must be loving us down there.’ Fox managed a thin smile.

Clarke lifted one of the sheets of telephone numbers. It was now fully annotated. The original bills had shown only calls and texts sent by the victim, but now they also had calls to his phone.

‘Gio, Issy, Gio, Issy, Gio,’ she reeled off. ‘Almost two dozen chats on his last day alive.’

‘I believe young people prefer it to actually being in the same room as someone.’

‘Then there’s Stewart Scoular, though not with nearly the same frequency.’ Clarke glanced at the writing on her notepad. ‘Eighteen calls in six months — nine from and nine to.’

‘And nothing to indicate that a meeting was being set up at Craigentinny,’ Fox stated, ‘unless it was with Meiklejohn or Morelli.’

Clarke nodded. ‘But we do have these,’ she said, tapping another sheet. ‘A dozen calls to the landline at Strathy Castle. Once a fortnight, pretty much.’

‘No mobile signal up there?’

‘That’s my thinking.’

‘Talking to Issy?’

Clarke offered a shrug. ‘We’ll ask her. Got to be either her on a home visit, or else her father.’ She rubbed her eyes. She and Fox were now the only occupants of the MIT room. Footsteps could be heard descending the staircase as the ancillary staff finished their working day. ‘How’s that search on Issy going, by the way?’

‘The internet is its usual glorious swamp. Wild-child stuff from her early days; PR repair jobs courtesy of a few society glossies. Apparently she spends a large chunk of her life helping charities.’

‘Between university lectures and society balls? When I was at uni, there were some just like her — a whole raft of poshos we only saw once a year in the exam hall.’

‘While you had a bath full of coal for a bed?’

‘School of hard knocks, Malcolm.’

‘I thought your parents were lecturers?’

‘Way to burst my class-conflict bubble.’ Clarke shook herself, trying to clear her head.

‘Call it a day?’ Fox suggested.

‘I will if you will.’

‘Thought I might stick with it a bit longer.’ He tapped the computer screen. ‘Plenty on here about Issy the socialite, but it’s the business brain we’re really interested in.’

‘Meaning talking to your business contacts?’

‘I hope you’ve noticed that none of them has leaked yet.’

‘Doesn’t mean to say they won’t.’

‘I should probably give the ACC a call too, keep her posted.’

‘I’m going to assume she knows about Cafferty.’

‘Assume what you like.’

‘Might be easier if I just took a baton to your head until you fess up.’

‘That wouldn’t be very professional. But let me propose something. I do a bit more work here while you walk Brillo and have a bite to eat...’

‘Yes?’

‘Then we meet up and go see if Lady Isabella Meiklejohn is at home and receiving visitors — after all, we’ve yet to see where she lives.’

‘Other thing is the deceased’s house,’ Clarke added. ‘I know a crew’s been through it, but I wouldn’t mind a nosy.’

‘And there’s a set of keys somewhere around here.’ Fox’s gesture took in the office.

‘Rendezvous at eight?’

Fox did a quick calculation in his head. ‘Eight it is.’

20

Isabella Meiklejohn lived a literal stone’s throw from Gio Morelli, but unlike her friends, she was making do with a second-floor flat on St Stephen Street, almost directly across from the Antiquary pub. Her voice on the intercom had been wary, switching rapidly to irritation when the two detectives identified themselves.

‘Not more bloody questions,’ she complained as she buzzed them in.

The tenement stairwell was on the shabby side. A bicycle was chained to the landing rail next to her door, and Clarke asked if it was hers.

‘Full of surprises, aren’t I?’ she said with a cold smile, ushering them in. The hallway was narrow and cluttered. A mannequin acted as a coat and hat rack, while a stuffed pine marten in a glass case did duty as a table of sorts, its lid covered with unopened mail, keys and headphones. Clarke caught a glance of the galley kitchen — obviously the maid’s day off. Both bedroom doors were closed. The living room was cuboid, with just the one window. An open door gave a view into a box room, which had become a study of sorts — desk, computer, printer. Dance music played through a portable gadget that Meiklejohn silenced with a spoken command.

There were some books piled by the fireplace, but not huge amounts, and no visible bookcases. Plenty of garish art on the walls, possibly the work of friends or fellow students. Meiklejohn flounced back onto the sofa, legs tucked under her. A glass of red wine sat on the floor, next to a half-empty bottle and a full ashtray. The smell of tobacco lingered.

