A Song for the Dark Times

26

The media and the rubberneckers had returned to Naver.

Lawrie Blake looked pleased with his creation when Rebus bumped into him on the street outside The Glen. The online world had magnified his original story, engendering conspiracy theories, dusting off the racier anecdotes from Ramsay Meiklejohn’s past and inventing luridly imagined versions of the anonymous threat to Samantha. Blake had his collar turned up and was wearing a large tweed cap, his phone gripped in his hand ready to record vox pops and capture photographs. Locals, however, were thin on the ground, having retreated to the relative safety of their homes. A few parents were forced to run a gauntlet of sorts as they scurried towards the school with their gawping children. Rebus was heading to the shop for a newspaper, but Blake produced one from his pocket and handed it over. Rebus unfolded it.

‘Front page, eh?’ he commented.

‘And pages three, four and five. I’ve even had a call from a press agency in London offering work. How’s your Saab?’

‘I’ve not heard. Rental’s running fine, though.’ He watched as a car cruised past, failing to find a parking space. There was TV equipment in the back. ‘You going to be talking to them?’ he asked, nodding towards the vehicle.

‘If they ask nicely. I quite fancy a move into television.’ Blake’s phone was pinging every few seconds with messages. ‘Has your daughter received any more notes?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

The reporter glanced at the pub. ‘You’re staying here rather than at hers — mind if I ask why?’

‘We’re not discussing Samantha, remember?’

Blake gave a thin smile. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying. Laura called me late last night from Edinburgh. She was asking who gave me the story.’

‘Was my name mentioned?’

‘I protect my sources, Mr Rebus.’

‘I’m sure she knows anyway. It’s a small tank we’re all swimming in.’ Rebus looked around. ‘No sign of your fellow journalist, the one you were in the pub with?’

‘She’s at Strathy Castle, I think. I’m headed there soon.’

‘Don’t expect the occupants to be overly chatty — and watch out for the gardener.’

‘Oh?’

‘Criminal record and a temper.’ Rebus put a finger to his lips as he started to unlock the rental car.

‘Going somewhere nice?’

‘You planning on tailing me?’

‘No.’

He gave the young man a hard stare. ‘Good.’

He made for the coast road, heading in the direction of Tongue. He looked to his left as he passed the backpacker café. A couple of bicycles and an old-fashioned camper van were parked out front. Ron Travis would be busy inside, catering for his guests. The Portakabin was still in place at Camp 1033, along with fluttering lengths of crime-scene tape and the same bored-looking uniform as before. Rebus sounded his horn and, having attracted the officer’s attention, stuck two fingers up as he passed. Checking in the rear-view mirror, he saw him dig a notebook out of his high-vis jacket. Doubtless he’d be noting the car’s details.

‘Good luck,’ Rebus muttered with a half-smile.

He took the cratered track to the steading, parking in the same spot as before. The logs had been dealt with and were neatly stacked, their top layer covered with a tarpaulin, next to which sat the motorbike. When the door to the farmhouse opened, Mick Sanderson stepped out. His eyes were on the rental car as he approached Rebus.

‘Your repair got me as far as a garage in Inverness,’ Rebus explained. He gestured towards the bike. ‘Another of your projects?’

‘It works well enough.’

‘And it belongs to you?’

‘Anyone who needs it can use it. You ever ridden one?’ Sanderson straddled the seat and gripped the handlebars.

‘Been out on it recently?’

‘The day I fixed your car.’

‘And before that?’

‘No idea.’

‘Who else uses it? Jess? Maybe Angharad Oates even?’

Sanderson’s smile was icy. ‘What’s your interest?’

Rebus offered a shrug, his hands sliding into his pockets. ‘Seen much of Samantha the past day or so?’

‘She’s been around.’

‘You know she was sent a threatening note?’

Sanderson’s face softened a little. He dismounted from the bike. ‘News to me.’ Rebus’s attention had shifted to the barn. Music was wafting from it. ‘Yoga class,’ Sanderson explained. ‘Want a cuppa?’

‘If you’re offering.’

Sanderson studied him. ‘I don’t think you’re our friend — unlikely it’ll ever happen — but you’re a friend’s father and that gets you a mug of tea.’ He paused. ‘But no more of your questions, okay?’

‘Fair enough, son. Lead the way.’

They walked the short distance to the farmhouse door, Sanderson pushing it open and allowing Rebus to precede him inside. The kettle was on the wood-burning stove, wisps of steam escaping its spout. Oates was seated at the dining table as before, the child on her lap. She was helping him draw a castle with coloured crayons.

‘Your old place?’ Rebus made show of guessing. ‘You must miss it.’

‘What’s he doing here?’ Oates demanded of Sanderson.

‘Tea, and then he’s going.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ Her eyes were drilling into Rebus. Rebus nodded towards the child.

‘Didn’t catch his name last time I was here.’

She thought about not answering, but then relented. ‘Bram — short for Abraham.’

‘As in Bram Stoker? Vampires and all that?’

‘Jess liked the name.’

‘And he usually gets his way, eh? Like an old-fashioned lord and master. Are you stuck here all the time, or do you make the occasional getaway?’

‘Mr Rebus is very interested in our Kawasaki,’ Sanderson explained.

‘It’s a hefty machine,’ Rebus said. ‘Just wondering if you’ve managed to master it?’

‘This is the twenty-first century, if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘So you do take it out sometimes?’

‘We all do.’

‘Those of you who’ve got a licence...’

‘We’re very law-abiding up here, Mr Rebus,’ Sanderson said, handing him a mug. ‘Milk’s in the jug, sugar in the bowl.’

Rebus placed the mug on the table and added a splash of milk. A second mug had been set in front of Oates, who accepted it without any show of thanks. Rebus took a slurp, peering over the rim of the mug to the plastic box of crayons.

‘Got any felt pens in there?’ he asked, shifting his focus to Oates. ‘Nice thick black ones?’

She leapt to her feet, hoisting a shocked Bram to her shoulder. ‘Get out!’ she barked.

‘You’re upsetting the wee one,’ Rebus chided her.

‘And you’re upsetting all of us! Now get the hell out.’

Rebus placed the mug back on the table. ‘Milk’s on the turn,’ he said. He was halfway to the door when he paused. ‘Seen anything of your ex-husband lately? People are getting a bit worried.’

Oates half turned her head towards Sanderson. ‘I swear to God, Mick, if you don’t kick him out, I will!’

Rebus held up both hands in a show of appeasement. ‘A peaceful, welcoming place — you really are all living the dream here.’ He closed the door after him and made for his car.

A few minutes later, as he passed the camp again, he prepared to sound his horn, but there was no sign of the uniform. He wasn’t much further on when his phone rang. It was Samantha, so he pulled into the backpackers’ parking area and answered.

‘It’s me,’ his daughter began.

‘I know — how are you doing?’

‘Press are all over this note I got. They wanted to photograph it but I couldn’t find it. I gave it to you, didn’t I?’

‘And I handed it to Creasey. Good news is, the publicity might stop whoever did it sending any more.’

‘It was you that alerted the media, wasn’t it?’

‘Time we got them on your side, Samantha. This isn’t much, but it’s a start.’

‘I’m not sure whether to thank you or not.’ He heard her sigh. ‘Are you still sleeping at the pub? Sofa’s available here...’

‘I appreciate that, but a bed suits me better and the wee bit of distance might be good for us. How’s Carrie doing?’

‘Devastated. She’s going to get counselling, though it might mean trips to Thurso. They can’t release the body yet, so no point planning anything.’ Her voice began to crack. ‘If they arrest me, you’ll need to make the funeral arrangements.’

‘Not going to happen, trust me.’

‘It’s hard to trust anyone right now.’ She gave a long exhalation and seemed to pick herself up a little. Rebus saw that Ron Travis had come to the door. He lowered the driver’s-side window and gave a wave. Recognising him, Travis waved back then cupped the same hand to his mouth in imitation of taking a drink. Rebus shook the offer away and turned his attention back to the conversation, making Samantha repeat what she’d just been telling him.

‘Creasey delivered it all in a bag this morning — not the clothes, I suppose they’re evidence, but stuff from Keith’s pockets. Money and credit cards. His phone’s still missing, but attached to his house keys there’s a memory stick. I’d forgotten he had it.’

‘What’s on it?’ Rebus asked quietly.

‘I’ve not looked. Can’t be important, though, or Creasey would have hung onto it.’

‘True.’ Rebus was watching Travis disappear back indoors. ‘Will you still be at home in ten minutes or so?’

‘I’m meeting Julie for a coffee. She’s picking me up so I don’t have to brave whatever’s waiting for me in the village.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus said, working the steering wheel with one hand.

27

Samantha and Julie were already in the car when Rebus arrived. Julie waved and smiled while Samantha got out, hugging him briefly before pressing the small plastic device into his hand.

‘Sorry about yesterday,’ she said.

‘Me too.’ He watched as she ducked back into the car, no hanging around. He hoped it was because of the chill wind and the sudden needles of rain. He got back into his rental and followed the two women into Naver. The TV camera crew had just packed up, and as they manoeuvred out of their space, Rebus grabbed it. The rental car was smaller than his Saab, easier to handle. He entered The Glen. May was serving coffees and teas to a table of regulars.

‘Will I be seeing you on the news tonight?’ he asked her.

‘Cheeky beggars wanted to film in here but I told them where to go.’

Rebus was waiting for her at the bar when she brought the empty tray back. He held up the memory stick. ‘Can I use your computer again?’

‘If you promise not to plant a virus.’

He promised, heading behind the bar and through the doorway into the cramped office. There was a backlog of paperwork on the large desk. On one wall was a framed photo of a younger May embracing her father outside the pub. Rebus peered at the password taped to the bottom edge of the computer screen. The hard drive was beneath the desk, and it took him some effort to lean down far enough to slot home the memory stick. Once done, he settled himself on the swivel chair. May’s face appeared in the doorway.

‘Get you a drink?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Not hungry?’

‘Not yet.’ She was looking at the screen, not quite managing to disguise her curiosity. ‘Whatever’s on here, you’ll be the first to know,’ Rebus assured her.

‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She began humming a tune as she returned to the bar. Rebus settled down to work.

A few dozen files. Most of them seemed to be individual photographs. He clicked through all of them. The camp, the dig, the history group. Then a few of Joe Collins, followed by Helen Carter, Stefan Novack and a man Rebus guessed must be Jimmy Hess’s grandad Frank. All four looked to be seated in armchairs in different living rooms. Keith had interviewed them in their own homes.

