A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

‘How do you reckon?’

  ‘Someone might want her running, giving you more reason to put her at the top of your list.’

  ‘The killer?’ Creasey studied the note again. He held it up to what light there was.

  ‘Doubt you’ll get prints, but you could try.’

  ‘I’ll hang onto it then.’

  ‘Remember,’ Rebus said, ‘it was a note like this that told Keith about Samantha and Hawkins.’

  ‘Same person?’

  He gave a shrug. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve done anything about Colin Belkin yet?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’ Creasey was looking in the direction of the Saab. ‘Halfway point to home, I’d guess.’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Edinburgh can wait. I’m staying here until my daughter no longer needs me.’

  ‘I thought she made that decision when she kicked you out of her house.’ Creasey’s eyes had hardened.

  Rebus gave as good as he got, his voice deepening. ‘You got nothing useful from the autopsy; there’s no sign of a weapon or the items taken from Keith’s satchel–no prints on the satchel either, I’m guessing. Don’t let the brick wall you’re slamming your head against cause you to do something rash.’

  ‘Like charging your daughter? Your daughter Samantha with her prints on the car and the satchel?’

  ‘She didn’t do it!’ Rebus snapped through half-gritted teeth.

  ‘Then there’s nothing to worry about,’ Creasey said with a thin smile, turning away and heading back to work.

  Rebus considered walking up to the front desk and causing a fuss, but he knew it would be futile. He heard a car door open and saw a figure he recognised emerge. It was one of the journalists who’d been hanging out at The Glen.

  ‘Catch any of that?’ he said as the journalist started to approach.

  ‘Bits and pieces.’

  ‘Do I know your name?’

  ‘Lawrie Blake. Remember, I told you I’m friends with Laura Smith at the Scotsman? Which means I know a fair bit about you, Mr Rebus.’

  ‘I couldn’t be more thrilled about that, Lawrie.’

  The young man nodded towards the Saab. ‘I recall you were getting it fixed in Naver. Still doesn’t sound too healthy. My brother owns a garage not far from here–he’s a hellish good mechanic and I know he’s sorted Saabs in his time. I could give him a call.’

  ‘Kind of you, but I need to head back north.’

  ‘I also know a car-hire place–not far from my brother’s workshop, and with a café halfway between them.’

  Rebus thought for a moment. ‘I’ve met some silver-tongued journalists in my time,’ he eventually conceded, ‘but few I’ve taken to like you, young Lawrie.’

  ‘I’ll even buy the coffees,’ Blake said, ‘while we chat about Samantha and this mysterious note.’

  It took Rebus only a few seconds to finish making his mind up.

  ‘Lead the way,’ he said.

  *

  Blake’s brother would take a look at the Saab and let Rebus know what he thought, but it might take a day or two. The scratch would need a respray, always supposing the matching colour could be found. Rebus had said to focus on the engine, then had given the Saab a pat on its bonnet, promising he’d be back. The car-rental office had a hatchback he could have immediately, with a special low rate for a five-day hire. He had asked if it boasted a CD player, having lifted Siobhan Clarke’s compilation from the Saab. The nod from the rental clerk sealed the deal.

  The café was a Costa, and Laurie Blake added sandwiches to their order. Rebus offered to go halves but the reporter was adamant.

  ‘A promise is a promise.’

  They found a table by the window and tucked in.

  ‘There are more attractive parts to Inverness,’ Blake assured Rebus.

  ‘It’s not my first visit,’ Rebus replied.

  ‘The A9 murders?’ Blake smiled. ‘I’m pretty good at my job.’

  ‘I’m beginning to sense that. So will you write something about the note?’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Just the one word–“leave”.’

  ‘Pity we don’t have the note itself.’

  Rebus lifted a paper napkin. ‘I could recreate it for you.’

  ‘That might qualify as fake news.’

  ‘You think your readers would mind?’

  ‘These days, probably not.’ Blake bit into his sandwich and chewed.

