by Ian Rankin
‘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 was 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.’
‘And leave the window open – explains why the passenger seat was damp.’
‘Maybe trying to clear their head,’ Creasey said. ‘It rained that night but not until two a.m. Car was most likely in the lay-by by then.’
‘They must have been fairly sure the gun would have no prints on it.’
‘If they were thinking straight, yes.’
‘No blood on the seat, though … ’
‘Maybe the revolver was lying on the notes or the computer. And to go back to your first question, once I had my hypothesis, I decided to test it by having officers walk the length of the route from the camp to where the Volvo was abandoned, some on the road itself, checking the ditches, others in the fields either side.’
‘Proper policing,’ Rebus conceded. ‘I bet the ones you sent out loved you for it, too.’
‘They’re loving me now – though my bank manager won’t.’
‘Beers all round, eh? Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that some of them are still hard at it. What time do you think you’ll be back?’
‘I’m heading to Inverness.’
‘Good luck finding someone in the lab this time of night.’
‘Overtime’s been approved and a willing body or two found.’ Creasey paused. ‘I just need to see it with my own eyes, John.’
‘Any chance you could send me a photo?’
‘So you can go shoving it in the face of everyone on your list of likely suspects? I don’t think so.’
‘Reckon you’ll get prints? God knows how many pub regulars have handled it down the years.’
‘All that’s for later. I’ll catch up with you sometime tomorrow. Until I do – play nice.’
‘Did you get talking to Siobhan about me?’
‘A little.’
‘Then you probably know playing nice doesn’t feature heavily on my list of qualities. Have fun at the lab, son.’
‘John … ’ Sounded to Rebus as though another warning was coming, but he’d already ended the call.
Cole Burnett lay on his bed, earbuds in, music pounding in an attempt to overwhelm his thoughts. It wasn’t working, though, not tonight. His parents were out, Christ knew where. Pub, party, dogging site. He barely exchanged a word with them these days. Stuck to his bedroom, smoking his weed and dropping tabs. One of them might put their head around the door occasionally, mutter something about food being on the table. He was never hungry; he’d eat later. At dead of night he might raid the fridge or get some toast and jam on the go, if either of them had bothered to buy bread.
Tonight he had a multipack of crisps and a jar of peanut butter. Scoop the peanut butter out with a finger and suck on it. Brilliant stuff. To wash it down he had a four-pack of energy drinks, half-bottle of vodka, litre of lemonade. King of his castle, blinds open, window ajar. The posters on his walls harked back to childhood – Marvel superheroes and cartoon characters. Plus one from the Walking Dead TV show and one from Narcos. He loved Narcos. The doing he’d got at the hands of Cafferty and his sidekick, that would have turned out a lot differently – a lot differently – if he had been able to pull a gun from his waistband. He knew where to get one, too. People who knew people. Expensive, though, and up until now, while sometimes fantasising about the power that ownership would confer, he’d never felt the urgent need.
But that was changing. And he’d heard that if you rented and brought it back unused, you’d get a decent chunk of the deposit refunded. Fired, there might be a bit of money due, but not much. Traceability, he’d been told. Bullets could be matched to the pieces that had fired them.
‘So here’s a tip for you, Cole – if you use the thing, dig the bullet out of wherever it’s ended up. Do not leave it at the scene.’
He replayed the conversation in his head as he stared at the ceiling, hands clasped around the back of his head. He thought of Les’s aunt, of her home of nine years being turned into a factory. She’d be the one going to jail when the bust came. Cafferty would remain nicely distanced from the fallout. He lived in a top-floor flat in a nice part of town. He had his club and his big car and his hangers-on. He had a lot of things Cole wanted. Yet who was he? What was he? Just another fucker who got lucky. Wasn’t like he had an invisibility cloak or some Marvel-style weaponry. His only shield was his rep; the sort of hard man drunks talked pish about in old men’s pubs.
Cole raised himself up from his prone position, swung his feet off the bed and onto the carpeted floor. Stopped the music. Walked to the window, pushing it as far open as it would go. He wanted to stick his head out and howl at the sky, a sky that had only just turned dark.
Instead of which, he returned to the bed. Sat on it. Looked at his phone. Gnawed on his bottom lip. Made his decision and called the number.
‘Fuck is it?’ the voice at the other end demanded.
‘I can get you the dough,’ Cole said. ‘So how soon can I have it?’
‘You fussed about make and model?’
‘As long as it works.’
‘Tomorrow then. Deets later.’
The call was ended. Cole picked up the open can of energy drink and took a slug before starting to text some mates. Time to ask a few favours …
Day Six
32
Rebus, May and Cameron were in the kitchen finishing breakfast when they heard a noise at the pub’s locked and bolted front door. May went to investigate, Rebus knowing full well what she’d find. Sure enough, she returned slightly flustered, trying not to show it.
‘Cameron,’ she announced. ‘Our fingerprints are needed. Police are waiting in the bar.’
‘What’s going on?’ Cameron asked.
‘They found a gun. They think it might be the one from here.’ She fetched her jacket from the coat rail. ‘I’ve got to go with them – they need Dad’s prints too.’
Cameron pushed a last corner of bread into his mouth as he rose from his chair. Rebus was up too. He followed May into the bar. The print kit had been set up on one of the tables. Robin Creasey was studying the photographs of John Lennon.
‘Have you had any sleep?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not much.’ He turned his attention to May. ‘You and your father will have to come to Inverness, I’m afraid. That’s where the firearm is and we need an identification.’
‘Won’t our fingerprints be p
roof enough?’ May enquired.
‘Would showing May a photograph suffice?’ Rebus added.
‘I don’t think so.’ But Creasey produced his phone anyway and opened its picture gallery, holding the screen close to May’s face as he used a finger to slide between shots. Rebus changed position so he could view over May’s shoulder. A rusty revolver, with a piece of white muslin cloth covering a section of the grip. He knew the cloth’s purpose: blood and hair beneath, not the sort of thing you wanted civilians seeing. As Creasey flipped back through the gallery, he had eyes only for May, checking her reaction. She had placed a palm to one cheek as if to aid concentration.
‘Looks similar,’ she eventually conceded.
‘We think there are marks that will correspond to the nails on the wall.’ Creasey nodded to where a photographer was busy getting close-ups of the gap below the optics while an assistant held up a simple wooden ruler as a measurement aid.
‘Easier just to bring the gun here,’ Rebus suggested. ‘Inverness is a hellish long trip for a frail old man.’
‘We’ll be fine, John,’ May attempted to reassure him. Then, to Cameron: ‘You going to be okay on your own?’
The young barman was seated at the table while his prints were taken. ‘These’ll be destroyed after, won’t they? Not kept on some Big Brother database?’
‘Never fear,’ Creasey said, which didn’t seem to console Cameron in the least.
When May’s turn came to sit at the table, Rebus drew Creasey to one side. ‘So what’s your thinking now?’ he asked in an undertone.
Creasey gave the beginnings of a shrug. ‘As ever, I’m keeping an open mind.’
‘The gun was lifted from here for a reason. Maybe the same reason it was used against Keith.’
‘Or it was just handy in the heat of the moment. Like I say, I’m ruling nothing out.’ Creasey rolled his shoulders and gave his neck a few stretches.
‘Racking up the miles,’ Rebus commented. ‘How long till Forensics finish with the gun?’
‘I’ll have a report later today. Blood and hair have gone for analysis. They’re checking for fibres and prints. It dates to the 1940s. Hasn’t been decommissioned but it’s corroded to hell, trigger and cylinder jammed. Barrel full of gunk and no bullets in any of the chambers.’