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

by Ian Rankin

  Keith was a good interviewer. He started with general chat, getting Novack used to talking. And when the questions began, they were increasingly forensic until they concentrated on the suspected poisoning and the murder of Sergeant Davies. Novack, however, had little to say on either subject. It wasn’t that he sounded evasive; it was simply that he didn’t know much.

  ‘Please remember, I had been released from the camp by then.’

  ‘But you kept in touch with the friends you’d made – sent them letters. I’m guessing they wrote back with news and gossip. And then later when you returned and started your new life … ’

  ‘I would tell you if I could, Keith, believe me.’

  The same was true of the revolver displayed in The Glen – Novack had no reason to doubt Joe Collins’ story of how he’d found it.

  ‘I think you have more details already than I do,’ he told Keith at one point.

  Slowly the questioning petered out and they were back to general chat.

  Helen Carter was next, Keith managing only twenty or so minutes with her before she drifted off to sleep. He must have known he was against the clock, because the questioning was brisker, the preliminaries curtailed – and he kept his voice raised to combat her hearing issues. He was interested in her job at the camp dispensary, her relationship with (and eventual marriage to) an internee called Friedrich. But quickly he zeroed in on her sister Chrissy and Sergeant Gareth Davies.

  ‘It shocked her to her core,’ Helen Carter said, voice croaky. ‘Took her years to recover. Poets write about the madness of love – but to kill a man? Nothing romantic about that, let me tell you.’

  Had Chrissy been seeing Davies’s killer behind his back?

  ‘Hoffman? She hardly knew him – maybe smiled at him once or twice in passing. Pleasantries, you know. Thinking was, he admired her from afar but never plucked up the courage to do anything about it.’

  Keith: ‘Except execute Sergeant Davies.’

  ‘Horrible thing to happen. We had military police crawling all over the place. But it was a day or two before they found Gareth’s revolver hidden beneath Hoffman’s mattress. He had a room of his own – didn’t share with the others. Perk of being put in charge of one bit of the camp. Wasn’t liked, though, not too many tears shed when the firing squad did their duty.’

  ‘What about the revolver in The Glen? It couldn’t be the one used to kill Sergeant Davies?’

  ‘You keep asking us about that. All I can tell you is that it turned up some time after the camp had closed, and Joe’s story is he found it washed ashore.’

  ‘Why put it on display?’

  ‘A talking point, isn’t it? No more to it than that. Your tea’s getting cold, Keith, and I’m getting tired. I know you mean well, but the past is the past is the past … ’

  The next file was Joe Collins himself. Keith had hardly got started before Collins cut him off.

  ‘It’s all about this murder, isn’t it? The murder and the poisoning – those are your interest rather than the camp itself?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d agree completely with—’

  ‘Ach, it’s the truth and you know it. The murder weapon was found hidden in Hoffman’s quarters.’

  ‘Yet he protested his innocence to the end, according to the records.’

  ‘Which did not delay his appointment with the firing squad.’

  ‘They executed him in the camp, didn’t they?’

  ‘At dawn. We were to remain in our bunks, the doors locked. We were all awake, though; I doubt many of us had got much sleep. He made noises as he was led out.’

  ‘Noises?’

  ‘Begging for mercy, I think. Then the gunshots and the terrible silence. He was buried somewhere outside the camp. I don’t think there was ever a marker of any kind. The digging you are doing will not bring his bones to light.’

  ‘That’s not why we’re excavating.’

  ‘The money you want to spend on the camp, would it not be of more use to the community in other ways?’

  Instead of answering, Keith had another question ready. ‘The revolver you say you found—’

  ‘The revolver I did find. This obsession will do you no good, Keith. You think I had something to do with the crime? Sergeant Davies’s revolver was taken away by the authorities as evidence. What happened to it afterwards no one knows.’

  ‘Tossed into the sea, perhaps?’

  ‘What does it matter if it was?’