  ‘If you’re good at what you do, you’ve probably come across Lord Strathy in your travels?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The plans for rocket launch pads and golf resorts?’ Rebus watched Blake nod. ‘And the wife who left him to join a commune?’

  ‘Same commune your daughter’s friendly with.’

  ‘How much do you know about them?’

  ‘I know their landlord wants them gone–it’s been rumbling through the courts and various lawyers’ offices the past couple of years. I dare say the fact his wife left him to go live with Jess Hawkins hasn’t endeared Lord Strathy to the place.’

  ‘He owns Camp 1033, too,’ Rebus said, keeping his tone conversational.

  ‘Which is why he was never going to sell to your son-in-law.’

  ‘They weren’t married.’

  ‘So that’s one thing I’ve learned today.’ Blake paused, still chewing, and tapped a note into his phone. ‘Mind if I ask you about Samantha?’

  ‘Yes. Very much.’ Blake looked ready to remonstrate, but Rebus held up a hand. ‘Later we can maybe talk about that. You know the contents of Keith’s satchel have gone missing, presumably taken by his killer?’

  Blake nodded. ‘Creasey said as much.’

  ‘Why do you think the killer took them?’

  The reporter’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘When you were in the bar, did you notice the gap on the wall underneath the optics? Three nails just sitting there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the difference between a reporter and a detective. An old firearm used to be displayed there. Unusable as a gun these days…’

  ‘But pretty good for clubbing someone?’ Blake nodded his understanding.

  ‘It was lifted around a month ago–just one more missing piece of the puzzle.’ Rebus paused meaningfully. ‘But it gets better. Lord Strathy seems to have gone AWOL too.’

  Now the reporter’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Can’t believe the Fourth Estate haven’t cottoned on to it, if I’m being honest.’ Rebus pretended to be interested in whatever lay beyond the window. ‘If you were to publish something by day’s end, you’d have an exclusive.’

  Blake gave him an appraising look. ‘Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing. You’ll fight tooth and nail for your daughter.’

  ‘I’m not bullshitting you, Lawrie. Everything I’ve told you can be fact-checked. All the years I was a cop, I learned that coincidences are as rare as unicorns.’

  ‘You don’t believe in unicorns?’

  ‘I believe in Samantha. Put what I’ve told you online or don’t, it’s up to you.’

  ‘Do I name my source?’

  ‘If you do, I’ll run you over in a cheap-deal two-door rental.’ Rebus drained the last of his coffee, then realised his phone had pinged with a message. It was from Creasey.

  She needs a lift back. If you can’t do it, might take a while.

  ‘I have to go,’ he told Blake. He took out a pen and scrawled his number on the thin paper napkin, sliding it across the table. ‘Nice doing business with you.’

  Samantha looked less than thrilled to see him waiting for her as she stepped out of the building.

  ‘All they said was that my lift was outside.’

  ‘I happened to be passing,’ Rebus said. ‘But if you’d rather wait for a uniform to take you…’

  She stepped forward and gave him the briefest of hugs, her head pres
sing into his shoulder, then followed him wordlessly to the car.

  ‘You’ve junked the Saab?’ she asked as she fastened her seat belt.

  ‘It’s just having a bit of a holiday.’ He kept his eyes on the windscreen. ‘How did it go in there?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘It’s a game they have to play, Samantha, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s not a game to me, Dad,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Did you tell them about the fight you had the night Keith died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He sensed her looking at him. ‘Means they might have some hard questions for Hawkins and his group.’ He turned towards her. ‘Think about it–where else was Keith going to go after he stormed out?’

  ‘The camp, obviously. He felt safe there. Said it was like a second home.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now can we please get going?’

  They drove in silence after that, Rebus getting used to the rental car’s foibles and controls, Samantha finding a radio station whose signal didn’t fade for the first part of the journey. When all that was left was static, she slotted home the CD, studying the track list. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘Old colleague of mine called Siobhan.’

