by Ian Rankin
‘It’s not your fault, Carrie, none of it.’ Rebus paused. Then: ‘Whose chickens?’
‘Jess’s,’ his granddaughter sniffled.
‘You should get dressed,’ Rebus said. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast. Don’t worry about anything, okay?’
Without saying another word, she padded off to her room. Rebus got into his clothes quickly and folded the duvet as best he could, then opened the window to air the room. It had rained in the night but the sky was clearing. He could hear the wind, though. It caught the curtains and shook them. Samantha had poured them both a few whiskies the previous night as they’d sat and talked – safe topics mostly; desperate not to fall out. Now she was tapping at the living room door, fetching him a mug of coffee.
‘Sleep okay?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘You all right with cereal? We’ve not got much else.’
‘Coffee usually does me.’
She nodded, mind elsewhere.
‘No news.’ It was statement rather than question.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll get started on breakfast,’ she said, turning to leave.
‘Something I forgot to ask yesterday, Samantha – the Volvo’s passenger seat was damp.’
‘The window was down.’
‘When you found it?’
She gave another nod. ‘Rain got in.’
‘Any idea why it was down?’
‘I’ll get started on breakfast,’ she repeated.
‘Hang on – there’s something else. The night Keith walked out, you’d had an argument, hadn’t you? About visiting Jess Hawkins?’
Samantha’s face darkened. ‘That little madam.’
‘You can’t go blaming her – she’s already doing enough of that for herself. But you didn’t think to tell Creasey?’
‘So?’
‘So if he goes asking and someone else tells him instead … ’
‘It was nothing, Dad, really. Keith wasn’t happy I still visited, but I like the people there. They’re on my wavelength.’
‘More on your wavelength than Keith?’
‘I don’t know … in some ways … ’ She stared at her father. ‘Are you going to tell him?’
‘I’d much rather it came from you.’
‘And I’d much rather you kept the hell out of it.’ She left the room, slamming the door after her.
Rebus waited until he could hear the hubbub from the kitchen – mother and daughter discussing some school project – before making for the bathroom and a hot shower. By the time he reached the kitchen, they had almost finished eating. He glanced at the remaining bowl and spoon, conscious that both were placed in front of what would be Keith’s chair. He stayed standing, trying not to get in the way. Samantha was reeling off a checklist as she placed things in the dishwasher.
‘Got it’ or ‘done it’ Carrie would say in reply to each item.
‘Just coat and bag then,’ Samantha eventually said, closing the dishwasher door.
‘Okay if I walk with you?’ Rebus asked. Carrie looked wary at this breach of the normal routine.
‘I don’t know if that’s really necessary,’ Samantha said coldly.
‘I’d like to, though.’ Rebus’s eyes were on his granddaughter. ‘Would that be all right with you?’ he asked. Eventually Carrie nodded.
‘Thank you,’ Rebus said.
They walked in silence for a minute or two, Carrie casting glances back over her shoulder towards the house, Samantha with her phone held in her free hand like a talisman. Naver, despite its size, boasted both a primary and a high school, both with rolls in the tens rather than hundreds. Samantha had always been enthusiastic about the quality of teaching, and when asked, Carrie reeled off her current teacher’s good points.
‘It’s keeping the teachers that’s the problem,’ Samantha added.
Entering the village proper, Rebus saw that the bonnet of his Saab was open, a man in blue overalls and a padded cotton jacket leaning down into the engine.
‘I’ll leave you here,’ Rebus said to his daughter and granddaughter. ‘Have a good day at school, Carrie.’
She managed a non-committal sound and skipped away ahead of her mother. Rebus watched them leave, hoping Samantha might turn towards him so he could wave. But she didn’t. May Collins was emerging from The Glen with a mug of tea. The mechanic paused in his work to take it from her. She gave Rebus a welcoming smile.
‘This is John,’ she informed the mechanic. ‘He’s Samantha’s father.’