‘Hard work cycling uphill into town,’ Clarke offered, ‘especially for a smoker.’

‘Nothing wrong with my lungs.’ Meiklejohn glanced down at her chest before giving Fox what she probably thought was a coquettish look.

‘Any word from your father?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re not beginning to worry?’

‘Should I?’

Fox cleared his throat. ‘The calls between you and Mr bin Mahmoud on the day he died: can you remind us what they were about?’

‘Probably the usual — a bit of gossip, maybe plans for the weekend.’

‘Not business, then?’

‘Business?’

‘When we bumped into you at that restaurant earlier, you looked to be dining with some of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’

‘Did I?’

‘That’s what I’m asking.’

Meiklejohn lifted her glass and turned her attention to Clarke. ‘What do you think, Inspector?’

‘At first I thought you were getting a free feed in exchange for flashing your tits at a bunch of men old enough to be your father.’

Meiklejohn hoisted the glass in a toast before drinking. ‘And now?’ she said.

‘Scoular is part of a consortium that’s been trying to buy a golf course in Edinburgh. Some of the same people are probably part of the scheme to build a new upmarket resort between Tongue and Naver — on land largely owned by your father.’

‘Owned by the Strathy Estate,’ Meiklejohn corrected her.

‘Which equates to the same thing, more or less. So what we’re wondering is, was your role at the lunch maybe more substantial? Do you speak for your father at such gatherings?’

Meiklejohn took her time placing the wine glass back on the floor. ‘And how exactly,’ she drawled, ‘does any of that get you nearer to identifying Sal’s killer?’

‘We’re just working with the pieces given to us,’ Fox said. ‘Seeing how they might fit into the overall picture.’

‘Are you sure KerPlunk isn’t a better analogy? Because when I look at you, I see two people with nothing but the straws they’re yanking on.’

‘You do want Mr bin Mahmoud’s killer caught, Lady Isabella?’ Clarke butted in.

‘Of course I do.’

‘And you still claim that he had no obvious enemies?’

‘Envious racists apart, no.’

‘No one who owed him money or he owed money to? No commercial disagreements? No spurned friends or lovers?’ She gave a bit of extra weight to the final word.

‘We never fucked, Inspector.’

‘Why not?’

Meiklejohn met Clarke’s stare. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘You and Gio Morelli aren’t an item?’

‘No.’

‘Stewart Scoular?’ This time the question came from Fox.

‘What the hell has my love life got to do with any of this?’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘It’s a big fat fuck you.’

‘How well did your father know the victim? Well enough for Salman to phone him at Strathy Castle?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Or was it you he was calling?’

‘I spend as little time up there as humanly possible.’

‘But you took Salman there, yes?’

‘For a couple of parties.’

‘Parties your father attended?’

‘I’m not saying they didn’t know one another socially, but my father spends more time in London than he does anywhere north of the border.’

‘And London,’ Fox interrupted, ‘happens to be where Mr bin Mahmoud was studying.’

Meiklejohn gave a slow nod, as if remembering something. ‘My father did arrange for him to visit the House of Lords — Sal loved that. But actually something came up, so Pops couldn’t make it and he had a friend show Sal round instead.’

‘I’m guessing VIP visits to the House of Lords would impress Stewart Scoular’s would-be investors.’

‘I still fail to see what any of this has to do with Sal’s death. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a seminar I need to be prepping for.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’ Clarke asked. ‘What time?’

Meiklejohn had to think about it. ‘Eleven.’

‘What’s the topic?’

‘Poetry of the...’ She looked around the room for help answering.

‘Not a lot of obvious textbooks here,’ Clarke continued. ‘I’m not sure you go to many of your classes. It’s all just a bit of a lark to you — or it was, until things that were more fun came along. Things like Salman and Gio and maybe even Stewart Scoular.’ She turned away from the sofa. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

‘Paradise Lost!’ Meiklejohn called to the retreating figures.

‘Is that the one with the snake?’ Fox asked Clarke.

‘And the tree of knowledge.’

‘Could do with one of those,’ he muttered, pulling the door closed after them. He was a few steps down before he realised Clarke was studying the bicycle.