All that remained were the four audio files. Rebus managed to turn the volume up. Even so he had to angle his ear towards the small speaker on the front of the console. First up was Novack. The recording lasted just under fifty minutes. Rebus had mixed feelings as he listened to Keith’s voice; he wished again that he’d known him better in life, taken the trouble to get to know him. On the few occasions when he had phoned the house and Keith had answered, all he’d done was ask to speak to Samantha — no how are you? How’s work? How’s life treating you?

Keith was a good interviewer. He started with general chat, getting Novack used to talking. And when the questions began, they were increasingly forensic until they concentrated on the suspected poisoning and the murder of Sergeant Davies. Novack, however, had little to say on either subject. It wasn’t that he sounded evasive; it was simply that he didn’t know much.

‘Please remember, I had been released from the camp by then.’

‘But you kept in touch with the friends you’d made — sent them letters. I’m guessing they wrote back with news and gossip. And then later when you returned and started your new life...’

‘I would tell you if I could, Keith, believe me.’

The same was true of the revolver displayed in The Glen — Novack had no reason to doubt Joe Collins’ story of how he’d found it.

‘I think you have more details already than I do,’ he told Keith at one point.

Slowly the questioning petered out and they were back to general chat.

Helen Carter was next, Keith managing only twenty or so minutes with her before she drifted off to sleep. He must have known he was against the clock, because the questioning was brisker, the preliminaries curtailed — and he kept his voice raised to combat her hearing issues. He was interested in her job at the camp dispensary, her relationship with (and eventual marriage to) an internee called Friedrich. But quickly he zeroed in on her sister Chrissy and Sergeant Gareth Davies.

‘It shocked her to her core,’ Helen Carter said, voice croaky. ‘Took her years to recover. Poets write about the madness of love — but to kill a man? Nothing romantic about that, let me tell you.’

Had Chrissy been seeing Davies’s killer behind his back?

‘Hoffman? She hardly knew him — maybe smiled at him once or twice in passing. Pleasantries, you know. Thinking was, he admired her from afar but never plucked up the courage to do anything about it.’

Keith: ‘Except execute Sergeant Davies.’

‘Horrible thing to happen. We had military police crawling all over the place. But it was a day or two before they found Gareth’s revolver hidden beneath Hoffman’s mattress. He had a room of his own — didn’t share with the others. Perk of being put in charge of one bit of the camp. Wasn’t liked, though, not too many tears shed when the firing squad did their duty.’

‘What about the revolver in The Glen? It couldn’t be the one used to kill Sergeant Davies?’

‘You keep asking us about that. All I can tell you is that it turned up some time after the camp had closed, and Joe’s story is he found it washed ashore.’

‘Why put it on display?’

‘A talking point, isn’t it? No more to it than that. Your tea’s getting cold, Keith, and I’m getting tired. I know you mean well, but the past is the past is the past...’

The next file was Joe Collins himself. Keith had hardly got started before Collins cut him off.

‘It’s all about this murder, isn’t it? The murder and the poisoning — those are your interest rather than the camp itself?’

‘I’m not sure I’d agree completely with—’

‘Ach, it’s the truth and you know it. The murder weapon was found hidden in Hoffman’s quarters.’

‘Yet he protested his innocence to the end, according to the records.’

‘Which did not delay his appointment with the firing squad.’

‘They executed him in the camp, didn’t they?’

‘At dawn. We were to remain in our bunks, the doors locked. We were all awake, though; I doubt many of us had got much sleep. He made noises as he was led out.’

‘Noises?’

‘Begging for mercy, I think. Then the gunshots and the terrible silence. He was buried somewhere outside the camp. I don’t think there was ever a marker of any kind. The digging you are doing will not bring his bones to light.’

‘That’s not why we’re excavating.’

‘The money you want to spend on the camp, would it not be of more use to the community in other ways?’

Instead of answering, Keith had another question ready. ‘The revolver you say you found—’

‘The revolver I did find. This obsession will do you no good, Keith. You think I had something to do with the crime? Sergeant Davies’s revolver was taken away by the authorities as evidence. What happened to it afterwards no one knows.’

‘Tossed into the sea, perhaps?’

‘What does it matter if it was?’

‘From the accounts, there were no witnesses. Davies was ambushed somewhere between the village and the camp. His weapon was wrestled from him and he was shot in the head.’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t understand why Hoffman would hang onto the weapon.’

‘Perhaps he planned to use it again.’

‘It doesn’t seem to have been very well hidden. He could have left it anywhere, but he took it to his room.’

‘And this is what troubles you?’

‘He also doesn’t seem to have courted Chrissy Carter. The two hardly knew one another.’

‘Whatever the story, all I can tell you is that someone threw that particular revolver away — probably at the end of the war — and it was covered over by time and tide. But both of those have a way of bringing things back again, wanted and unwanted.’

‘And you put it on display because...?’

‘Not as a trophy, if that’s what you think. Am I the one who shot Gareth Davies? I answer that in the negative with all the force I can muster.’ Collins paused. ‘I cannot understand why you would spend your evenings and weekends following this hobby when you have Samantha and Carrie waiting for you at home.’

‘They’re very patient.’

‘You think so? Well, I pray you are right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing, nothing — I’m just an old man who rambles sometimes...’

As the recording ended, Rebus stood up, stretching his limbs and his spine. He wandered through to the bar, caught sight of Lawrie Blake speaking to what he assumed were other journalists, and retreated to the kitchen. There was a note on the table — Soup in pot — so he reheated the broth and sat down to eat it, feeling suddenly ravenous. He cut himself a wedge of bread to go with it and poured a glass of water from the tap.

‘A proper prisoner’s meal, that,’ May Collins said, walking into the kitchen as he was finishing.

‘Didn’t fancy the bar for some reason.’

She nodded her understanding. ‘They’re away again, though — I don’t think we’re feeding them enough titbits. How’s it going?’

‘I’ve just been listening to Keith talking with your father.’

‘I heard from the hallway. You seemed engrossed.’

‘I’m wondering how he felt about Samantha and Hawkins — he must have wondered how many people had known or suspected and hadn’t told him.’

Standing behind him, May gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. ‘Have you heard from Samantha?’

‘She’s with her pal Julie.’

‘Actually she’s with the police — or she was. They turned up at Julie’s door and took her away. That’s what I’m hearing.’

Rebus dug out his phone. No signal.

‘Try out by the caravan,’ Collins advised.

Rebus unlocked the back door and went outside. The rain had stopped, the sky bright blue. The caravan was small, maybe only a two-berth, dotted with lichen, its single window in need of a good clean. Rebus made the call. Creasey answered almost immediately.

‘Don’t,’ the detective said. ‘All we’re after is a better idea of how the deceased ties to Lord Strathy. We know they argued about the camp buyout and we know things got a bit heated when Keith barged into a social gathering at the castle.’

‘And?’

‘And Samantha’s being asked what she knew about any or all of it.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m sure she’ll tell you in the fullness of time.’

‘You’re stranding her in Inverness again?’

‘Relax, she’s a lot closer to home than that.’

‘You got the door unlocked at the station in Tongue?’

‘I wish you’d leave us to get on with our job, John.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything about the memory stick?’

‘Can I remind you for the umpteenth time — you’re not the detective here. In fact, you’re the father of our chief suspect. We don’t tend to share with anyone unless there’s good reason.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘Have you listened to it?’

‘Most of it.’

‘So you’ll agree there’s nothing there for us to get excited about? Apart from oral history buffs, I mean.’

‘The killer took his laptop, notes and phone. That has to mean something. Then there’s the gun...’

‘What about it?’

‘Say Keith was the one who took it. Maybe he thought with all our forensic advances there’d be evidence that could be gleaned from it.’

‘So?’

‘So where is it? Was it in the bag?’

‘John, the person who killed Sergeant Davies went to the firing squad.’

‘Someone went to the firing squad, certainly.’

There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘So what are we talking about here — a fit young man overpowered and murdered by someone in their nineties? Or maybe you think a ghost did it — there are plenty on social media who do. We’ve had to chase half a dozen of them away from the crime scene this week.’

Rebus leaned a hand against the side of the caravan. There were cigarette butts on the ground beneath him. He crouched to pick one up. The filter was a sliver of rolled-up cardboard. Spliffs. Looked like cider wasn’t Cameron’s only indulgence.

‘How long will you keep her?’ he asked Creasey.

‘Actually we’re done. That’s why I’ve got time to waste with you. Her friend is fetching her. Oh, and by the way — that news leak? Strathy and the anonymous note? Don’t think I’m not aware who’s behind it. So thanks a bunch for that, John. Cooperation is a two-way street, remember.’

‘Well, here’s me cooperating then, like a good citizen. The night Keith was killed, Ron Travis heard a motorbike.’

‘He mentioned it.’

‘There’s a bike at Hawkins’ compound. Available for anyone to use. Maybe ask if someone took it out that night. Oh, and the party at Strathy Castle, the one Keith was bundled out of? I reckon our friend Colin Belkin is in the frame for that. So maybe you could ease up on an innocent woman and go check those leads out...’ Rebus broke off, realising he was talking to himself. He studied his phone screen. He still had a signal. Creasey had ended the call.

‘Shitehawk,’ he muttered. Then, after another glance towards the remains of Cameron’s spliffs, he tried the door of the caravan. It was unlocked. He ducked under the lintel and took a step inside. The space was cramped and stuffy, the area around the sink cluttered with mugs and glasses. Didn’t look like the two-ring stove got much use. Breakfast cereal; some milk staying cool in a basin of water. The bed had been turned back into a table. There were American comics spread across the floor. The tiny toilet cubicle looked like it doubled as a shower, a faint aroma of waste water emanating from it.

‘Help you?’

Cameron was standing just outside the caravan, tobacco and cigarette papers in his hand. Rebus tried not to look like the guilty party as he backed out into the courtyard.

‘Just wondering if you happened to have a revolver lying about in there,’ he said.

‘What use would I have for that?’

‘Maybe there’s a collectors’ market.’

‘Steal from May?’ The barman was focused on constructing his cigarette. ‘You think I’d do that after all the kindness she’s shown me?’ His eyes finally met Rebus’s as he licked the edge of the paper.

‘Okay, let’s say you’re the shining knight then, taking it to protect someone.’

Cameron reached into the back pocket of his denims and brought out a disposable lighter. He got the cigarette going and inhaled deeply, taking pleasure in releasing the stream of smoke in Rebus’s direction.