  ‘She has catholic tastes–Mogwai and Orange Juice?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Keith was a big Mogwai fan.’

  ‘He liked his music? I didn’t see much evidence in the house.’

  ‘No one needs albums these days, Dad.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘We actually met at a gig in Glasgow, Keith and me. Well, the bar afterwards. Clicked straight off.’

  ‘Was he always a history buff?’

  Samantha nodded. ‘For a while it was the Clearances. There were homes torched around Strathnaver, clearing the land for sheep rearing. The factor was tried for murder but let off.’

  ‘Landowners are a bit more benign these days. You ever met Lord Strathy?’

  ‘Just his ex-wife.’

  ‘You and her get on okay?’ Samantha gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Night Keith died, Ron Travis heard a motorbike.’

  ‘The guy who owns that backpacker place? Is that why you were asking me about being on the bike with Jess?’

  ‘I’m just saying what Travis heard…’

  ‘Really? That’s what you’re doing?’ She shook her head and turned up the music, folding her arms to signal that she wasn’t in the mood for any more talk. Eventually, north of Lairg and with no traffic on the road to speak of, she announced that she needed a pee. Rebus pulled over and she opened the door. He busied himself with his signal-less phone until she returned.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. He nodded and made to start off, but she gripped his left arm, causing him to turn and make eye contact.

  ‘I know you think I did it. It won’t stop you trying to cover up for me or put someone else in the frame, but I know that’s what you think.’

  ‘Samantha…’

  She thumped her closed fist hard against her chest. ‘It’s like you fired a bullet at me and it hit me right here.’

  ‘Speaking of guns, there’s an old revolver missing from The Glen…’ He was about to say more, but she was already flinging open the door.

  ‘Enough!’ she yelled, beginning to stride down the road ahead of the car. Rebus started the engine and followed her. He knew how thrawn, how determined she could be. He lowered the passenger-side window and drew level with her. For a moment, he thought she might leave the roadway altogether and start tramping through the bracken.

  ‘You need to get home to Carrie,’ he said. ‘Know how long that’ll take on foot?’

  ‘I’ll hitch.’

  ‘Just get in. We don’t have to talk. You don’t have to look at me. I’ll just drive.’ He pulled ahead of her and applied the brakes, watching in the wing mirror as she approached. She passed the car and went another twenty yards or so, but then came to a halt. Rebus stayed where he was, waiting. Eventually her shoulders slumped a little and she turned on her heel, getting back in and fussing with the seat belt.

  ‘I loved him,’ she said, as much to herself as to her father.

  ‘I know that,’ he replied quietly, easing his foot down on the accelerator.

  ‘And I didn’t do it.’

  Rebus nodded but said nothing. Did he believe her? He wanted to. He needed to. He’d switched off the CD, so the only noise was the car engine. Samantha lowered her window and let the breeze have its way with her hair. Eventually Rebus found some words.

  ‘I know I wasn’t a great dad. Not much of a husband either. Sometimes I tell myself I did my best, but I know that’s not true.’

  ‘You were okay,’ Samantha muttered. ‘Remember the mirror in my room, when I was wee?’

  ‘The one on the dresser–how can I forget? I had to come in every night and drape a towel over it.’

  ‘Because I was convinced it led somewhere dark and scary.’

  Rebus smiled at the memory. ‘I wonder why I didn’t just take it away.’

  Samantha’s eyes met his. ‘Because I needed it to look into when it was light outside.’

  He nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the road ahead.

  ‘You were okay,’ he heard her say. Then she reached forward to turn the CD back on.

  Average White Band: ‘Pick Up the Pieces’.

  He hoped that was what they were doing.

  25

  Siobhan Clarke’s call was eventually answered.

  ‘I’ve got just about enough signal for a bollocking,’ she heard Rebus say by way of introduction.

  ‘Good, because I’m primed to give you one.’

  ‘It’s online already?’

  ‘Which is why I’ve had Laura Smith on the phone, screaming about how come she’s not the one we gave it to.’