‘Did we check the CCTV for bikes?’ she asked. ‘Near the scene of the crime, I mean? Isn’t there a bike lane right next to the warehouse?’

‘You don’t think...?’

‘Just being thorough, Malcolm. Which is maybe why we should also put some thought into Lady Issy and Stewart Scoular.’

‘If they’re lovers, you mean?’

‘Present, past or even future.’

‘What’s your best guess?’

‘Jury’s out,’ she said with a shrug. ‘One thing, though — no great show of conspicuous wealth at Lady Issy’s residence.’ She lifted a set of keys from her pocket and gave them a shake. ‘Here’s hoping for better things elsewhere.’

The house on Heriot Row already felt abandoned. Clarke tapped the code into the intruder alarm to reassure it she meant no harm. Fox had found the light switches. The hall was large and had been recently modernised: white marble floor; gold trim wherever possible; statuary, presumably of Middle Eastern provenance. Clarke scooped up some mail. None of it looked interesting, so she added it to the pile on the table by the door.

‘Who else has keys?’ she asked.

‘Deceased’s lawyer,’ Fox stated.

‘None of his friends?’

‘Not that we know of. This floor and the two above belong to the bin Mahmoud family. There’s a garden flat below, owned by a guy who has a software business. He’s been interviewed; says his neighbour was quiet for the most part — a few car doors slamming and engines revving after a party, but that’s about it.’

‘Mr Software never merited an invite?’

‘No. The one substantial chat they seem to have had was when the deceased mooted buying the flat, but the owner wasn’t for selling.’ Fox saw Clarke glance at him. ‘Not exactly grounds for murder.’

‘On the other hand, I’d say Salman was probably unused to people saying no.’

‘We could invite the neighbour in for a chat?’

But Clarke was shaking her head as she pushed open the door to the drawing room.

The word that sprang to mind was ‘opulent’: two huge plush sofas; a large wall-mounted TV with sound system; more statuary and ornaments. A vast antique carpet covered the wooden floor. The bookcases were filled with a range of oversized hardbacks, most of them histories of art and antiquity. One whole shelf, however, had been set aside for books about James Bond and Sean Connery. In front of these sat two framed photos of the actor, taken in his Bond days, both autographed.

Next door was a contemporary kitchen, nothing in its capacious double fridge but vegetarian ready meals and bottles of white wine and champagne. The separate freezer contained only a few trays of ice cubes. Fox was checking behind another door off the hall.

‘WC and shower,’ he said.

He followed Clarke up the curving stone staircase. The master bedroom contained a large bed and a wall-length built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors. Salman bin Mahmoud’s various suits, jackets and shirts were neatly arranged, some still in the polythene wrapping from their last dry-clean. Tiered drawers inside the wardrobe held underwear, belts, ties, jewellery.

‘Liked his cufflinks,’ Fox commented.

Condoms and a selection of over-the-counter pills sat in a bedside drawer. There was no reading matter by the bed. Clarke picked up a remote and pressed the power button. From a recessed area at the foot of the bed a flat-screen TV rose into view. When she switched the TV on, it was tuned to an Arabic news channel.

Fox went to check the en suite bathroom. ‘I’m not the expert here,’ he said, ‘but I’m seeing nothing that could be described as ladies’ toiletries.’

‘So one-night stands rather than a regular girlfriend?’ Clarke switched the TV off and returned to the hallway. The next door led to an office. Desk drawers gaped and the computer had been removed by the investigators. The walls were lined with framed posters from Sean Connery’s run as James Bond. There were also dozens of replica Aston Martin DB5s in different sizes.

‘Think I had this one,’ Fox said, lifting the model to inspect it. He pressed a button and the roof sprang up along with the ejector seat, the figure in the seat landing on the floor.

Clarke was studying a map of the Middle East, which sat at eye level when she lowered herself onto the desk chair.

‘Did he think of himself as an exile?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Below the surface trappings, I mean?’

‘You’re asking if he was happy or just putting on a show?’ Fox could only shrug. ‘All the interviews we’ve done, nobody’s said anything.’

‘I’m not sure his circle of friends and hangers-on would be the types to pry.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Were they interested in him or just in what he represented — specifically moneyed exoticism? And meantime he’s worried sick about his family back home?’