‘Mick Sanderson,’ the man said, waving oily fingers to excuse the lack of a handshake. He was in his mid twenties, with curly red hair and a heavily freckled face.
‘Thanks for doing this,’ Rebus said. ‘Any joy?’
‘Just getting started,’ Sanderson explained. ‘Might be something or nothing. Older a car gets, the more TLC it needs.’
‘I might have been lax in that regard.’
‘Believe me, I can tell.’
‘If it’s fixable,’ May Collins broke in, ‘Mick’s your man. There’s a tractor on the commune that should be in a museum by rights – Mick seems to get it going year after year.’
‘Is that what it is, Mick?’ Rebus asked. ‘A commune?’
The mechanic shrugged. ‘Good a term as any. We live communally, share the workload – you’re welcome to visit.’
‘I might do that.’ Rebus paused. ‘It won’t be news to you why I’m here?’
‘Heard about Keith, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘You know him, then?’
‘He visited one time with Samantha.’
‘He didn’t take to the place the way Samantha did?’ Rebus watched Sanderson shrug. ‘Or maybe it was the people he didn’t take to?’
‘People and place are much the same thing in my experience.’
‘He works at a nuclear power station – not much of a New Age angle there.’
‘He’s dismantling it, though, isn’t he? Making it safe. No quarrel with that. Whereas this gas-guzzler … ’ Sanderson rapped his knuckles against the Saab.
‘In my defence, I bought it in the days before global warming.’
May Collins laughed and even Sanderson managed the beginnings of a smile.
‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ May said. ‘Can I make you a tea, John?’
‘I’m okay, thanks.’ Then, to Sanderson: ‘Has May given you my number?’
‘When there’s news, I’ll let you know. I’m assuming you’d be happy if it’ll drive as far as a garage?’
‘If that’s what’s on offer.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Thanks again. By the way, does your commune have a name?’
‘Not really.’
‘And opening hours for visitors?’
‘Day and night, you’ll find someone there.’ Sanderson had placed his mug on the tarmac and was leaning down into the engine again.
‘The day Keith disappeared, Samantha and Carrie had been to visit.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘To see the chickens.’
‘I might’ve been busy elsewhere.’
Rebus watched the man work for a few more seconds. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’
May Collins squeezed his arm. ‘We open at noon,’ she said. ‘Bring Samantha in for lunch. It’s only soup and sandwiches, but it might be good for her.’
‘I’ll ask,’ Rebus said.
Her grip on his forearm tightened. ‘See that you do.’
Rebus walked back to the bungalow with hands in pockets, jacket buttoned to the neck. It was probably only three or four degrees colder than Edinburgh, but the wind was from the north and not about to be tamed, it seemed, even in summer. The door to the house had been left unlocked. He went inside but felt r
estless. He found the keys to the Volvo. It had been brought back from the lay-by and stood outside. He scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table – didn’t want Samantha thinking Keith had returned and taken the car. But she was approaching the house as he made his exit.
‘Just going for a drive,’ he said.
‘My company’s not good enough for you?’
‘It’s not that. But I work best when left to my own devices.’
‘So you’re not just going for a drive?’
‘I probably am, though. And while I’m doing that, you can be phoning Keith’s workmates and pals – see if there’s any news; maybe there’s someone you missed when you rang round before.’
She studied the phone in her hand. ‘That detective called.’
‘Creasey?’
‘After I’d dropped Carrie off. More questions about me and Jess.’ She gave Rebus an accusing look.
‘I’ve not said a word. Did you mention the argument?’
‘It wasn’t an argument.’
‘Even so.’ Rebus paused. ‘I’ll be back for lunch – May Collins said we should go eat at the pub.’
‘Maybe,’ Samantha eventually conceded.
Rebus leaned forward to peck her on the cheek, but she drew away. Nothing for it but to head to the car.