  ‘You put two and two together…’

  ‘All investigations leak at some point, but I know what you’re like.’

  ‘What am I like?’

  ‘You stir shit up for the sake of it.’

  ‘Not strictly true–I usually only do it when I’m getting nowhere. How’s Brillo?’

  Clarke looked down at the floor of her living room. ‘Curled up next to me.’

  ‘You’re walking him, though?’

  ‘We’re just back. So talk me through it–maybe then I’ll have something I can tell Laura while I’m buying her the first of several large gins.’

  ‘She’s the press–you don’t need to go kowtowing.’

  ‘You forgetting she’s helped us plenty in the past?’ Clarke sat down on the chair so heavily, Brillo’s head shot up. She gave him a pat of reassurance.

  ‘A young reporter up here, he did me a couple of favours so I decided I owed him.’

  ‘You couldn’t just take him to the pub?’

  ‘I’m not convinced he’s old enough to get served. Besides, what harm does it do?’

  ‘Ramsay Meiklejohn is a member of the House of Lords. That makes his disappearance–if that’s what it is–national news, maybe even international. The London tabloids are scenting blood.’

  ‘I’m still not seeing a downside.’

  ‘You might when they descend on Naver. You’ve only had the Scottish media to deal with so far–they’re pussycats by comparison. “Anyone seen Lord Strathy?”; “No, but while you’re here, we’ve a murder you might be interested in–victim’s partner lives just up the road.”’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Christ, John, you’re throwing your own daughter to the…’ Clarke broke off, rising to her feet again and beginning to pace. ‘You think she did it?’ The question was met with silence.

  ‘No shortage of suspects,’ Rebus eventually answered.

  ‘You’re not seriously adding Lord Strathy to the list?’

  ‘Keith went to Strathy Castle, kicked up a stink.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wanted Strathy to sell him the camp. Strathy wasn’t inclined to agree.’

  ‘I’m not seeing grounds for murder
.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind asking his lordship a few questions, though–and his gardener, come to that.’

  ‘Haven’t got round yet to checking him for you–sorry.’

  ‘Never mind. I already know he has a record, along with a history of violence. He hustled Keith off the castle grounds.’ There was silence on the line for a moment. Then: ‘You’ve spoken to the daughter?’

  ‘She seems very relaxed about things.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘Might be an act.’ Clarke sighed and glanced down in Brillo’s direction. ‘John, if you’re going to be much longer, it’s going to have to be a kennel job.’

  ‘Nonsense–you spend too much time in the office as it is.’

  ‘Not as much as Malcolm.’

  ‘You’re not able to keep tabs on him as much as you’d like?’

  ‘He’s become friendly with your old sparring partner.’

  Another moment’s silence.

  ‘Has he now?’ Rebus eventually drawled. ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Something to do with Stewart Scoular.’

  ‘The SNP guy? You mentioned him before.’

  ‘Drummed out of the party and now reinvented as a land developer. He seems to feature in Strathy’s plans for your POW camp.’

  ‘Is there a connection, do you think?’

  ‘Only if Keith was killed because of his opposition, and frankly I still think that’s a stretch.’ Clarke paused. ‘Is it possible you’re seeing things that aren’t there, John? You used to say to me that the simple explanation usually turns out to be the right one.’

  ‘The simple explanation would bring Samantha back into the picture.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Clarke paused by her window, peering down onto the night-time street below. It all looked so peaceful, so orderly. ‘You never answered my question earlier.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘You know damn well.’

  She listened to Rebus exhale at length and noisily. ‘She’s my daughter, Shiv, and she has a daughter of her own. She can’t do time, guilty or not.’

  ‘Jesus, John…’

  ‘I’ve put away innocent people before.’

  Clarke pressed her forehead to the glass. ‘I don’t want to hear any of this.’

  ‘Then don’t ask. You’ve got enough on your plate, notably Malcolm Fox. You can’t let Cafferty get his claws into him–that bastard never, ever lets go.’