Fox was still mulling that over as he followed Clarke to the next room. It was another large sitting room, more comfortable than the formal one downstairs. Sofa and two chairs, home cinema system, the shelves filled with framed photographs. Most were of Salman’s family — not just his mother and father, but what looked like uncles, aunts, cousins. A black-and-white photo, creased and faded, showed his grandparents or maybe even great-grandparents. But there were more recent photos too, dating to his time in the UK. Clarke had seen a few of these already — they were copies of photos printed in society magazines, the ones Fox had stored on his computer. Others showed Salman with friends and admirers at parties, including one in the VIP area of the Jenever Club. Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli featured in most of these. Usually Salman was hugging Isabella, but in one he had wrapped his arms around Gio from behind, both men laughing with their perfect teeth.

‘How much do we know about Morelli?’ Clarke asked.

‘He’s studying English lit, comes from a well-to-do family in Rome, father an industrialist and mother a countess or suchlike.’

‘Did any of them know each other before they parachuted into Edinburgh?’

‘That first time we spoke to Morelli and Meiklejohn, didn’t they say something about meeting at a party?’

Clarke nodded, deep in thought. ‘That’s how the three of them met specifically, which isn’t quite the same thing. Maybe it’s just my prejudice showing again, but the rich are the original networkers, aren’t they? Same Caribbean beaches in summer and alpine ski resorts in winter. And when families end up there, the younger members tend to congregate. There are only so many party invitations after all...’ Her eyes met Fox’s. ‘Did anyone ask them during their interviews?’

‘I’ve not listened to the recordings; just looked at the edited highlights. Are you saying we head back to Lady Isabella’s?’

‘I doubt she’d let us in this time.’

‘But we could insist.’

Clarke was shaking her head. ‘It can wait,’ she said.

One further room on this floor: a large bathroom with jacuzzi bath and a shower big enough to share. Then up a further flight of stairs to a couple of guest bedrooms, both en suite, beds made, towels and robes laid out, never to be used.

‘Salman had a cleaner, right?’

‘A local company. They told us he was great to work for, a complete charmer, et cetera.’ Fox followed as Clarke headed back downstairs to the sitting room. ‘We’re not ruling out that this was just a random hate crime — wrong time, wrong place — or connected somehow to the other attacks on overseas students?’

‘Come on, Malcolm, this is different. He wasn’t slapped about and called a few names — he was stabbed to death in a part of town where he didn’t belong.’ Clarke’s eyes were sweeping the room and its contents one last time.

‘And the attack on Morelli — is that connected to the muggings or the murder?’

Clarke picked up one of the photos. ‘Is that Stewart Scoular in the background, talking to the woman in the dress that seems both backless and mostly frontless?’

Fox peered at the print. ‘Looks like,’ he conceded.

She exhaled and put the photograph back. ‘We should talk to him again.’

‘Scoular?’

‘Morelli,’ she corrected. ‘You’re right — we need to find out if there’s something in his friendship with Salman that led to both men being attacked. Let’s get him down to the station tomorrow.’

‘Rather than his home?’

‘I think we’ve maybe been tugging the forelock, Malcolm. We need to start making people feel a lot less comfortable — cop shop’s a pretty good place for that, wouldn’t you say?’

Fox considered for a moment, then nodded his agreement.

21

‘You,’ Cole Burnett told Benny through lips cracked with dried blood, ‘you are fucking dead, my man.’

Burnett was strapped to a rickety metal chair, the kind you’d find tossed into a skip when an office building was being refurbished. One of his eyes was swelling nicely and, stripped to his underpants by Benny, you could see where the bruises were starting to appear on his ribs and kidneys. Face pockmarked with acne; close-cropped gelled hair. It had taken longer than hoped to track him down, and then instead of getting into the car when told, the teenager had turned and fled. He was faster than Benny, and knew Moredun and Ferniehill better, heading down footpaths and across parkland, neither of which the car could deal with. After which he had become invisible. It had taken favours and a bit too much cash for Benny’s liking before the neighbourhood started to whisper in his ear. Texts came and went; rumours turned out to be unfounded. But eventually Benny had prevailed.