‘Look all you want, there’s no rusty old revolver in there.’

‘You knew Keith a bit — could he have taken it?’

‘Pub was always busy when he was in.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Easier if the place was quiet, no one behind the bar. Or it happened between closing time and reopening.’

Cameron squinted through the smoke. ‘That would certainly narrow things down.’

‘Ever been in trouble with the law, son?’

‘Because I have tattoos and a few piercings, you mean?’ He gestured towards the roaches on the ground. ‘Smokes a bit of dope so he has to be a bad ’un.’ His mouth formed a sour smile. ‘Sam always said you were a bit of a dinosaur. I’m starting to see what she meant.’ A final draw on the thin cigarette and it was done. He flicked it to the ground. ‘Came out to tell you Joyce McKechnie left a bag for you. I’ve put it on the kitchen table.’

‘Thanks.’ The two men’s eyes met again and both gave slow nods. Rebus watched Cameron head indoors, waited a few moments and then followed.

The kitchen was empty, but a mug of tea sat where his soup bowl had been. He took a mouthful before opening the carrier bag. Magazines. McKechnie had folded down the relevant corners. Gatherings at Strathy Castle; events where Lord Strathy had been a guest. One showed him cutting the ribbon on an upgraded school playground. In another, he was opening a birdwatching facility in ‘the heart of the Flow Country’. To Rebus’s untrained eye, the Flow Country looked like miles and miles of bugger all: flat, treeless, colourless. But Strathy looked happy enough, or at least well fed and watered. If the society occasions were anything to go by, he liked his wine. Glass of red raised in almost every shot, mouth open as if he were about to start cheering. Pink-faced, paunchy, thinning hair and a roguish sparkle in the eye.

From the dates of publication, Rebus reckoned he knew which party it was Keith had crashed. The names of the photographed guests meant little to him, but he recognised Lady Isabella Meiklejohn and Salman bin Mahmoud. Stewart Scoular was there too, off to the right in one shot, behind someone’s shoulder in another. Siobhan had mentioned an Italian friend of bin Mahmoud’s and there was one name — Giovanni Morelli — that fitted the bill. Handsome face, arm around Lady Isabella’s waist. Wait, though... here was someone else Rebus recognised. Martin Chappell, stood next to his wife Mona. Both were holding champagne glasses and smiling for the camera. Rebus had never met Chappell, but he knew who he was.

He was Chief Constable of Police Scotland.

In the photograph, Mona Chappell was sandwiched between her husband and Stewart Scoular, as if the three were old friends. Rebus took out his phone and photographed the page a few times from different angles. Stepping outside and finding a signal, he dispatched them to Siobhan Clarke. He waited a couple of minutes, wishing he still smoked. The smell from Cameron’s roll-up lingered in his nostrils, the taste clung to the back of his throat. For luck, he touched the inhaler in his pocket. Hadn’t needed it this whole trip. He wondered if it was the quality of the air.

‘Maybe just the lack of tenement stairs,’ he said to himself, heading indoors again, scooping up the mug of tea and making for the office.

He knew the final recording would be Frank Hess. But when he clicked on it, he wondered if something had gone wrong — it wasn’t even half the length of the others. When he began to listen, he understood why. For the first few minutes everything was fine. Keith asked Hess about his post-war years, his various jobs — mostly labouring and building work — his family. But when it came to Camp 1033, Hess grew agitated.

‘I have erased it from my head — all of it.’ The voice was slightly high-pitched, Germanic but with touches of Scots intonation. ‘If others wish to remember, so be it. I want to be allowed to forget — that is my right, no?’

Keith: ‘Yes, of course. But you must have happy memories of that time too. You were allowed out of the camp most days. I believe you worked on several farms and repaired some of the dry-stone walls, walls we can still see today. You mixed easily with the local community.’

‘So what? I ask you, Keith: so what? It was long ago and everyone I knew is now dead. Why would I want to remember any of that?’

‘Helen isn’t dead; Stefan and Joe aren’t dead.’

‘As good as — and we will all be feeding the worms soon. This world is on a path to chaos. Have you not noticed? I have heard it compared to the 1930s. Everyone bitter and pointing the finger at the person they think is to blame for their misfortune. It was an ugly time then and it is an ugly time now. Please don’t ask me to dig it all up again.’

‘All I’m trying to do is—’

‘No, Keith, no — enough. I tried to tell you many times that this is not for me. Switch it off. We are finished here.’

‘There are so few of you left who remember. Just one last question about the revolver then—’

‘Enough, I said!’

A third voice interrupted. Rebus recognised it: Jimmy Hess.

‘Christ’s sake, Keith, you trying to give him a heart attack?’

‘We’re just talking, Jimmy.’

‘Maybe so, but now you’re done. You okay, Grandpa?’

‘I feel terrible.’

‘I told you he wasn’t keen,’ Jimmy Hess was saying. ‘Pack your stuff up — I’ll see you for a drink later.’

‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Frank,’ Keith apologised.

‘If that was true, you would not have come here in the first place,’ the old man barked.

‘Look, I’m switching it off,’ Keith said, at which point the recording ended.

Rebus knew now why Frank Hess hadn’t made it to the pub that evening. Maybe he had been unwell, but it wasn’t just that. What was that quote about the past being another country? There were things in his own past he would rather not linger on, too many skeletons for just the one closet.

‘How’s it all going?’ May Collins asked from the doorway.

‘How long have you been there?’

‘Not long.’ She gestured towards the empty mug. ‘Need a top-up?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Frank Hess isn’t the talkative sort, is he?’

‘Frank’s a grumpy old sod. By all accounts he was a grumpy young sod, too. His only daughter died in a car crash about ten years back. Her husband was in the car with her. He died too. Been to a party, drinking, not thinking it mattered — roads around here deserted and all that. Off the road and into a tree.’ Collins sighed. ‘Don’t think that improved his general outlook on life.’

‘So it’s just him and Jimmy?’

Collins nodded. ‘Jimmy has two sisters but they’re down south. Either one of them would take Frank, but he won’t budge. They come up sometimes, give Jimmy a bit of respite.’

‘Families, eh?’ Rebus commented, for want of anything else to say.

‘I reckon we all live too long these days, that’s the problem. What’s that film where you only get to reach a certain age? Sci-fi thing.’

‘Michael York,’ Rebus said. ‘I forget the title, but I seem to remember they were culled when they reached forty.’

‘Bad news for both of us,’ May said with a smile. ‘Did you get any joy about Sam?’

‘They’re done and dusted with her. Few questions about Keith and Lord Strathy.’

‘The land buy?’ She watched as he nodded. ‘Joyce told me about the magazines. You reckon Strathy’s vanishing act is connected?’

‘Christ knows, May.’ Rebus ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Maybe I’m not so different from the ghost-hunters who’ve been heading to the camp.’

Collins laughed. ‘I heard about that. They had equipment and everything — wands attached to machines. Waving them around, waiting for a reading.’

‘Pretty much what I’m doing here.’ Rebus nodded towards the computer.

‘You’re doing more than that.’ He sensed her reaching a hand out towards his shoulder again. He stood up and she lowered her arm. He crouched to remove the memory stick. By the time he’d straightened up, she was gone.

28

Siobhan Clarke had been to Gartcosh before, but not often and not for a while. An hour or so’s drive from Edinburgh; probably less than half that from Glasgow. The land surrounding it still had a bleak post-industrial feel. There were no houses, hotels or shops that she could see. Instead, the place sat in splendid isolation, far away from the world it investigated. The Scottish Crime Campus had the look of a modern polytechnic, albeit one protected by a high fence and whose only entry was via a guardroom. Her warrant card had been checked; she had been photographed and a visitor pass printed out.

‘Make sure it’s visible at all times,’ she was told.

Having passed through a set of glass double doors with an airlock, she waited for Fox to do the same. It was a short walk to the complex’s main entrance. During those steps, something happened to Fox. His gait became more confident and his shoulders slackened, his face relaxing. This was a place where his abilities made sense and were recognised. Clarke wondered, had their roles been reversed, whether she’d feel the same. As they crossed the atrium, he couldn’t help playing tour guide, pointing in the vague direction of the HMRC and Procurator Fiscal units. Having climbed the stairs, it was the turn of Counter-Terrorism. But they were headed to the other side of the concourse and Fox’s own domain, Major Crime.

Fox’s staff card, swinging from a lanyard around his neck, was far from a flimsy visitor’s pass and could be used to unlock at least some of the secure doors around them. He ushered Clarke inside one of these and they walked down a narrow corridor. The offices either side were identical glass boxes. His colleagues sat at computers mostly, peering at screens, sometimes speaking quietly into microphone headsets. Others were making phone calls or huddled in discussion. It all looked as exciting as an accountancy firm, the men in shirts and ties, the women wearing unshowy blouses in muted colours. There were a few waves or nods of welcome in Fox’s direction as well as inquisitive looks towards Clarke. She had spoken on the phone many times to Major Crime personnel; knew some of their names from email correspondence. But she didn’t recognise a single face.

Fox entered one of the rooms. Two desks, only one of which was occupied.

‘Where’s Robbie?’ he asked.

‘Getting a coffee,’ the bespectacled young woman said. ‘And good morning to you too, Malcolm.’

‘Sorry, Sheena,’ he apologised. ‘This is DI Clarke.’

‘Siobhan,’ Clarke added with a smile.

‘Post-it note for you on your desk,’ Sheena told Fox. He plucked it from his computer screen and read it.

‘Fraud unit,’ he explained to Clarke. ‘Far as they can tell, Scoular’s clean. Has dealings with offshore banks and corporations, but that’s not unusual in his line of work.’ He crumpled the note and flicked it into a waste-paper bin.

‘Nice to meet you, Sheena,’ Clarke said, following him as he made his purposeful exit.

A coffee cart sat on the far side of the concourse, a small chatty queue in front of it. There were seats nearby and Fox approached one of them.

‘Hiya, Robbie.’

The man looked up. He was in his thirties, head completely shaved. When he stood, Clarke saw that he was well over six feet tall and as lean as a picked bone.

‘Been away, Malcolm?’ he enquired.

‘But keeping busy — how about you?’ Fox realised that Robbie’s eyes were on Clarke, so he made the introductions.

‘Either of you want a coffee?’ Robbie asked, shaking Clarke’s hand.

‘Love one,’ she said before Fox could demur. They joined the queue. Robbie had binned his finished cup.

