A Song for the Dark Times: The Brand New Must-Read Rebus Thriller

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Not a peep.’

  ‘Walkies at lunchtime, then?’

  Clarke nodded resignedly and took a look at her phone. No missed calls or messages.

  ‘Could just be his way of avoiding all the changes here,’ Fox offered. ‘The new flat and everything.’

  ‘That’s not it,’ Clarke said. ‘He’s working a case and he’ll be damned if anything gets in the way of him solving it.’

  ‘Begs the question – why have local CID not run him out of town?’

  ‘Give them time,’ Clarke said, turning and heading into the MIT office.

  24

  Rebus was in the kitchen, eating a bacon roll and talking with Cameron and May. Cameron had mentioned the possibility of T-Cut to get rid of the damage to the Saab.

  ‘And you should report it,’ May added. ‘When all’s said and done, it’s a criminal act.’

  ‘I phoned Creasey and told him,’ Rebus answered. ‘He’s doubtless putting his best officers on it.’ He dug the note from his pocket and held it up so they could both read it. ‘Meantime, this was shoved through Samantha’s door.’

  ‘Christ, some people … ’ May Collins shook her head, rising and heading to the sink.

  ‘Why, though?’ Cameron asked, still chewing.

  ‘Because someone wants her gone,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Is that what your car’s all about? A warning?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Rebus folded the note up again and pocketed it. There was the sound of a distant thump. Someone was outside the pub’s front door. Collins, dish towel in hand, went to investigate, returning a few moments later, Julie Harris at her shoulder.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Rebus asked, rising to his feet.

  ‘They’ve arrested Sam – taken her to Inverness.’

  May Collins’ eyes were on Rebus. ‘Is that serious?’

  ‘One way to find out,’ he said.

  Five minutes later he was in the Saab, heading south. Cloud was low, rain threatening and a couple of Dutch-registered motorhomes impeding his progress. He thought things through, knowing it made sense from the investigation’s perspective. Keith had pretty obviously been killed the same night his car ended up abandoned in the lay-by. Stood to reason it had been driven there by whoever killed him, meaning he and his killer had probably been in the car when it was driven to the scene of the murder – how else had the killer got there? Someone he knew; someone he trusted.

  Even if they’d recently been arguing.

  Why dump the car in such a conspicuous spot, though? Because the killer panicked, once the initial shock had worn off. Panicked, stopped the car and fled the scene. Nearest house to the lay-by was Samantha’s. And where was Carrie while all this was happening? Creasey and his troops would doubtless reckon her old enough to be left alone for an hour – an hour being all it would have taken, maybe even as little as forty minutes. Premeditated? That was a question they couldn’t answer as yet. What mattered to them right now was coming up with a convincing suspect and pushing that suspect into confessing. Rebus couldn’t know what the autopsy had thrown up, or what evidence might have been gleaned from the crime scene. Would they want all Samantha’s clothes and shoes for analysis? The Volvo had already been checked and he doubted they’d found anything incriminating there – if they had, Samantha would already have been charged.

  Why take Keith’s laptop and notebooks? He suspected CID wouldn’t worry themselves about any of that – details to be ironed out later or brushed aside.

  Once past the motorhomes, he put his foot down, only to be overtaken quarter of an hour later by a parade of motorbikes with German plates. The road was relatively benign thereafter, passing places appearing with enough regularity to mean oncoming vehicles didn’t slow him by much. At Lairg, he branched off the A836, keen to get onto the faster A9 as quickly as possible.

  Traffic was sluggish as he neared Inverness, the rain pelting down now, the Saab’s wipers just coping and no more. He began to wonder if the old car would get him back to Naver in one piece. He knew where the police HQ was and reckoned they’d have taken her there. He bypassed the centre of the city, staying on the A9 until the turn-off for the main infirmary. His destination was directly opposite it, which he supposed could come in handy from time to time. He dreaded to think how many hours he’d wasted driving out to Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary once it had relocated from the city centre to the outskirts. All to take a witness statement or try to collar an injured suspect.

  Of course she’s a suspect, he thought to himself as he headed into the car park. When he turned off the ignition, the Saab’s engine coughed a complaint loud enough to be noticed by a small group of smokers congregated at one corner of the building. They seemed to be finishing their break, readying to head indoors. But one of them lingered and began walking in Rebus’s direction.

  ‘Didn’t think we could keep you away,’ Creasey said, staring up at the sky to gauge when the next heavy shower would arrive. ‘But you know how these things are. This has to happen.’ He gestured towards the HQ.

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Legal representation?’

  ‘Everything by the book, John,’ Creasey attempted to reassure him. ‘And she’s holding up okay.’

  ‘She has a daughter at home … ’

  ‘We won’t be holding her – or charging her at this point.’

  ‘Good, because you’d look a right twat when the real killer pops up.’

  The sigh Creasey gave was theatrical. Rebus decided on a change of tack.

  ‘Didn’t have you pegged for a smoker.’

  ‘I’m not, but some on the team are, and I don’t like to be left out. Some of the best ideas come when people allow themselves to switch off for a few minutes.’

  Rebus nodded his agreement. He reached into his pocket and handed over the anonymous note. ‘Shoved through her door sometime yesterday. Not everyone’s on her side.’ He paused. ‘Might even be more ominous than that.’

  ‘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 pressing 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.’

&
nbsp; ‘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.