Not that the boss was entirely happy. The club was open for the evening, meaning Benny’d had to bring Burnett to a garage workshop down a lane near Tollcross, a garage whose roller-shutter door was seldom seen open, except in the dead of night when a car might arrive requiring a change of number plates and maybe even a paint job. Place wasn’t soundproofed, but the locals knew better than to pry or complain.

Burnett’s clothes sat in a pile near the chair. Benny had been through them, not finding much. A bit of grass and some tablets — now safely stowed in his own pockets. Couple of hundred in cash, ditto. The bank cards he’d left, along with the condom. Couldn’t take a man’s last condom — maybe Burnett would get lucky later, though Benny doubted it. He finished his latest cigarette and stubbed it out against the oil-stained concrete floor. The garage was empty tonight, the inspection pit covered over. Most of the tools were kept in a series of padlocked metal lockers, which was why Benny had brought his own bag from the boot of the Merc. It sat on a workbench, directly in Burnett’s line of sight.

‘Gie’s a smoke then,’ Burnett said, not for the first time. His other greatest hits included ‘Freezin’ here, man’ and ‘You know who I am?’ He was putting this last one to Benny yet again when Big Ger Cafferty arrived, giving Benny a moment’s withering look as he passed him on his way to the chair. The boss was dressed in a black puffa jacket, zipped to the neck. Steel-toecapped shoes, the kind you’d wear on a construction site. Black leather driving gloves. Black baseball cap. Without bothering to remove the cap, he crouched slightly so his face was level with that of the seated figure.

‘You know who I am?’ he asked.

‘You’re that cunt that used to be somebody.’

Cafferty half turned to smile in Benny’s direction. ‘Some baws on the boy, eh?’ Then he swiped Burnett’s face hard with the back of his hand. The force was enough to send the chair toppling sideways, Burnett’s head connecting with the floor with a thud.

‘Bastard,’ the teenager spat.

Cafferty squatted next to him. ‘Bastard is the right word, bawbag. But a bastard who knows all about you. Knows you think you’re the dog with two pricks. Right now I could slice both of them off and leave you howling at the moon. Cockless Cole, your old comrades will call you. How does that sound?’

‘Better than being an old sweaty bastard with a gut.’

‘I sweat when I get excited. And to tell you the truth, I’d almost forgotten how the anticipation of GBH gets me excited.’ He placed one hand around Burnett’s throat and started to squeeze. Burnett tried twisting himself free to no effect, his eyes bulging as he gasped for air. Cafferty gave it a good twenty seconds before easing off. ‘Got your attention yet, Cockless?’

‘Untie me and try that again.’ Burnett’s eyes were filled with rage. Cafferty turned once more towards Benny.

‘He reminds me what I was like before I learned better.’ Then, to Burnett: ‘Anger’s all well and good, but there’s such a thing as the survival instinct too — you might want to start using it.’

‘Fuck is it you want?’

‘We want a phone.’

‘A phone? Is that all?’

‘The phone you took from the wee Chinese girl you thumped.’

Burnett thought for a second. ‘It’s long gone.’

‘Then you’re going to get it back.’

‘What do you need it for?’

‘I don’t — but she does. And you’re going to tell her you’re sorry.’

‘Am I fuck.’

Slowly Cafferty rose to his full height. He placed his right foot on Burnett’s left cheek and began to press down. ‘Shattered jawbone takes a while to heal. Milkshakes through a straw if you’re lucky.’ Burnett’s lips were mashed together so that Cafferty couldn’t make out what he was saying. Benny, holdall in hand, had taken a couple of steps forward, just in case he was needed. ‘I like you, Cole,’ Cafferty continued. ‘I like what I’ve heard about you. I think maybe we can come to an arrangement.’ He paused. ‘You know how things work in Dundee? Cuckooing, they call it. Find an easy target, set up a lab in their house, make the stuff quick and cheap and get it out on the street. Your hood’d be good for that — and I reckon you’ll know more than a few suitable locations. Give the phone back and I’ll bring you into the game. You’ll be a player rather than the ballboy. How does that sound?’

He didn’t ease his foot off, not straight away. But eventually he did. Burnett’s nose was running with a mixture of mucus and blood, his underfed chest going in and out, breath coming in broken rasps. Cafferty gestured to Benny, who grabbed the chair and righted it, none too gently. Burnett glared at his abductor, then at Cafferty.

‘Give me the other options.’