‘Where do you live, Siobhan?’ he asked.

‘Edinburgh. How about you?’

‘Motherwell.’

‘I go there for the football sometimes. You a fan?’

‘As it happens. What’s your team?’

‘Hibs.’

‘I feel your pain.’ Fox was beginning to look impatient with how slowly the queue was moving. ‘Malcolm’s not got time for football — or much else for that matter.’

‘That’s not true,’ Fox said defensively.

‘Last film you saw?’ Robbie asked him. ‘Last book you finished?’

‘He’s always like this,’ Fox complained to Clarke. ‘Likes nothing better than trying to wind people up.’

Robbie grinned, eyes still on Clarke. ‘Know why I get away with it?’

‘Because people need to keep on your good side?’

‘And why’s that, do you think?’

‘They’re always after some favour or other.’

‘Always after some favour or other,’ Robbie echoed, shifting his attention to Fox. ‘And it has to be done asap, especially if it’s Major Crime asking — does that pretty much sum it up, Malcolm?’

Fox had reached the head of the queue. Without asking Clarke, he ordered two cappuccinos. ‘Robbie?’ he asked.

‘Same for me.’

Having paid, there was then another long wait while the barista got to work.

‘Worth it, trust me,’ Robbie told Clarke. ‘So you get along to a game now and then?’

‘Not as often as I’d like.’

He handed her a business card. ‘If you fancy a drink before or after the next time our teams meet in battle...’

‘Siobhan’s partner is a DCI,’ Fox said in warning.

‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’

‘A DCI with scant interest in football,’ Clarke qualified, pocketing the card.

They took their coffees back to the seats, finding a quiet spot.

‘They’re supposed to be breakout areas,’ Fox said, prising the lid from his coffee so it would cool more quickly. ‘Theory is, different disciplines can mingle and share intelligence.’

‘Whereas in reality,’ Robbie said, ‘nobody shares a single bloody thing they don’t need to — scared they’ll end up not getting the credit.’

‘Not strictly accurate,’ Fox muttered into his cup.

‘But you’re absolutely right,’ Clarke told Robbie, ‘in assuming we’re just another in that long line of people who need a favour. Malcolm tells me there’s nobody to match you at Gartcosh when it comes to CCTV.’ She hoped she wasn’t laying it on too thick, but he looked the type who liked having his tummy tickled. ‘Tidying up images, turning blurs into identifiable faces and suchlike.’

Robbie gave a shrug that was mock-modest at best. ‘I like to think I’m pretty good,’ he eventually conceded.

‘Which is why we’ve driven all the way from Edinburgh to see you.’

‘The Saudi student?’ he surmised. Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Had to be, I suppose; pretty quiet in Edinburgh otherwise, no?’

‘Drugs, gangs, muggings — pretty quiet, yes.’

‘You’ve got Malcolm helping now, though. He’ll have those cleared up in no time.’

‘Unless you keep us hanging around all day,’ Fox said.

‘I assume it’s night-time footage? Not brilliant lighting? Maybe glare from headlamps making things more difficult still?’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Clarke said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Robbie, hoping her look was endearing rather than desperate.

‘It’s a car near the crime scene,’ Fox added. ‘Driving down a road to start with and then parked — we think it’s the same car.’

‘Picked up on council cameras?’

‘Does that make a difference?’ Clarke asked.

‘Speed cameras are built to read number plates. Council ones are more of a general deterrent.’

‘Not as good, in other words.’

‘If they’ve been driving around the city at night, could be they’ve triggered a speed camera anyway — empty streets, drivers often put the foot down without thinking. Red traffic lights are another possibility — road’s clear so you whizz through and the camera clocks you.’ Robbie looked at both detectives. ‘You’ve not checked, have you?’

‘No,’ Fox conceded.

‘I might as well do that too, then, eh?’ Robbie took a sip from his cup.

‘We’d be hugely grateful,’ Clarke told him.

‘You can pay me back by making sure my team gets maximum points from yours next season.’

‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Clarke said with a smile, holding out her hand to seal the deal.

They had almost reached the ground floor when Fox came to a stop, recognising the figure climbing the stairs towards them. Clarke knew the face too: ACC Jennifer Lyon. She was reading from a sheaf of papers while holding a conversation on her phone, a shoulder bag and briefcase making life no easier for her. But she ended the call when she saw Fox. The phone went into her bag along with the papers.

‘Malcolm,’ she said, managing to turn the single word into both statement and question.

‘Potential progress on the bin Mahmoud case,’ he explained. ‘Just need Robbie not to sit on it too long.’

‘I’ll see to it there’s no slacking,’ Lyon assured him.

‘This is DI Siobhan Clarke. She’s helping me today.’

‘From the look she just gave you, I’d say DI Clarke regards that as somewhat of an understatement.’ There was a thin smile for Clarke but no free hand for any more tactile greeting. Then, to Fox: ‘I need a word with you anyway, Malcolm.’ And to Clarke: ‘In private, DI Clarke. Maybe you could get yourself a coffee or something.’

Clarke watched them climb the remaining stairs, Fox gesturing for her to wait in the atrium. Instead of a coffee, she headed to the loos, seating herself and taking out her phone. Rebus had sent her some magazine photos. She studied them casually, then called him.

‘The Chief Constable,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘I’d seen some photos from the party, but not that one.’

‘Friends with Stewart Scoular, you think?’

‘It’s the first I’m hearing of it.’

‘It’s the party Keith crashed, making no friends and kicking up a fuss about the community buyout of Camp 1033.’

‘Slow down, this is all new to me.’

‘Keith wanted the Meiklejohns to sell some land to the community so they could turn Camp 1033 into a visitor attraction. He wasn’t getting any joy so gatecrashed that party. Remember the gardener?’

‘Colin Belkin?’

‘I reckon he’d be the one who kicked Keith out. I’ve met Angharad Oates, by the way, out at the compound, where she looks after Jess Hawkins’ young kid. There’s a Kawasaki there that someone might have heard on the road the night Keith was killed.’

‘Lot of threads, John. I’m guessing you’re beginning to see a pattern?’

‘Maybe. Meantime your pals Lady Isabella, bin Mahmoud and Morelli were at the selfsame party.’

‘You don’t think Keith could have had dealings with them?’

‘If only I were in a position to ask them that, the ones who’re not murder victims, I mean.’

‘There can’t be a connection...’

‘Two killings, Siobhan.’

‘Hundreds of miles apart, John.’

‘But can you ask anyway?’

‘I’m a bit busy.’

‘You don’t sound it. In fact, from the echo, I’d guess you’re on the bog.’

‘Must be your phone.’

‘If you say so. But you will talk to Meiklejohn and Morelli?’

‘I’m seeing so much of them, I might suggest a flat-share.’

‘You reckon they’re involved?’

‘We’ve got some CCTV we’re checking.’

‘Robbie Stenhouse is your man for that.’ When she didn’t answer immediately, Rebus spoke again. ‘You’ve already seen him?’

‘How the hell do you know about Robbie Stenhouse?’

‘Guy’s a legend. Did you happen to notice any other faces in those pics I might find interesting?’

‘Not really. You already know Stewart Scoular.’

‘I like how he slithers his way into every other photo. If it’s his consortium behind the golf resort, and the party was a way of buttering up potential investors, he’d be far from happy about Keith shouting the odds. Remember what happened at that Donald Trump place in Aberdeen?’

‘I watched the documentary.’

‘People like Scoular need to feel they’re controlling the story. Keith definitely wasn’t helping with that.’

‘And yet, all the dozens of newspaper profiles and mentions in the business pages, not a single word about Keith and the rest of his group. They hardly had any media presence.’

‘He didn’t pose a danger, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying he could be safely ignored.’

‘Maybe someone failed to get that message, Siobhan.’ Rebus gave a long and noisy exhalation.

‘Anything else to report?’ she asked. ‘How’s Samantha?’

‘Still not been charged. I think there’s the hint of a thaw between us, too.’

‘That’s good.’

‘You at Gartcosh right now?’

‘Waiting for Malcolm — Jennifer Lyon needed a word with him.’

‘What about?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Is this you stonewalling me?’

‘Only a bit.’

‘How’s that dog of mine doing?’

‘Not getting as much attention as he needs.’

‘A feeling we all know, eh? You any closer to a result?’

‘I’ll have a better idea once Robbie’s worked his magic.’

‘Good luck then — talk to you later.’

Clarke ended the call. She had a text from Graham Sutherland asking how it was going.

Leaving soon, she texted back.

As she exited the toilets, she saw there was still no sign of Fox. No visibly vacant seats either. A passing officer, white shirt and epaulettes, asked her if she needed help.

‘Just waiting,’ she told him with an exasperated smile. Two more minutes and she’d head back to the car; five after that and she’d be off, let Fox find his own way back to Edinburgh. But she knew she wouldn’t do it.

She needed to share the news about the Chief Constable.

Fox had been abandoned by Jennifer Lyon in her office’s anteroom, seated across from her secretary, who was busy at her computer. Finally she opened the door and crooked a finger. By the time he went in and closed the door, she was seated behind her desk.

‘Anything to report?’ she asked briskly.

‘Making progress on the bin Mahmoud inquiry.’

She dismissed this with the briefest of nods. ‘And Mr Scoular?’

Fox considered his response. ‘If there’s dirt — proper dirt, I mean — it’s well hidden. The Fraud Unit have come up empty-handed. I can show Cafferty we’ve done the work — including surveillance — but that’s about all, unless we opt to go nuclear: phone tap, computer intercept...’

‘Surveillance?’

‘Just me in my free time.’

‘Explains why you look so bleary.’ She paused. ‘But it’s appreciated.’

‘I don’t mind in the least.’

‘And no one on the team has twigged what you’re up to?’

Fox swallowed. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

‘Not even DI Clarke?’

‘No, ma’am.’ He noticed that the ACC was staring at him with almost preternatural calmness.

‘Malcolm,’ she drawled, pressing the palms of her hands together, ‘we need, you and I, to talk about Morris Gerald Cafferty...’

29

The looks on the faces of the team back in Leith ranged from expectant through hopeful to sceptical. Clarke responded with a shrug while Fox announced that the CCTV would be ‘fast-tracked’.

‘So we can expect to hear back in weeks rather than months?’ Ronnie Ogilvie posited.

‘Don’t be so negative, lad,’ George Gamble said, stifling a post-lunch belch. ‘That’s always been my job.’