  ‘From the accounts, there were no witnesses. Davies was ambushed somewhere between the village and the camp. His weapon was wrestled from him and he was shot in the head.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t understand why Hoffman would hang onto the weapon.’

  ‘Perhaps he planned to use it again.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have been very well hidden. He could have left it anywhere, but he took it to his room.’

  ‘And this is what troubles you?’

  ‘He also doesn’t seem to have courted Chrissy Carter. The two hardly knew one another.’

  ‘Whatever the story, all I can tell you is that someone threw that particular revolver away – probably at the end of the war – and it was covered over by time and tide. But both of those have a way of bringing things back again, wanted and unwanted.’

  ‘And you put it on display because … ?’

  ‘Not as a trophy, if that’s what you think. Am I the one who shot Gareth Davies? I answer that in the negative with all the force I can muster.’ Collins paused. ‘I cannot understand why you would spend your evenings and weekends following this hobby when you have Samantha and Carrie waiting for you at home.’

  ‘They’re very patient.’

  ‘You think so? Well, I pray you are right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing – I’m just an old man who rambles sometimes … ’

  As the recording ended, Rebus stood up, stretching his limbs and his spine. He wandered through to the bar, caught sight of Lawrie Blake speaking to what he assumed were other journalists, and retreated to the kitchen. There was a note on the table – Soup in pot – so he reheated the broth and sat down to eat it, feeling suddenly ravenous. He cut himself a wedge of bread to go with it and poured a glass of water from the tap.

  ‘A proper prisoner’s meal, that,’ May Collins said, walking into the kitchen as he was finishing.

  ‘Didn’t fancy the bar for some reason.’

  She nodded her understanding. ‘They’re away again, though – I don’t think we’re feeding them enough titbits. How’s it going?’

  ‘I’ve just been listening to Keith talking with your father.’

  ‘I heard from the hallway. You seemed engrossed.’

  ‘I’m wondering how he felt about Samantha and Hawkins – he must have wondered how many people had known or suspected and hadn’t told him.’

  Standing behind him, May gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. ‘Have you heard from Samantha?’

  ‘She’s with her pal Julie.’

  ‘Actually she’s with the police – or she was. They turned up at Julie’s door and took her away. That’s what I’m hearing.’

  Rebus dug out his phone. No signal.

  ‘Try out by the caravan,’ Collins advised.

  Rebus unlocked the back door and went outside. The rain had stopped, the sky bright blue. The caravan was small, maybe only a two-berth, dotted with lichen, its single window in need of a good clean. Rebus made the call. Creasey answered almost immediately.

  ‘Don’t,’ the detective said. ‘All we’re after is a better idea of how the deceased ties to Lord Strathy. We know they argued about the camp buyout and we know things got a bit heated when Keith barged into a social gathering at the castle.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Saman
tha’s being asked what she knew about any or all of it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’m sure she’ll tell you in the fullness of time.’

  ‘You’re stranding her in Inverness again?’

  ‘Relax, she’s a lot closer to home than that.’

  ‘You got the door unlocked at the station in Tongue?’

  ‘I wish you’d leave us to get on with our job, John.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything about the memory stick?’

  ‘Can I remind you for the umpteenth time – you’re not the detective here. In fact, you’re the father of our chief suspect. We don’t tend to share with anyone unless there’s good reason.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘Have you listened to it?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘So you’ll agree there’s nothing there for us to get excited about? Apart from oral history buffs, I mean.’

  ‘The killer took his laptop, notes and phone. That has to mean something. Then there’s the gun … ’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Say Keith was the one who took it. Maybe he thought with all our forensic advances there’d be evidence that could be gleaned from it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So where is it? Was it in the bag?’

  ‘John, the person who killed Sergeant Davies went to the firing squad.’

  ‘Someone went to the firing squad, certainly.’