‘They’re right there in my associate’s bag.’ Cafferty nodded to let Benny know the holdall could now be opened and its contents made known to Cole Burnett.

Not much more than an hour later, Burnett was in his mate Les’s aunt’s place, swigging cheap alcohol, using it to wash down a few more pills. Nice buzz going, almost enough to distract him from memories of the garage. Les lived with his aunt. Burnett had wondered if he was even shagging her. They were related and everything and she had to be twenty years older than him, but she was still tidy. Les had always denied it, though, and whenever Burnett had tried giving her the chat, she’d told him to behave himself. She was out somewhere tonight and the usual crew were in her living room. The pizzas had been delivered. They had plenty of everything — except answers to the questions they were firing at Burnett.

‘Cafferty, though, man, what was he like?’

‘He give you that damage?’

‘Did you let him?’

Burnett hadn’t bothered wiping away the blood. He wore it to show them all who he was, what he’d survived.

‘He’s an old man,’ he advised them through swollen lips. ‘His time’s well past.’

‘What did he want, though?’

‘He coming for us?’

‘Better bring an army with him, eh?’

The can Burnett gripped in his right hand held super-strength lager. It had been out of the fridge too long and was beginning to get warmer than he liked, so he drained it. The voices around him took on the quality of chirruping insects. But there was another voice inside his head, and it was telling him to play along for now. Fetch the phone from the stash under his mum’s bed. Somehow get it back to its owner. Show willing. Be nice. He even had a few cuckooing houses in mind — he was sitting in one right now. Play along. Show willing. Be nice.

For now.

For now.

But not forever...

22

Ron Travis had kept the café open for them. Rebus had thanked him and asked him to sit in. The two of them carried trays over to the table, where Joyce McKechnie and Edward Taylor waited. Drinks and slices of cake were doled out before Rebus took his seat.

‘I’ve been through everything in Keith’s garage,’ he said, ‘and done a bit of reading on the internet, so I know now that Keith thought Camp 1033 stood for all such camps, and that they showed us ourselves, good and bad. The good is that the community welcomed people like Stefan, Joe and Frank, helped them make their homes here. But on the other hand...’

‘The poisoning?’ McKechnie asked.

‘I was thinking more of the shooting.’

‘Ah yes,’ Taylor said, ‘poor Sergeant Davies. He’d been seeing one of the local women.’

‘Helen Carter’s sister.’

‘Indeed.’ Taylor turned to McKechnie. ‘What was her name?’

‘Chrissy. Moved south around 1950.’

‘Still alive?’

‘You’d have to ask Helen.’

‘A detainee had certain feelings for Chrissy,’ Taylor continued. ‘Jealous of Sergeant Davies, he grabbed the man’s own gun and shot him in the head. Went to the firing squad for it.’ He studied Rebus. ‘Nothing in Keith’s notes?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’re right — it was certainly a story that intrigued him.’

‘No connection to the gun behind the bar at The Glen?’ Rebus asked.

‘That was found much later by Joe Collins — washed up on a beach, wasn’t it?’ Taylor looked to McKechnie, who nodded her agreement.

‘Either of you remember the name of the man who went to the firing squad?’

‘Hoffman? Something like that,’ Taylor offered.

Rebus realised that he knew the name. ‘I saw a Hoffman mentioned on one of Keith’s lists — he was quite senior in the camp, wasn’t he? Deputed to make sure things ran smoothly?’

Taylor was nodding. ‘Germans kept the camp regulated. Separate quarters for officers and lesser ranks.’

Rebus noticed that Joyce McKechnie was playing with her watch strap, hinting that she had somewhere else to be.

‘Just a couple more things,’ he said. ‘I saw the calculations Keith had done. I know you wanted to turn the camp into something tourists would benefit from...’

‘Keith approached the Scottish government, Historic Scotland...’

‘And kept getting knocked back.’

‘It was pretty dispiriting,’ Taylor agreed.

‘And you couldn’t do it by yourselves without a lot of work and private funding. The land the camp is on is owned by Lord Strathy?’

‘The Strathy Land Trust, to be precise,’ McKechnie said, ‘but ultimately, yes, it belongs to the Meiklejohns.’

‘And did Keith have any direct dealings with the family?’