There were a few tired smiles at this. Clarke had walked between the rows of desks — desks across which (Christine Esson’s aside) paperwork sprawled — and negotiated her way past further heaps of paper on the floor until she reached the Murder Wall. It was dispiriting how little of note had been added to it recently. There seemed to be not quite enough oxygen in the room. They were in danger of beginning the process of going through the motions. The look on Graham Sutherland’s face when he emerged from his lair told her he wasn’t far off telling them to go back to square one and recheck everything they’d already checked.

‘Gartcosh?’ he asked.

‘In train,’ Clarke replied.

‘Modern electric or clapped-out diesel?’

The joke was weak but merited something. She managed a twitch of the mouth. Sutherland stood next to her.

‘A sudden bout of guilty consciences would be nice,’ he stated. ‘The assailant or someone who knows them. Somebody always knows something. In the old days, we’d be on the street hearing the gossip.’

‘We could try offering a reward.’

‘It’s crossed my mind.’

‘Another press conference? Rekindle some media enthusiasm?’

‘They’ve all moved on to the elusive Lord Strathy.’

‘According to one source, he’s hanging out with Lord Lucan in a Monte Carlo casino,’ Tess Leighton piped up from behind her computer.

‘I can check that lead out if you like.’ Christine Esson had her hand raised like a kid in a classroom.

Clarke lowered her voice before asking Sutherland if he was getting any grief from on high.

‘No more than usual,’ he muttered. ‘Though the Saudis have slightly changed their tune. There’s some trade negotiation under way and they’re using our apparent incompetence as leverage. Salman has gone from persona non grata to revered martyr in pretty short order.’

‘Expediency wins the day.’

‘With us as the whipping boy.’ Sutherland stared at the wall. ‘None of which should distract us from the job at hand. You don’t think we maybe missed something early on? Worth another look at the autopsy, the scene-of-crime report—’

‘Why not the forensics too?’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Then we can bring everyone in for interview again and nudge the Met into sifting through their findings for the tenth time.’

‘I’ve reached that point, have I?’ Sutherland asked, looking sheepish.

‘Only slightly earlier than anticipated.’ This time they shared a smile.

‘Guys,’ Christine Esson called out, ‘you’re going to want to take a look at this.’

They started to gather around her desk, Clarke slowed by an incoming text on her phone. It was from Laura Smith.

‘Well, well,’ George Gamble was saying, breathing heavily after the effort of walking halfway across the room.

‘Looks like Issy Meiklejohn’s doorstep,’ Fox was saying, eyes on the news feed playing on Esson’s monitor. ‘Can you turn the sound up?’

Esson was doing just that as Clarke arrived. Several cameras and microphones were being pointed towards where Issy Meiklejohn stood, her hand gripping her father’s forearm in a show of support and apparent relief.

‘Never knew there’d be such a fuss,’ Ramsay Meiklejohn was saying, his face redder than ever, eyes darting from camera to camera, questioner to questioner.

‘Who instigated this?’ Sutherland was asking. ‘How come we’re last to know?’

‘Shh!’ Christine Esson said. Then, realising what she’d done: ‘With respect, sir.’

‘Just a few days’ much-needed R&R,’ Meiklejohn was explaining. ‘Catching up on sleep; fresh air and exercise.’

‘Somewhere nice, Lord Strathy?’ one reporter yelled from near the back of the scrum.

‘Nowhere that’s getting a free advert,’ Issy Meiklejohn broke in. ‘I’m just glad my father is back in one piece, not that I ever had any concerns. My view is that this whole charade was an attempt by the police to divert attention from their manifest failings in finding the murderer of my friend Salman bin Mahmoud. It’s their inept handling of that case that should be your focus now.’

Her father nodded along, pushing out his bottom lip to underline his wholehearted agreement.

Sutherland was jabbing the screen. It was live video from a local news website. ‘You say you know where this is?’ he asked Fox.

‘Me and Siobhan were there a couple of days back.’

‘Then why in God’s name are you still here? Go fetch!’

‘And if he’s unwilling to play ball?’

‘We’re a murder inquiry and we have questions for him. If he won’t cooperate, place him under arrest.’

Clarke’s eyes were still on the screen, focused on Meiklejohn’s daughter. ‘Might be a two-for-one deal,’ she advised.

‘So be it,’ Sutherland said. ‘Now get moving, the pair of you!’

It was not a long drive from the police station to St Stephen Street, despite the vagaries of roadworks and temporary diversions.

‘Has there ever been a time when Edinburgh hasn’t been a building site?’ Fox said through gritted teeth. They were in his car for a change. Clarke had wound her window down a couple of inches for some fresh air.

‘Are you really not going to tell me what Lyon wanted?’

‘Correct.’

‘But it was to do with Cafferty and the videos?’

‘As the Pet Shop Boys sang, my lips are sealed.’

‘That was Fun Boy Three.’

Fox’s brow furrowed. ‘You sure?’

‘Well, if you’re not going to play nice, maybe I should keep my news to myself.’

‘And what news might that be?’

‘John sent me some pics from a magazine spread at Strathy Castle.’

‘I’ve seen them.’

‘You’ve got some of them on your computer, but not these ones — one of them shows our dear Chief Constable and his wife looking very chummy next to Stewart Scoular.’ She saw him staring at her. ‘Eyes on the road, Malcolm.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘While you were meeting the ACC.’

‘And you kept it to yourself because...?’

‘I was thinking it through. Want to hear my theory?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Say the Chief Constable is one of Scoular’s investors...’

‘I’d think it’s above his pay grade, no?’

‘He could probably manage the odd few thousand — and Scoular would definitely want him on board.’

‘Other investors would certainly be reassured,’ Fox agreed.

‘My guess is, Cafferty found this out.’

‘How?’

‘Probably because Martin Chappell has the sort of name Scoular would want to drop into a lot of his conversations.’ She watched Fox nod slowly. ‘And if we were to find any dirt on Scoular...’

‘That would hasten Chappell’s retirement, so as to hide any potential embarrassment to Police Scotland.’

‘Putting Jennifer Lyon on the throne.’

‘Makes sense,’ Fox said.

‘So now I’ve told you, will you take it to the ACC?’

‘I’ll have to think.’

‘If you do go to see her, I want to be there too.’

‘Duly noted. You didn’t get round to telling Graham?’

‘No, and I think it should stay that way, unless we start to see a connection to the murder.’ Clarke’s phone was buzzing. Not a number she recognised, but she answered anyway.

‘DI Clarke?’ the voice said. ‘This is DS Creasey. I’m a member of the Keith Grant inquiry team.’

‘Yes?’

‘You’ve heard of it?’

‘I’m a friend of John Rebus. He didn’t give you my number?’

‘Actually he did — texted it to me just now, said you’d be a useful contact. Didn’t say you were friends, though.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ll keep it quick — signal comes and goes on the A9. You’ve heard about Lord Strathy’s reappearance?’

‘Yes.’ Fox gave Clarke an inquisitive look, but she ignored him.

‘I’d like to talk to him before he leaves Edinburgh. Is there any way you could facilitate that?’

‘Way ahead of you, DS Creasey. We have a few questions for him ourselves.’

‘Can you keep him busy until I get there? Might take another couple of hours.’

‘A couple? I’m guessing the speed cameras will be working overtime. Strathy will be at Leith police station for as long as we can hold him. Text me when you arrive and I’ll come meet you.’

‘I’m grateful.’

Clarke had another caller waiting. She hung up on Creasey and tapped the icon.

‘Sounds like you’re driving,’ she heard Rebus say.

‘Malcolm is. On our way to pick up his lordship.’

‘You need to ask him about the party Keith gatecrashed — we have to know what really happened.’

‘DS Creasey is on his way here as we speak. He’ll be the one with the questions.’

‘But you’ll have first dibs.’

‘And all I know about the case is what you’ve told me. Fill me in on Creasey, though.’

‘He’s capable, but not exactly inspiring. There’s a line he’s following that he expects will lead to Samantha.’

‘Not a complete idiot, though?’

‘No.’

‘And willing to drive a hundred and fifty miles to interview a minor player.’

‘Strathy might be a lot more than that, Siobhan. As far as I can tell, he’s trading on his name and the fact that he owns a castle. He’s got land he wants to develop and protest groups standing in his way. He might have seen Keith and Jess Hawkins as movable obstacles. It would be a big win for Strathy if Hawkins were to be connected to Keith’s murder.’

‘Set up to take the fall, you mean?’

‘Bear all this in mind when you’re asking your questions. Just because someone looks like Billy Bunter doesn’t mean they don’t possess low animal cunning.’ Rebus paused. ‘Any further thoughts about the Chief’s involvement?’

‘Party line is, there’s no involvement.’

‘Brushing him under the carpet?’

‘Hang on,’ she said, turning to Fox. ‘Quicker if you turn here.’ He did as he was told, only to notice a bin lorry halfway along the street, blocking the route. With a growl, he hit the brakes and began reversing. ‘I’ll talk to you later, John,’ Clarke said into her phone. ‘Right now I need to apologise for my navigational skills...’

At St Stephen Street, the media were packing up. While Fox found a parking spot, Clarke rang Issy Meiklejohn’s doorbell.

‘What?’ the intercom crackled.

‘Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she announced.

‘That didn’t take long.’

Clarke listened as the buzzer signalled that the door had been unlocked. She climbed to Issy’s landing. The door to the flat was already open. Issy stood there like a sentry.

‘Need a word with him,’ Clarke said.

‘He’s tired.’

‘Nice trick with the doorstep conference, by the way — friendly media, all hand-picked?’ She peered over the taller woman’s shoulder.

‘Come back later,’ Issy Meiklejohn demanded.

Clarke shook her head. ‘My boss wants Lord Strathy at the station. Only way this ends is with your dad accompanying me there. Nice comfortable car outside, no markings, no fuss.’

‘This is preposterous.’

She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said, her voice drifting off.

‘Wait here a minute,’ Meiklejohn said after a moment’s thought. She closed the door, leaving Clarke on the landing. Clarke gave the handle a surreptitious turn, but it was locked.

It was more like two minutes before the door opened again. Lord Strathy was dressed in an olive-green tweed suit and open-necked white shirt. He hadn’t shaved, silvery bristles showing on his jowls. He looked bemused and there was a slight whiff of whisky on his breath. His daughter had donned a three-quarter-length crimson coat, covering her black polo neck and tight trousers tucked into knee-high boots. She checked she had her keys and her phone, then ushered her father out and closed the door again. Clarke composed a quick text to Fox.