He drove away from the village, west on the A836. He had the coastline – albeit largely hidden from view – to one side of him, and hillside with the occasional grazing sheep to the other. Eventually he noticed a makeshift sign alerting him to a backpacker hostel and café. This comprised a fair-sized solid-looking house with a modern single-storey extension. He pulled in to the unpaved car park and walked towards a wooden door that boasted another handwritten sign proclaiming ‘Yes, we really are open – try the handle!’ He did, and entered a room big enough for four tables and a serving counter. A man around his own age stood behind the counter and greeted him with a wave.
‘How can I help?’
‘Just a coffee,’ Rebus said, taking a look around. One wall was covered in photographs and postcards. The cards were from hill-walkers grateful for the welcome they’d received along with the hot drinks, scones and cakes. The photos showed visitors posing with the café as backdrop, or else pausing on a hillside, laden with rucksacks and wrapped in as many layers as manageable. The man turned from the coffee machine.
‘I’m guessing you’re not a walker – not today, at any rate.’
‘The clothes give it away?’
‘The lack of boots primarily.’
‘I’m into history more than geography.’
‘Camp 1033?’
Rebus approached the counter. ‘That’s right. Local history group told me about this place.’
‘They come in,’ the man acknowledged with a slow nod.
‘You’ve heard one of their number’s gone missing?’
‘Keith Grant, yes.’ The man fixed Rebus with a look. ‘And you’re Samantha’s father, pretending to be a casual tourist. News travels, you know.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘And that’s Keith’s car you’re driving.’
‘My daughter’s up to high doh,’ Rebus confessed. ‘I’m just asking around in the hope of finding some answers.’
‘I don’t really know your daughter, but Keith was – is – a regular. They’d almost have to drag him away from the camp at dusk. Then they’d pull two tables together so they could sit round and pore over their maps and notes and photographs. Doubtful I’ll ever retire on the proceeds, though.’ He broke off and held up the coffee he’d just finished pouring. ‘You still want this, or was it merely a pretext?’
‘I definitely want it.’ The mug was placed on the counter and Rebus picked it up. ‘When you talk about retirement,’ he said, ‘I can’t help thinking … ’
‘That at my age I should already be retired?’ The man ran his fingernails down one ruddy cheek. His eyes sparkled beneath bushy silver brows. ‘Well, you’re not wrong. Wife and I moved up here after we sold our business. We’re Lancaster originally. She passed away last year.’ He looked at his surroundings. ‘This was her idea – she liked being around folk. Not in the sense of living in a city, but visitors, you know? She’d cajole the life stories from most of them, then write a few lines about them in one of her notebooks – a sort of hobby, you might say.’
‘Sounds like a local history group might have been her thing.’
‘Oh, it was. That’s one reason they started coming here – my Rosemary even suggested Camp 1033 as their pet project.’
‘I’m sorry she’s no longer with us.’
‘Me too.’ The man stuck out a hand for Rebus to shake. ‘I’m Ron Travis, by the way.’
‘John Rebus. So you’ll know Keith fairly well, Ron?’
‘Which is why I’m as in the dark as you are. Completely out of character, if you ask me.’
‘An accident then, maybe?’
Travis considered this, rubbing at his cheek again. ‘Is that what your daughter thinks?’
Rebus studied the man. ‘I’m realising this is a hard place to keep secrets.’
‘Keith had Camp 1033, she had Jess Hawkins and his lot.’
‘The commune’s not far from here?’
‘Five more minutes along the road.’
‘Close to the camp?’
Travis nodded. ‘All sorts wash ashore here, John. People like me and Rosemary, looking for a change, and people like Hawkins and company, after much the same thing. Doesn’t always go down well with the locals, the ones who’ve been here for decades, scratching a living.’
‘Samantha and Keith are incomers, too.’
‘But they’ve got a kid – that helps get you accepted. Half the folk in the local history group came here from elsewhere. Funny that they’re the ones who show a passion for keeping the stories alive.’