‘He tried, at least once. Never any answer to his calls and letters, so he drove over there. Don’t you remember him telling us, Edward? He interrupted some gathering or other — marquee on the lawn and all that. Reading between the lines, he made a bit of a scene. There were photos from the party in one of the glossies. I showed them to Keith and that’s when he told me they’d manhandled him off the property.’

‘Manhandled? Not by the gardener, by any chance?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You don’t still have that magazine, do you?’

‘In a pile somewhere.’

‘I’d be grateful if you could...’

‘Effect some archaeology?’ McKechnie nodded and smiled.

‘You know about the golf resort?’ Taylor asked Rebus.

‘A little.’

‘Meiklejohn was never going to sell. If he has his way, everything will be flattened, landscaped or built on.’

‘Which would entail doing the same to the steading currently occupied by Jess Hawkins and his friends?’

‘Ah, how much do you know about that?’

‘I know one of his lordship’s previous wives currently lives there, which gives him yet another reason to hate the place.’

‘Hawkins does seem to be somewhat of a marriage wrecker—’

‘I did think,’ Travis interrupted, leaning his elbows on the table, ‘that the nights Keith slept at the camp, maybe there was an element of reconnaissance.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘To what end?’

‘Payback,’ Travis said simply. Then, after a pause: ‘One other thing — the night he died, a motorbike rumbled past here.’

‘Not so unusual,’ Taylor said. ‘Plenty of locals use them.’

‘And tourists, too,’ McKechnie added.

‘This was pretty late, though — I was in bed; I’m sure the sound woke me up.’

‘A big bike, then?’ Rebus enquired. ‘Like the Kawasaki they keep out at Stalag Hawkins? Have you told the investigation?’

‘I’m not sure they thought it relevant — it probably isn’t.’

‘And as I say,’ Edward Taylor added, ‘lots of folk around here use them — I’ve even seen your daughter on one.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘Samantha?’

‘Riding pillion with Hawkins at the controls. Used to ride a bike myself back in my younger days.’

‘Mind you,’ Ron Travis commented, ‘size of some of our potholes, you could lose a bike in them if you’re not careful.’

The conversation continued for a further minute or so until they realised Rebus had long ago ceased listening, his mind somewhere else entirely.

Samantha eventually opened the door to him, a pained look on her face.

‘What do you want, Dad?’

‘Are you okay?’

‘What do you think?’

‘And Carrie?’

‘Still at Jenny’s.’

‘Have you told her yet?’

‘Yes.’ She attempted to blink back a tear. ‘I’m just here getting some of our stuff; we’re staying with Jenny and her mum.’

‘Julie Harris — I’ve met her. Can I come and visit?’

‘Not tonight.’ She angled her head, determined that the tears would not escape. ‘They took me to see him. To identify him, I mean. And they got my fingerprints. And all the time it was happening, I was thinking: this is what my dad used to do; this is how he spent his working life. No emotion, no warmth, just a job to be got on with.’

‘Samantha...’

‘What?’

‘I have one question that needs answering.’ She just stared at him, so he ploughed on. ‘You’re sure you’ve no inkling who sent Keith that note telling him about you and Hawkins?’

‘No.’

‘Do you remember the wording?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘I’ve learned a lot about Keith these past couple of days. He had a good heart and he cared about people. That’s why the camp fascinated him — he saw echoes in it of things that might happen again.’ He watched her recover her composure as his words sank in.

‘You’re right about that,’ she said quietly.

‘But all that passion he had tells me he might well have wanted a face-to-face with Hawkins, maybe after you had that argument?’

Samantha’s face darkened. ‘How many times do I have to say it? Jess has nothing to do with this!’

‘But is it true you sometimes went out on his motorbike?’

‘Ages back — and what the hell’s that got to do with anything?’

‘We have to give them something, Samantha — the cops, I mean. Because if we don’t, all they’ve got is you. Creasey knows you took Carrie to the commune that day. I’m guessing someone there told him.’

She scowled and turned away, disappearing down the hall. He wasn’t sure what to do, but she was suddenly back, thrusting a piece of paper at him. He took it from her. Just the one word, all in capitals, done with a thick black marker pen: LEAVE.

He looked at her for an explanation.

‘Stuck through the letter box — someone without the guts to say it to my face.’ She gestured towards the note. ‘They think I did it, and they’re not the only ones, are they?’