‘My father’s solicitor wants to know which station she should meet us at,’ Issy Meiklejohn said. ‘Her name’s Patricia Coleridge and she’s very, very good...’

‘I know her,’ Clarke said. She turned her attention to Lord Strathy. ‘Criminal law is her thing; interesting that’s the kind of solicitor you know.’

‘Patsy’s father went to the same school as mine,’ Issy Meiklejohn said. ‘The two families have known one another ever since.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Clarke said in an undertone as they headed down the stairs.

Issy Meiklejohn was left to fume on a chair in the corridor while her father was escorted into Interview Room B at Leith police station. Sutherland had given the nod for Clarke and Fox to ask the questions. He’d already had a word with Patricia Coleridge, assuring her that no charges were being levelled and her client was not being cautioned, adding the caveat that if he failed to cooperate, that situation could rapidly change.

Clarke knew that Coleridge’s mind would be as sharp as her business suit. She had already unzipped her large leather notebook and unscrewed the top from her expensive-looking pen. She had a thin mane of straw-blonde hair, prominent cheekbones and piercing grey eyes. A spectacles case sat untouched next to her. There would be no recording made, everything nicely informal.

Strathy looked around the small enclosed space in apparent befuddlement.

‘You don’t have to answer anything,’ Coleridge advised him as, after a peck on the cheek, he took the seat next to her. ‘A simple “no comment” will suffice.’

Fox had carried in some of the paperwork from the inquiry and was studying the timeline.

‘I doubt I can be of much use,’ Lord Strathy announced, hands held out in front of him, palms upwards.

‘Where have you been the past few days?’ Clarke asked, jumping straight in.

‘No comment.’

‘Around the time you disappeared, there were two murders. One here and one up north. Odd coincidence, you going to ground.’

‘No connection, I assure you.’

‘You knew we’d want to question you — afraid of what you might let slip?’

Coleridge gave a theatrical sigh as she played with her pen. ‘Is crass speculation all you have to offer us, DI Clarke?’

Clarke ignored her, maintaining eye contact with Ramsay Meiklejohn. ‘When was the last time you saw Salman bin Mahmoud?’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Weeks ago.’

‘How many?’

‘Four or five maybe.’

‘Here or up north?’

‘In London. A small gathering at his home.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘A bit of both, I suppose — no such thing as a free meal these days, eh?’ He turned to smile at his lawyer, who remained solemn-faced.

‘Remember,’ she reminded him, ‘“no comment” will do.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Patsy,’ Meiklejohn told her.

‘Yet you can’t account for your whereabouts these past few days,’ Fox stated.

Meiklejohn turned his attention back to the two detectives. ‘I can account for them perfectly well. I merely choose not to.’

‘But you weren’t in hiding?’

‘No.’

‘And it’s not that you were running scared?’ Clarke added. ‘I don’t mean scared of us questioning you — scared of something or someone else?’

‘Absolutely not.’ But neither detective could miss that he shifted a little in his seat as he spoke.

His lawyer attempted to deflect attention with a query of her own. ‘It might help if we knew precisely why you think Lord Strathy can help you with any of this. Salman bin Mahmoud was a business acquaintance, nothing more.’

‘Business relationships can go sour, though, especially where large sums are concerned. The golf resort near Naver was projected to cost tens of millions, quite a few of those making their way into your pocket, Lord Strathy. Salman bin Mahmoud was one of your investors, yes?’

‘In a very minor way.’

‘He owed you money?’

‘On the contrary — he was preparing to top up his initial investment. His death came as a shock and a blow.’

‘A financial blow, you mean?’ Strathy nodded. ‘What about the buyout of Craigentinny golf course — were you involved in that too?’

‘Not in any monetary sense. Stewart Scoular had mentioned it, of course.’

‘How well do you know Mr Scoular?’

‘We do business occasionally.’

‘But he’s invited to your parties, the ones you host at Strathy Castle?’ Clarke gestured to Fox, who removed the magazine photos from their folder, placing them on the table. A sunny, windy day; smiling faces outside a large white marquee; champagne flutes held aloft.

‘There’s Salman bin Mahmoud,’ Clarke said, pointing. ‘And there’s Stewart Scoular.’

‘And your own Chief Constable,’ Meiklejohn countered. ‘An acquaintance of mine, you know.’

‘Meaning an investor?’

‘Is this going anywhere?’ Coleridge interrupted, checking her slim gold wristwatch.

‘This was the day of the incident, wasn’t it?’ Clarke was asking. ‘A man called Keith Grant came barging in...’

‘Was it the same day?’ Meiklejohn sounded genuinely uncertain.

‘The same Keith Grant who was murdered in one of the huts at Camp 1033, on land you own, just a few days after Salman bin Mahmoud met his end.’

‘All of which I’m sure is very interesting,’ Coleridge broke in again, ‘but I think you’ve had quite enough of my client’s time.’ She closed her notebook with a flourish and began screwing the top back on her pen, having written precisely nothing.

‘Two projects,’ Clarke pressed on. ‘Two men connected to them end up dead, and suddenly you, Lord Strathy, are nowhere to be found.’

‘We’re walking,’ Patricia Coleridge said, nudging her client as she rose to her feet.

‘An officer from Inverness is on his way here with some further questions for Lord Strathy,’ Clarke told her.

‘Unless you’re arresting my client, Inspector, we’re leaving right now.’

‘If you’re scared, we can protect you,’ Fox announced, leaning across the table so he had Meiklejohn’s attention. ‘Is it Stewart Scoular — is that who you’re afraid of?’

‘No comment,’ Meiklejohn stuttered, beginning to pull himself up to standing.

‘Your daughter is in business with you, yes?’ Clarke asked, her tone hardening. ‘Funny she didn’t mention you visiting the victim’s home in London.’

‘No reason she should know.’ Meiklejohn had begun coughing, and as he stood up, he had to steady himself, hands gripping the back of his chair. But when he tried to move, his knees buckled, his face growing more crimson than ever, wincing in pain. Coleridge had pushed open the door.

‘Issy!’ she called. But Issy Meiklejohn was right there, her mouth open in shock as she saw her father. Clarke was already on the phone, summoning a paramedic.

‘There’s a defibrillator in the building,’ Fox was saying.

Lord Strathy was bent forward, hand to his chest, flanked by the two young women.

‘We need an ambulance!’ Issy yelped.

‘I’ll be all right,’ he told her, his free hand patting the back of hers. ‘Just need a bit of air.’

‘You’re going to the hospital,’ she said, her tone firm. Then, to Patricia Coleridge: ‘How could you let them do this, Patsy? How could you?’

The look Coleridge cast towards Clarke and Fox left them in no doubt that she would find a way to deflect the blame onto them if she possibly could.

Graham Sutherland had appeared in the doorway, other officers and support staff vying for a better view of the drama. When he locked eyes with Clarke, she managed nothing more than a lifting of one eyebrow. He’d told her once that he found it charming, though she rather doubted its power over him right this second.

30

When Creasey’s text arrived, she went downstairs to greet him. He had parked somewhere by Leith Links and was walking along Queen Charlotte Street towards her.

‘DI Clarke?’ he guessed, waving a hand.

‘How was the drive?’

‘About what you’d imagine.’ He was making to pass her and enter the police station, but froze when he saw the look on her face. ‘You let him go?’

‘He was rushed to hospital. Chest pains.’

‘Faking it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Shit.’ He angled his head heavenwards. ‘Did he tell you anything useful?’

‘Not especially.’

‘The interview was taped, though?’

‘Afraid not.’

He lowered his head to gaze at her. ‘Really?’

‘We were trying to keep it casual.’

‘How far is the hospital?’

‘They won’t let you see him.’

‘I need to try.’

‘You don’t want a coffee or anything first?’ Clarke watched as he shook his head. ‘We’ll take my car, then. You could probably do with a break.’

‘I could definitely do with a break — my hope was, Lord Strathy might be it...’

Clarke texted Fox to let him know the score while she led Creasey to her Vauxhall Astra. They drove in silence for the first few minutes, Creasey leaning back into the headrest.

‘The A9 hasn’t improved then?’ she commented. ‘Still, must be nice to get away from John for a bit.’

Creasey snorted. ‘He’s a piece of work, as they say.’

‘Not many things I’ve not heard him called. Good detective, though; never gives a case a minute’s rest.’ She paused. ‘You think Samantha did it?’

‘Her or her lover — that would be the standard scenario.’

‘So those are your chief suspects?’

‘Everyone but John Rebus thinks so. He’s got half a dozen conspiracy theories lined up.’ He half turned in his seat so he was facing her. ‘Smoke and mirrors most likely.’

‘And yet here you are, DS Creasey.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘One of John’s theories has brought you all the way to Edinburgh. He thinks you maybe lack imagination — your trip here tells me he’s wrong.’

‘You worked with him for a long time?’

‘Felt like.’

‘He doesn’t seem to be relishing retirement. I know his daughter’s freedom and good name are on the line, so he’s desperate — but I also sense he’s enjoying it, though maybe he wouldn’t see it that way.’

Clarke was reminded of the case files stacked up in Rebus’s new flat. She knew he was planning to break open the unsolveds. Something to keep me warm in my old age...

‘I think he feels he let Samantha down,’ she confided. ‘Not just once, but over and over.’

‘And now’s his chance to atone?’ Creasey chewed on this while staring at the passing parade of shops. ‘I should have asked — how’s your own case looking?’

‘Like you, we could use a break.’

‘They are two distinct cases?’

Clarke nodded. ‘With a few linked players. Your victim wasn’t making himself popular with Lord Strathy; Lord Strathy had business dealings with the bin Mahmoud family; my victim was best friends with Lord Strathy’s daughter. And so far no clear motive in either case.’

‘I told you I’ve got a motive.’

‘Jealousy? A love triangle? I don’t think you believe that.’

‘She’d visited her ex-lover the day her partner was killed. He found out and they argued.’

‘So they leave their daughter alone in the house and drive to the internment camp? Does that make sense to you?’

Instead of answering, Creasey leaned back into the headrest again and closed his eyes.

‘Not too much further,’ Clarke reassured him. Then: ‘We’re finding Lady Isabella a bit interesting. I think she has a head for business, though she hides it well. From what little I’ve seen of her father, he’s far from CEO material.’

‘He’s a figurehead, you mean? His daughter tucked away behind the curtain, pulling the strings?’

‘She’s close to Stewart Scoular — he’s the contractor who seems to sign up the investors.’

