A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  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 w
as 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.’