‘I don’t think you did it, Samantha.’

‘Then why are you so desperate to put someone else — anyone else — in the frame?’

Rebus reached out and took her by the wrist while he tried to find the right words, but she shrugged herself free and took a step back inside the house.

‘I’m closing the door now,’ she said, almost in a whisper.

‘Is it the same writing as the other note?’ Rebus asked.

Instead of answering, she shut the door.

He looked down and realised he was still holding the piece of paper.

After closing time again at The Glen, Rebus was perched on a stool, nursing a well-watered whisky. He’d asked May Collins if Helen’s sister Chrissy was still alive.

‘Died a few years back — I remember Helen heading south for the funeral.’

She was in the office now, putting the day’s takings into the safe. Cameron was outside, smoking a roll-up. Rebus took out the note and unfolded it. He felt helpless and was struggling not to turn that feeling into anger.

I don’t think you did it...

Despite everything.

He was rubbing his stinging eyes when Cameron barged back into the pub.

‘Someone’s just had a go at your car,’ he exclaimed.

‘What?’ Rebus slid from the stool and strode towards the door. He followed Cameron outside. The Saab was parked kerbside about forty feet away, the closest he had been able to get to the pub at the time. As they approached the car, Cameron walked out onto the roadway, pointing to the bodywork. He flicked his phone’s torch on so Rebus could see the damage. A long, ugly line weaving its way along both rear door and front.

‘You saw them?’ Rebus asked, running a finger along the scratch.

‘Car pulled up, driver got out. I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Drove off again. Thought it odd so I came and looked.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I was checking my phone,’ Cameron said with a shrug.

‘The car, then?’

Another shrug. ‘Mid-sized. Dark colour.’

‘Some eyewitness you make, son.’ Rebus looked around. ‘No other cars on his hit list?’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming it was a he?’

‘Think so.’

He glanced at his phone, checking for signal. ‘Go back in and get yourself a drink,’ he told Cameron. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘Sorry I didn’t...’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Rebus had already started calling Creasey’s number. He walked the length of the roadway, checking the other parked vehicles. No damage to any of them.

‘I’m off duty,’ Creasey eventually answered.

‘Murder inquiries must’ve changed since my day.’ Rebus could hear music in the background — supper-club jazz by the sound of it. ‘You at home?’

‘Enjoying a well-deserved rest and about to turn in for the night.’

‘Did you do that check on Colin Belkin?’

‘Turns out you were right.’

‘He has a record?’

‘Had to go back a few years, but yes — a few minor assaults and the like.’

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘Sent a couple of uniforms.’

‘I think they maybe pissed him off.’

‘How so?’

‘Someone just had a go at my car. Drove off when spotted.’

‘And you’re stretching that all the way to Colin Belkin? How do you reckon he got to you?’

‘Remember his friendly cop in Thurso, the one who checked up on Malcolm Fox? You could do worse than ask him.’

‘In my acres of free time, you mean? I’ll be sure to add it to the list. You think this Belkin character’s going to cause you trouble?’

‘I’ve already seen evidence of his temper. Seems to be very protective of his employer.’

‘Don’t do anything rash, John.’

‘Perish the thought, DS Creasey.’

‘And Samantha and Carrie are okay?’

‘I’ll let you get back to your jazz. Speak tomorrow.’

Rebus ended the call and went indoors. May Collins had taken the stool next to his. She was holding a glass with a half-inch of whisky in it. He saw that his own glass had been topped up. Cameron was the other side of the bar, his cider already half finished.

‘I took the liberty,’ Collins said. ‘Though if you don’t want it...’

‘After you’ve gone to the trouble of pouring it?’ Rebus lifted the whisky to his lips and took a mouthful.

‘Cameron says your car got keyed.’

‘Aye.’

‘Any idea why?’

‘Serves me right for parking in a dodgy part of town.’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming it’s not an everyday occurrence around here?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘Well, anyway...’ He held up his glass to clink it against hers, then did the same with Cameron.

‘Here’s tae us,’ Cameron said.

‘Wha’s like us?’ Collins added.

‘Might just leave it there,’ Rebus said, unwilling to finish the toast. But the words echoed in his head anyway.

Gey few, and they’re aw deid...