‘Keith certainly seems to have been doing that for Camp 1033. He’s turned his garage into a museum.’
‘Well, it’s an interesting story – and practically forgotten. Have you seen the camp?’
‘I’m heading there next.’
‘You know it housed all sorts? When war broke out, scare stories weren’t far behind. Italians and Germans who’d been in the country for generations found themselves locked up. Later on, it was proper war criminals – Nazi hard-liners and the like. The Poles even locked up their own countrymen if they didn’t like the look of them. Half this coastline was patrolled by Polish infantrymen.’ He saw the look Rebus was giving him. ‘Can’t help listening in sometimes when the group gets talking. They have this dream of a community buyout for the camp, turn it into a tourist attraction. That was Keith’s idea, as I recall. Won’t happen, though.’
‘I saw the sums.’
‘Even if they could raise the cash, I doubt the owner would sell.’ Travis chuckled. ‘He had plans to turn this whole area into a spaceport.’
‘A what?’
‘Launching satellites. Fell through, though. After that, it was to be a dark-sky park – to attract stargazers. Big new hotel and lots of guest lodges. Still on the drawing board as far as I know, though now with a golf course and country club attached.’
‘You own this place, though?’
Travis nodded. ‘But I’m pretty well hemmed in by thousands of acres belonging to Lord Strathy – who of course lives in London rather than up here.’
‘Lord Strathy owns the land the commune’s on too?’
‘But he reckoned without Jess Hawkins. Hawkins had the tenancy agreement structured in such a way that it’ll be hellish pricey to shift him if he’s not for shifting. I hear Strathy has a bunch of expensive lawyers trying to find loopholes. So far, no joy.’
‘I’ve never heard of this Lord Strathy.’
‘Surname’s actually Meiklejohn – one of probably dozens of landowners you’ve never hea
rd of. Doesn’t stop them owning a decent chunk of the country you and I call home. You know the theatre company 7:84?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Called themselves that because of the statistic – seven per cent of the population owned eighty-four per cent of the wealth. That was a while back, mind.’
‘You don’t sound as though you think those figures will have changed for the better.’
‘I sometimes think I ended up here so I could stop having to live with it. Rosemary and me, we used to be active – go on marches, sign petitions and all that. CND, anti-apartheid, Friends of the Earth. We were drunk for two days when Tony Blair got elected.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Made not a jot of difference really.’
‘Yet I don’t sense you have much time for the commune.’
‘To my thinking, they’ve turned their backs on the world. As long as they’re all right in their little bubble, the rest of us can go burn. And Hawkins … well, he’s obviously got something, or they wouldn’t stick around, but I’m damned if I can see what it is.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Samantha saw it, though. I’m assuming you’ve heard about that?’
‘I’ve heard. But it didn’t last long and she patched things up with Keith.’
‘A patch is a patch, though – reminds you there’s damage beneath.’
Two motorcyclists pulled up outside, their bikes laden with camping gear. The riders dismounted and began peeling away layers of leather and tugging off their crash helmets. Both were silver-haired.
‘First of the day,’ Travis commented.
‘NC 500?’ Rebus watched Travis nod. ‘How much do I owe for the coffee?’
‘Two seventy-five. Toilet’s to the left when you head outside – you won’t find much at Camp 1033.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Good luck, John. Tell your daughter I’m thinking of her.’
‘I will.’
The bikers said hello to Rebus as he passed them. He got the feeling they were Scandinavian. They looked ruddy-faced and wholesome and comfortable with their place in the world. He felt his heart pounding after the injection of caffeine. His knees and back still ached from the previous day’s long drive and his head was slightly thick from the whisky he’d imbibed with Samantha. He sat in the Volvo and composed a text to Siobhan Clarke, updating her on the Saab and hoping Brillo wasn’t pining too much. He tried to imagine being out on a bike all day and then setting up a tent and crawling inside, sheltering from the elements; doing it all again the following day.