  There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘So what are we talking about here – a fit young man overpowered and murdered by someone in their nineties? Or maybe you think a ghost did it – there are plenty on social media who do. We’ve had to chase half a dozen of them away from the crime scene this week.’

  Rebus leaned a hand against the side of the caravan. There were cigarette butts on the ground beneath him. He crouched to pick one up. The filter was a sliver of rolled-up cardboard. Spliffs. Looked like cider wasn’t Cameron’s only indulgence.

  ‘How long will you keep her?’ he asked Creasey.

  ‘Actually we’re done. That’s why I’ve got time to waste with you. Her friend is fetching her. Oh, and by the way – that news leak? Strathy and the anonymous note? Don’t think I’m not aware who’s behind it. So thanks a bunch for that, John. Cooperation is a two-way street, remember.’

  ‘Well, here’s me cooperating then, like a good citizen. The night Keith was killed, Ron Travis heard a motorbike.’

  ‘He mentioned it.’

  ‘There’s a bike at Hawkins’ compound. Available for anyone to use. Maybe ask if someone took it out that night. Oh, and the party at Strathy Castle, the one Keith was bundled out of? I reckon our friend Colin Belkin is in the frame for that. So maybe you could ease up on an innocent woman and go check those leads out … ’ Rebus broke off, realising he was talking to himself. He studied his phone screen. He still had a signal. Creasey had ended the call.

  ‘Shitehawk,’ he muttered. Then, after another glance towards the remains of Cameron’s spliffs, he tried the door of the caravan. It was unlocked. He ducked under the lintel and took a step inside. The space was cramped and stuffy, the area around the sink cluttered with mugs and glasses. Didn’t look like the two-ring stove got much use. Breakfast cereal; some milk staying cool in a basin of water. The bed had been turned back into a table. There were American comics spread across the floor. The tiny toilet cubicle looked like it doubled as a shower, a faint aroma of waste water emanating from it.

  ‘Help you?’

  Cameron was standing just outside the caravan, tobacco and cigarette papers in his hand. Rebus tried not to look like the guilty party as he backed out into the courtyard.

  ‘Just wondering if you happened to have a revolver lying about in there,’ he said.

  ‘What use would I have for that?’

  ‘Maybe there’s a collectors’ market.’

  ‘Steal from May?’ The barman was focused on constructing his cigarette. ‘You think I’d do that after all the kindness she’s shown me?’ His eyes finally met Rebus’s as he licked the edge of the paper.

  ‘Okay, let’s say you’re the shining knight then, taking it to protect someone.’

  Cameron reached into the back pocket of his denims and brought out a disposable lighter. He got the cigarette going and inhaled deeply, taking pleasure in releasing the stream of smoke in Rebus’s direction.

  ‘Look all you want, there’s no rusty old revolver in there.’

  ‘You knew Keith a bit – could he have taken it?’

  ‘Pub was always busy when he was in.’

  Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Easier if the place was quiet, no one behind the bar. Or it happened between closing time and reopening.’

  Cameron squinted through the smoke. ‘That would certainly narrow things down.’

  ‘Ever been in trouble with the law, son?’

  ‘Because I have tattoos and a few piercings, you mean?’ He gestured towards the roaches on the ground. ‘Smokes a bit of dope so he has to be a bad ’un.’ His mouth formed a sour smile. ‘Sam always said you were a bit of a dinosaur. I’m starting to see what she meant.’ A final draw on the thin cigarette and it was done. He flicked it to the ground. ‘Came out to tell you Joyce McKechnie left a bag for you. I’ve put it on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The two men’s eyes met again and both gave slow nods. Rebus watched Cameron head indoors, waited a few moments and then followed.