‘He’s also been a guest at Strathy Castle.’

Clarke glanced at him. ‘Yes, he has.’

‘I can do a Google photo search as well as the next person,’ Creasey explained.

Clarke’s attention was flitting between the windscreen and a new message on her phone.

‘Want me to read it out to you?’ Creasey asked.

‘Just an MIT colleague, wondering how long I’ll be.’

‘They’re missing you already?’

Clarke shook her head slowly. ‘Just pissed off I’m dodging the flak.’

‘You’re being blamed for Strathy’s collapse?’

‘In my absence, almost certainly.’

‘But you weren’t alone in the room with him?’

‘I was with another DI called Fox.’

‘The one whose identity Rebus stole?’

‘Yes.’

‘So this Fox guy will have your back?’

A wry smile just about broke across Clarke’s face as she signalled to take the exit into the grounds of the Royal Infirmary.

Having been told to wait in the A&E reception, Clarke fetched them a hot chocolate apiece.

‘About as nutritious as the machine gets,’ she apologised.

Creasey took an exploratory sip and winced. ‘Christ, that’s sweet.’

Clarke settled next to him on the row of hard plastic chairs. ‘So how are you finding our capital city so far?’

He managed a weak smile, but didn’t speak. A couple of minutes later, he was on his feet, pacing the waiting area. None of the patients paid him any heed, too busy with their own troubles. He didn’t look sick, which probably made him a concerned friend or relative. Clarke had been to this place many times before, could even put names to some of the green-uniformed paramedics. It wasn’t a particularly busy evening; on the surface, all was calm. But she knew that behind the scenes there could be trolleys filled with people waiting for beds to be freed up elsewhere in the hospital, forgotten about for the moment as some new and greater trauma took precedence. Creasey had his phone out, reading from the screen as he walked to and fro. Eventually he ran out of things to check, seating himself again and picking up the beaker of hot chocolate, studying the skin forming on its surface.

‘You’ll be late home,’ Clarke offered. ‘One thing about this job — it plays havoc with everything else. You live in Inverness?’

‘Culloden.’

‘Married?’

‘Not yet. You?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘My boyfriend says maybe next year.’

‘What does he do?’ Clarke asked.

‘He’s a GP.’

‘Two sets of unsociable hours to juggle.’ She was rewarded with another fleeting smile. ‘I’ve been dating another cop lately; not sure that’s going to work out.’

‘Things mostly do, though, don’t they?’

‘I suppose...’ She broke off as Issy Meiklejohn came striding towards them from the guts of A&E. Clarke and Creasey both got to their feet.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Creasey,’ Creasey said by way of introduction. But Issy Meiklejohn’s ire was directed at Clarke.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’

‘Not my idea,’ Clarke offered. ‘How is your father?’

‘Undergoing tests as we speak.’

‘I was hoping for a word,’ Creasey stated. At last he had Meiklejohn’s attention.

‘Why?’

‘I’m part of the team investigating the death of Keith Grant.’

‘What on earth has that got to do with my father?’

‘We’re talking to everyone who knew the deceased.’

‘In which case you’re wasting your time.’

‘Mr Grant was keen for your father to sell the land housing Camp 1033. I believe things became quite heated.’

‘My father made it perfectly clear that there would be no sale. The sum proposed was a pittance in any case. End of story.’

‘All the same...’

Meiklejohn took a step closer, her forehead inches from Creasey’s. ‘End. Of. Story.’ Then, turning towards Clarke, ‘Our solicitor is preparing a complaint with reference to your conduct.’

‘Noted. And I really do hope your father’s okay.’

Meiklejohn’s face softened just a little, the tension leaving her jaw. ‘Thank you. There’s no immediate cause for alarm.’ Her eyes lingered on Clarke for a further moment before she turned and walked away. She’d got as far as the reception desk when she paused, seemingly lost in thought. Then she turned once more and retraced her steps.

‘A word in private, she said to Clarke, ‘if you please.’ She quickly ruled out both the waiting area and the outside world and headed to the women’s toilet instead. Clarke gave Creasey a shrug before following.

Behind the door stood two narrow cubicles and a single hand basin. Meiklejohn seemed satisfied that neither cubicle was being used. She rested her considerable frame against the door, barring entry to anyone else.

‘Can I trust you?’ she demanded.

‘That depends.’

‘Neither of these cases concerns my father. So if I were to reveal something to you, there’d be no need for you to share it with anyone else.’

‘The reason he’s been lying low?’

‘He’s frantic, you know. He feels that any association with a criminal case will not only tarnish his good name, but might also jeopardise his future business dealings. He wasn’t in hiding, not from your enquiries and not from anyone he feared.’

‘I’m listening...’

Meiklejohn looked to the heavens — or at least the stained ceiling — for guidance. ‘This goes no further?’

‘Unless I judge it to be pertinent.’

‘All I want is for you to stop harassing my father.’

‘With respect, I don’t think that’s—’

‘He’s having an affair, all right?’ Meiklejohn blurted out. ‘A woman in London. She’s married. Her husband doesn’t know anything about it. All very clandestine.’

‘Yet he confided in you?’

‘He always has.’ She made it sound like a burden. ‘Anyway, past few days the woman’s husband was overseas. It was their first chance to spend some serious time together, so that’s what they did. Rented apartment, food delivered, drinks cabinet well stocked. It was only towards the end that he bothered checking the news and saw himself featured. Came to me straight away.’

‘Because you’re good at fixing things.’ It was statement rather than question. ‘The woman involved will back this up?’

‘I’m not giving you her name.’ Meiklejohn folded her arms.

‘Tough to let this go without corroboration, Issy.’

‘What if I ask her to contact you? Give me your number.’

Clarke recited it while Meiklejohn tapped it into her phone.

‘I’m trusting you, Inspector. Please don’t let me down.’ She turned to pull open the door.

‘While I’ve got you here...’ Clarke said.

‘Yes?’

‘Keith Grant.’

‘What about him?’

‘The day he gatecrashed your father’s party...’

‘Hugely embarrassing.’

‘It was a pitch to potential investors?’ Meiklejohn nodded. ‘Was that the only time you met him?’

‘I didn’t meet him per se. He just came stomping across the lawn towards us shouting about that bloody camp.’

‘Until ejected by Colin Belkin?’

Meiklejohn peered at her. ‘You’re awfully well informed.’

‘I like to be.’

‘My father told me afterwards who he was — I knew about the camp, of course, and the mad plans some people had for it.’ She offered a shrug.

‘Jess Hawkins was a bigger thorn in your father’s side?’

‘It’s a waiting game. Next year there’s a revaluation — hike the rent and the raggle-taggle gypsies will have to move on.’

‘Including your ex-stepmother.’

‘No great loss to either my father or me.’

‘Well, it’s not as if he lacks for female company.’

‘That remark is beneath you, Ms Clarke.’

‘Detective Inspector Clarke, actually.’

‘Can I go?’

‘Answer me one thing first — Lord Strathy tells us he visited Mr bin Mahmoud in London only a few weeks prior to his death.’

‘Yes?’

‘So why did you lie?’

‘I didn’t,’ Meiklejohn bristled.

‘Neither he nor Salman mentioned it to you?’

‘Obviously not.’

‘Cooking something up between them without your knowledge?’

For a moment it looked as though Meiklejohn would give an answer, but with a cold smile she pulled open the door and made her exit. Clarke stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection without really seeing it. Then her phone buzzed with an incoming call: John Rebus.

‘Nothing much to report,’ she told him, pressing the phone to her ear. ‘Strathy was lawyered up, didn’t say much, then collapsed and is currently in A&E.’

‘Just another day at the office, eh? Did Creasey make it down in time?’

‘No. He’s here with me at the Infirmary.’

‘Strathy didn’t give you any plausible explanation for his vanishing act?’

‘He may have had his reasons — nothing to do with either case. I’m having his story checked.’

‘The story being...?’

‘Need-to-know basis, John.’

‘Precisely why I’m asking.’

‘Maybe later, eh?’ She paused. ‘Creasey seems pretty good at what he does.’

‘She said, attempting to redirect the conversation.’

‘I can’t discuss it, not at the moment.’

‘Will Creasey get the chance to speak with Strathy?’

‘Probably not tonight. He’s undergoing tests with his daughter standing guard.’ Clarke had a sudden thought and yanked open the toilet door. No sign of Creasey in the reception area. Given his chance, he had taken it. ‘Got to go,’ she told Rebus, ending the call. Raised voices came from behind the partition to the rear of the reception desk. Clarke had just reached it when Creasey was escorted out by two orderlies, Issy Meiklejohn bringing up the loudly angry rear.

‘That’s one more complaint!’ she bellowed in Clarke’s direction before disappearing behind the partition again. Creasey was holding up both hands in a show of surrender, so after a final glower, the orderlies followed Meiklejohn. Creasey made show of readjusting his jacket and tie.

‘That wasn’t exactly clever,’ Clarke told him.

‘Bet you’d have done the same, though.’

She couldn’t disagree. ‘And?’

‘He was wearing an oxygen mask. Doubt I could have made anything out even if he’d been willing.’

‘She will make that complaint, you know.’

‘Maybe you could intercede, now she’s your bestie.’ Creasey indicated the toilet. His own phone was ringing. ‘Better answer this,’ he said, walking towards the exit.

‘Never a dull moment, eh?’ a voice piped up.

Clarke looked down at the seated figure who had spoken. A young man cradling his injured shoulder.

‘Know what an ex-colleague of mine would say to that?’

‘What?’ he asked.

‘One of Rod Stewart’s finest...’

She was about to join Creasey outside — nothing to be gained from hanging around A&E any longer — when he burst in through the doors.

‘I have to head north.’ He looked distracted, eyes everywhere but on her.

‘What’s up?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Now his eyes did meet hers, albeit briefly. He led her outside by the forearm, checking to left and right for potential eavesdroppers.

‘We may just have found the murder weapon.’

‘The revolver?’

‘Rebus told you?’ He watched her nod. ‘Looks like matted blood and human hair on the grip.’

‘Found where?’

‘Just off the road, edge of a field. I have to get back right now.’

‘Car’s this way,’ she said, leading him to the Astra.

While they drove, Creasey busied himself with calls. The revolver would be taken for forensic examination. The search around the drop spot would be resumed and intensified, in case the killer had ditched anything else: bloodied clothing maybe, or the items missing from the satchel. The press would learn about it soon enough, so a press conference might be an idea, with one of Creasey’s bosses made ready to read out a statement.

