by Ian Rankin
‘Cameron was telling me about the gun,’ Rebus said.
‘Oh aye?’
‘You got rid of it?’
‘Not quite.’ She settled on her stool again. ‘It went walkies.’
‘Someone stole it?’
Collins shrugged. ‘At first I thought Dad must have it, but he didn’t. It’s rusted to buggery, though, so there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘But you reported it?’
‘It’ll turn up. Soon as one of the kids starts waving it about, I’ll know.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Month or so.’
‘What does your dad think?’
She took a sip before answering. ‘He’s surprised I hung onto it as long as I did.’
‘It dates back to the war?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘But your dad was a POW, right.’
‘He was an internee, yes.’
‘So he wouldn’t have had a gun.’
‘He found it washed ashore sometime in the fifties, so the story goes.’ She put her glass down. ‘What’s this about, John?’
‘Keith was passionate about Camp 1033. He’d even slept there a few nights. Whoever killed him probably took the contents of his satchel–meaning his research. I’m told he interviewed your father as well as you and a few other survivors, but there’s no sign of any of that among the stuff in his garage.’
Collins considered this. ‘You want to talk to Dad?’
‘And the others, if possible.’
‘I could invite them round.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘Phone them in the morning, see if it can happen before opening time. What do you say?’
‘I say thank you.’
‘You really think it’ll help?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Will the police want to talk to them too?’
‘If they’re being thorough.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘Creasey seems competent enough, but I know how these things work–they won’t all be like him.’
‘Well, we’ll see what happens tomorrow. For tonight, I’m just glad I’ve got a knight staying under my roof.’
‘Despite his creaking armour?’
‘Not forgetting his clapped-out steed.’ Collins couldn’t hide the fatigue as she slid off the stool. ‘Let’s put the lights out and head up.’
‘You probably knew Keith a lot better than I did. In truth, I hardly knew him at all. What was he like?’
‘He was quiet, but he had personality. Everyone loved him, and you could see he doted on Carrie.’
‘When Samantha started seeing Jess Hawkins, that must have hurt. Do you really think they patched things up? Properly, I mean?’
‘They seemed all right.’ Collins considered for a moment. ‘I suppose we all tiptoed around it.’
‘There was never any reckoning between Keith and Hawkins?’
‘Maybe some words, but not blows as far as I know.’
‘Samantha told me they only met the once. Sounded like that was well before the falling-out.’
‘Maybe I’m wrong then.’
‘You know he found out about Hawkins from an anonymous note–any thoughts on who would do something like that?’
‘I don’t like the idea that anybody would do that.’ She made eye contact with Rebus. ‘If you’re asking me whether Keith might have bottled his feelings up–it’s entirely possible. I’m sure it rankled that the whole village knew. Must have gnawed away at him, wondering why none of them had said anything. He was definitely a bit more withdrawn afterwards.’
‘And putting all his efforts into Camp 1033…’ Rebus’s phone alerted him to an incoming text.
‘Samantha?’ Collins enquired.
‘Edinburgh,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘I might just phone back before I head upstairs.’ He thought of something. ‘Actually, can I use the computer in the office?’ John Neilson had come good a couple of hours back, mailing various links to internet sites. Rebus had checked his emails on his phone and found Neilson’s message there. But if he was going to read screeds, he wanted a decent-sized screen.
Collins was nodding her agreement. ‘I’m setting the alarm, though, so don’t go wandering too far. See you in the morning.’
‘Bacon rolls, I hear.’
‘Night, John.’
Rebus walked over to one of the windows. The glass was frosted, so he couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t completely dark out, despite the hour. He knew they would pay for it come the short winter days, though. No more voices, just a solitary car cruising past. He texted Clarke–Okay to speak?–and when she answered in the affirmative, he made the call.
‘We’re a couple of night owls,’ he said. ‘Everything okay with Brillo?’
‘He’s here in the flat with me.’
‘Your flat?’
‘My flat. How’s it all going?’
‘Keith was killed.’
‘I saw online, but the story was vague.’
‘Whacked with a blunt object, not yet identified. The forces of law and order are grinding into action. Samantha’s in a state, as you can imagine. Carrie’s gone to stay at a friend’s.’
‘Did he have any family?’
‘A sister in Canada–I wonder if Sammy will remember to let her know.’
‘No obvious suspects as yet?’
‘No,’ Rebus admitted.
‘So you’re rolling up your sleeves?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘You’ve a pretty full schedule then?’
Rebus paused, taking in her tone of voice. ‘What is it, Siobhan?’
‘A tenuous connection between my victim and where you are right now.’
He listened as she explained about Stewart Scoular, the bin Mahmoud family, the golf course scheme, Isabella Meiklejohn and Lord Strathy.
‘Not the first time I’ve heard his name,’ he commented when Strathy was mentioned. ‘Want me to do a bit of digging?’
‘Not especially…’
He couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yet here you are calling me in the middle of the night to tell me all about it. I can see through you like a freshly cleaned window, DI Clarke.’
‘It would have to be kept off the books, John.’
‘Naturally.’
‘And if you find anything the least bit relevant…’
‘I bring it to you straight away.’
‘You’re sure you’ve got time for this? I know Samantha’s need is a lot greater than mine.’
‘Leave it with me, Siobhan, I’ll see what I can do. Now get yourself tucked into bed and tell Brillo I’m missing him.’
‘Will do, John. And thanks.’
‘Speak soon.’
Rebus ended the call and tapped his phone against his chin as he walked through the open bar flap. The light switches were next to where the missing gun had been displayed. He stared at the nails for a moment before plunging the bar into darkness and heading for the office.
Three hours later he lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring towards the ceiling. It would be light again in a couple of hours. He reckoned he knew now why Keith had been so interested in Camp 1033. It was to do with how people were treated during the Second World War. Neighbours were locked up just because they had been born outside the UK. People began to distrust their bakers, grocers and restaurant owners. The Isle of Man had for a time become one huge internment camp, as had the Isle of Bute. ‘Collar the lot,’ Churchill had said, after which it became a free-for-all, everyone of foreign extraction considered a potential fifth columnist, the situation exacerbated when Sikorski, who led the thousands of Polish troops stationed in the UK, began locking up people who disagreed with his politics. Keith had written several long pieces, which Rebus had found filed in the garage along with various rejection letters from magazines and newspapers. His anger at the injustice shone through–perhaps too baldly. In one article, he compared the attitude then to what he saw happening
in the here and now. The piece had been called ‘The Never-Ending Witch Hunt’.
‘Looks like you were one of the good guys,’ Rebus whispered to the night.
So why had he been fated to die at someone else’s hands?
Day Three
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 t
hey 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.