  The kitchen was empty, but a mug of tea sat where his soup bowl had been. He took a mouthful before opening the carrier bag. Magazines. McKechnie had folded down the relevant corners. Gatherings at Strathy Castle; events where Lord Strathy had been a guest. One showed him cutting the ribbon on an upgraded school playground. In another, he was opening a birdwatching facility in ‘the heart of the Flow Country’. To Rebus’s untrained eye, the Flow Country looked like miles and miles of bugger all: flat, treeless, colourless. But Strathy looked happy enough, or at least well fed and watered. If the society occasions were anything to go by, he liked his wine. Glass of red raised in almost every shot, mouth open as if he were about to start cheering. Pink-faced, paunchy, thinning hair and a roguish sparkle in the eye.

  From the dates of publication, Rebus reckoned he knew which party it was Keith had crashed. The names of the photographed guests meant little to him, but he recognised Lady Isabella Meiklejohn and Salman bin Mahmoud. Stewart Scoular was there too, off to the right in one shot, behind someone’s shoulder in another. Siobhan had mentioned an Italian friend of bin Mahmoud’s and there was one name – Giovanni Morelli – that fitted the bill. Handsome face, arm around Lady Isabella’s waist. Wait, though … here was someone else Rebus recognised. Martin Chappell, stood next to his wife Mona. Both were holding champagne glasses and smiling for the camera. Rebus had never met Chappell, but he knew who he was.

  He was Chief Constable of Police Scotland.

  In the photograph, Mona Chappell was sandwiched between her husband and Stewart Scoular, as if the three were old friends. Rebus took out his phone and photographed the page a few times from different angles. Stepping outside and finding a signal, he dispatched them to Siobhan Clarke. He waited a couple of minutes, wishing he still smoked. The smell from Cameron’s roll-up lingered in his nostrils, the taste clung to the back of his throat. For luck, he touched the inhaler in his pocket. Hadn’t needed it this whole trip. He wondered if it was the quality of the air.

  ‘Maybe just the lack of tenement stairs,’ he said to himself, heading indoors again, scooping up the mug of tea and making for the office.

  He knew the final recording would be Frank Hess. But when he clicked on it, he wondered if something had gone wrong – it wasn’t even half the length of the others. When he began to listen, he understood why. For the first few minutes everything was fine. Keith asked Hess about his post-war years, his various jobs – mostly labouring and buildin
g work – his family. But when it came to Camp 1033, Hess grew agitated.

  ‘I have erased it from my head – all of it.’ The voice was slightly high-pitched, Germanic but with touches of Scots intonation. ‘If others wish to remember, so be it. I want to be allowed to forget – that is my right, no?’

  Keith: ‘Yes, of course. But you must have happy memories of that time too. You were allowed out of the camp most days. I believe you worked on several farms and repaired some of the dry-stone walls, walls we can still see today. You mixed easily with the local community.’

  ‘So what? I ask you, Keith: so what? It was long ago and everyone I knew is now dead. Why would I want to remember any of that?’

  ‘Helen isn’t dead; Stefan and Joe aren’t dead.’

  ‘As good as – and we will all be feeding the worms soon. This world is on a path to chaos. Have you not noticed? I have heard it compared to the 1930s. Everyone bitter and pointing the finger at the person they think is to blame for their misfortune. It was an ugly time then and it is an ugly time now. Please don’t ask me to dig it all up again.’

  ‘All I’m trying to do is—’

  ‘No, Keith, no – enough. I tried to tell you many times that this is not for me. Switch it off. We are finished here.’

  ‘There are so few of you left who remember. Just one last question about the revolver then—’

  ‘Enough, I said!’

  A third voice interrupted. Rebus recognised it: Jimmy Hess.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Keith, you trying to give him a heart attack?’

  ‘We’re just talking, Jimmy.’

  ‘Maybe so, but now you’re done. You okay, Grandpa?’

  ‘I feel terrible.’

  ‘I told you he wasn’t keen,’ Jimmy Hess was saying. ‘Pack your stuff up – I’ll see you for a drink later.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Frank,’ Keith apologised.

  ‘If that was true, you would not have come here in the first place,’ the old man barked.