‘Let’s try to keep this under wraps, eh?’ Creasey concluded. ‘And job well done — make sure the team get that message. No slacking, though. If anything, we need to be busier than ever.’

‘How big is the team?’ Clarke asked when he’d finished.

‘We’re stretched,’ he admitted.

‘Commuting from Inverness?’

‘We’ve put together a base at Tongue. Officers from Thurso, Wick, Ullapool, Dingwall... all over really. You’ve got it easy down here, all the resources you need.’

‘Lives of pampered luxury,’ Clarke commented. ‘Which means I can offer you a sandwich before you leave.’

Creasey shook his head. ‘I’ll stop for petrol on the way, grab something then.’ There was a gleam in his eye, the gleam all self-respecting detectives got when sensing a break in a difficult case. ‘It was your old friend John who noticed the revolver, you know, noticed it was missing from behind the bar of The Glen.’

‘Work out who took it and you’ve got your murderer.’

But Creasey was shaking his head. ‘Most likely culprit is the victim himself. Part of his obsession with the camp. Might just have been in his satchel.’

‘So how come the killer used it? If it was safely hidden in the satchel, I mean?’

‘Maybe Keith got it out thinking he could scare them off, and they took it off him. Or else the killer knew it was there and wanted it.’

‘A rusty old wartime revolver?’

Some of the initial excitement was leaving Creasey’s face. ‘Lot of work still to be done,’ he agreed.

‘Just as well you’ll be nice and fresh in the morning then.’

‘I’ll manage,’ he said. Clarke didn’t doubt it for a moment.

At Leith Links there was the briefest of handshakes before he drove off. As his car disappeared into the distance, Clarke took out her phone and called Rebus.

Call failed.

She tried again with the same result, so composed a text instead.

Revolver located. Creasey rushing back.

Then she pressed send.

Fox must have seen her from the office window. He had come downstairs and was on the police station’s doorstep.

‘I hope you’ve got news,’ he said.

She made eye contact and held it. ‘Can I trust you?’ she asked.

‘You know you can.’

‘Really, though?’

But then when it came down to it, what did she owe Issy Meiklejohn? And how far could she trust her?

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but let’s grab a bite first — I’m bloody famished.’

31

Rebus was in his car, heading out towards the camp. Siobhan’s text had taken its time reaching him and Creasey wasn’t answering his phone. The camp and its yellow Portakabin were on his way to the police station at Tongue. At one or the other he was hoping for answers. But before he was halfway there, he began to see lights — not on the road, but behind a low dry-stone wall. A couple of officers in high-vis clothing were by the roadside, torches sweeping the ground around them, despite there being plenty of light left in the evening sky. As Rebus slowed, they waved him on. He drew to a halt and began to reverse. One of the officers was quick to approach, standing behind the car so that he had to brake. The man then came to the side window, which Rebus had already lowered.

‘Keep moving, sir,’ the officer commanded.

Instead of complying, Rebus undid his seat belt and got out. ‘Just wanted to congratulate you,’ he said. The officer was intent on blocking him from getting any closer to the search party. ‘On finding the gun, I mean,’ he continued. ‘I was going to say well done to DS Creasey. He’s not about, is he?’

‘Back in the vehicle, please, sir.’

‘It’s a long drive from Edinburgh for him, isn’t it? There and back in a day. But he’ll want to see if you turn up anything else — maybe the phone or laptop...’

The officer was having none of it. He had stretched both arms out, forming a one-man shield. Over his shoulder Rebus could make out the small white tent they’d erected. There was a lamp shining inside it.

‘Forensics still here?’ he speculated. ‘Late one for them.’

‘Sir...’

‘Revolver will already have gone for analysis — bit of a priority, I’d imagine. Turned up anything else?’

‘I’m going to have to arrest you. And I’ll make sure you’re taken to a nice, far-distant police station for processing, Mr Rebus.’

Finally Rebus made eye contact. It was the officer from Camp 1033, the one he’d given the V-sign to.

‘Just naturally nosy,’ he explained.

‘Doesn’t mean you can’t spend a night in the cells. Not quite as comfortable as a bed at The Glen, so why don’t you turn your car around and go back there?’

‘You’ll let Creasey know I was asking for him?’

‘You can count on it.’

Defeated, Rebus got back behind the wheel. But before moving off, he composed a text and sent it to Creasey: See you in the pub? Took a while for it to go — one single bar of signal. With the help of a passing place, he did a three-point turn and drove slowly towards Naver. The officer flicked the Vs as he passed.

‘Fair play to you,’ Rebus said as he returned the gesture through the open driver’s-side window.

He’d been seated at a corner table for over an hour, skimming one newspaper after another and even a months-old magazine about angling. Now that Lord Strathy had raised his head above the parapet, the media interest had evaporated. May had vetoed the turning-on of the TV. She’d put Rebus in charge of the music, which was why Siobhan Clarke’s CD was playing.

‘You know how to liven up a pub,’ she’d teased him, topping up his glass of cola.

He hadn’t told her about the gun. Creasey’s team would want her or her dad to identify it, after which the fun and games would start. But that could wait till tomorrow — May looked exhausted, the busy days taking their toll. Even Cameron appeared to be flagging. Rebus glanced at the single security camera, fixed to a corner of the high ceiling. As May had already admitted, it was for show only, never turned on.

‘But don’t tell the insurance that,’ she had added.

When his phone sounded, Rebus snatched at it. Creasey’s voice sounded echoey, almost as if he were calling from an orbiting spaceship. Rebus walked outside and stopped on the deserted pavement.

‘Was it good fortune or good policing?’ he asked.

‘I assume Siobhan Clarke spilled the beans, right after promising to my face that I could trust her.’

‘Trust has to be earned — that’s why she trusts me. So talk me through it.’

‘Pretty straightforward really. Weapon wasn’t found at the scene, so stood to reason the killer took it. They were most probably in the victim’s car, driving it back to Naver. They realise they’ve got the murder weapon sitting right there next to them, so they wind down the window and toss it.’

‘And leave the window open — explains why the passenger seat was damp.’

‘Maybe trying to clear their head,’ Creasey said. ‘It rained that night but not until two a.m. Car was most likely in the lay-by by then.’

‘They must have been fairly sure the gun would have no prints on it.’

‘If they were thinking straight, yes.’

‘No blood on the seat, though...’

‘Maybe the revolver was lying on the notes or the computer. And to go back to your first question, once I had my hypothesis, I decided to test it by having officers walk the length of the route from the camp to where the Volvo was abandoned, some on the road itself, checking the ditches, others in the fields either side.’

‘Proper policing,’ Rebus conceded. ‘I bet the ones you sent out loved you for it, too.’

‘They’re loving me now — though my bank manager won’t.’

‘Beers all round, eh? Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that some of them are still hard at it. What time do you think you’ll be back?’

‘I’m heading to Inverness.’

‘Good luck finding someone in the lab this time of night.’

‘Overtime’s been approved and a willing body or two found.’ Creasey paused. ‘I just need to see it with my own eyes, John.’

‘Any chance you could send me a photo?’

‘So you can go shoving it in the face of everyone on your list of likely suspects? I don’t think so.’

‘Reckon you’ll get prints? God knows how many pub regulars have handled it down the years.’

‘All that’s for later. I’ll catch up with you sometime tomorrow. Until I do — play nice.’

‘Did you get talking to Siobhan about me?’

‘A little.’

‘Then you probably know playing nice doesn’t feature heavily on my list of qualities. Have fun at the lab, son.’

‘John...’ Sounded to Rebus as though another warning was coming, but he’d already ended the call.

Cole Burnett lay on his bed, earbuds in, music pounding in an attempt to overwhelm his thoughts. It wasn’t working, though, not tonight. His parents were out, Christ knew where. Pub, party, dogging site. He barely exchanged a word with them these days. Stuck to his bedroom, smoking his weed and dropping tabs. One of them might put their head around the door occasionally, mutter something about food being on the table. He was never hungry; he’d eat later. At dead of night he might raid the fridge or get some toast and jam on the go, if either of them had bothered to buy bread.

Tonight he had a multipack of crisps and a jar of peanut butter. Scoop the peanut butter out with a finger and suck on it. Brilliant stuff. To wash it down he had a four-pack of energy drinks, half-bottle of vodka, litre of lemonade. King of his castle, blinds open, window ajar. The posters on his walls harked back to childhood — Marvel superheroes and cartoon characters. Plus one from the Walking Dead TV show and one from Narcos. He loved Narcos. The doing he’d got at the hands of Cafferty and his sidekick, that would have turned out a lot differently — a lot differently — if he had been able to pull a gun from his waistband. He knew where to get one, too. People who knew people. Expensive, though, and up until now, while sometimes fantasising about the power that ownership would confer, he’d never felt the urgent need.

But that was changing. And he’d heard that if you rented and brought it back unused, you’d get a decent chunk of the deposit refunded. Fired, there might be a bit of money due, but not much. Traceability, he’d been told. Bullets could be matched to the pieces that had fired them.

‘So here’s a tip for you, Cole — if you use the thing, dig the bullet out of wherever it’s ended up. Do not leave it at the scene.’

He replayed the conversation in his head as he stared at the ceiling, hands clasped around the back of his head. He thought of Les’s aunt, of her home of nine years being turned into a factory. She’d be the one going to jail when the bust came. Cafferty would remain nicely distanced from the fallout. He lived in a top-floor flat in a nice part of town. He had his club and his big car and his hangers-on. He had a lot of things Cole wanted. Yet who was he? What was he? Just another fucker who got lucky. Wasn’t like he had an invisibility cloak or some Marvel-style weaponry. His only shield was his rep; the sort of hard man drunks talked pish about in old men’s pubs.

Cole raised himself up from his prone position, swung his feet off the bed and onto the carpeted floor. Stopped the music. Walked to the window, pushing it as far open as it would go. He wanted to stick his head out and howl at the sky, a sky that had only just turned dark.

Instead of which, he returned to the bed. Sat on it. Looked at his phone. Gnawed on his bottom lip. Made his decision and called the number.

‘Fuck is it?’ the voice at the other end demanded.

‘I can get you the dough,’ Cole said. ‘So how soon can I have it?’

‘You fussed about make and model?’

‘As long as it works.’

‘Tomorrow then. Deets later.’

The call was ended. Cole picked up the open can of energy drink and took a slug before starting to text some mates. Time to ask a few favours...