by Ian Rankin
‘Serial number?’
‘Just about readable. Luckily there’s a guy in the lab knows someone who fancies himself an expert. If it can be traced, we’ll trace it.’ Creasey opened his notebook and glanced at it. ‘It’s a Webley .38, Mark 4, apparently. Turned them out by the crateload during the war.’
‘State it’s in, has it definitely spent time in the sea?’
Creasey fixed Rebus with a look. ‘You’re doubting Mr Collins’ story?’
‘Like you, I’m ruling nothing out.’
‘Amount of wear and tear makes his version of events feasible. If we need to, we can probably carbon-date the sand in the cylinder.’
The scraping of chair legs against the floor caused them both to turn round. May Collins was on her feet.
‘Ready when you are,’ she told Creasey, all businesslike. Then, to Rebus: ‘Pay’s not great, but there’s a shift for you here if you’re willing.’
‘I can manage,’ Cameron argued.
‘If needed, I can be here,’ Rebus said. May nodded without meeting his eyes. She fastened her jacket and checked she had her phone.
‘Best behaviour while Mummy’s gone,’ she said, pausing at the door until Creasey had opened it for her. Rebus and Cameron watched as the rest of the crew followed. Once the door was closed, Cameron bolted it again.
‘Not nearly opening time yet,’ he explained. ‘Not that I couldn’t do with a drink after all that.’ He was behind the bar by now, his fingers touching the three thin nails. Then he flinched and cursed, tugging the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and rubbing at the nails and the mirrored glass behind.
‘They’ll call that tampering with the evidence,’ Rebus chided him.
‘I call it protecting the innocent,’ Cameron countered. ‘Do we need to get some more tea on?’
‘Wouldn’t go amiss. And if it’s okay with you, I need time on the computer, look a few things up.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Local history to start with.’
‘You could always consult Keith’s group.’
‘Might end up at that, but meantime … ’
Cameron nodded, whether he understood or not. ‘I’ll get that brew going,’ he said, heading in the direction of the kitchen.
Having rung the bell, Rebus could sense Samantha hesitating on the other side of the door, checking through the spyhole. He heard the sound of a chain being slid open and the lock being turned.
‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’ he offered as the door swung wide. ‘Unlike the old days.’
She ushered him inside, sliding the chain back across afterwards. ‘Reporter walked straight in yesterday,’ she muttered.
‘Which one?’
She shrugged, already slouching back towards the kitchen. It was messier than ever. Samantha’s face was paler even than before, cheeks sunken, hair unwashed.
‘How’s Carrie?’ he asked, watching his daughter slump onto one of the chairs around the breakfast table.
‘Full of questions I either can’t answer or don’t want to. She keeps looking at photos on her iPad – holidays and birthdays and Christmas … ’ She got up, heading for the kettle and switching it on. ‘This is what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Make tea and pretend it makes everything bearable for a while?’
‘Is it all right if I ask a question?’
She gave him a quick glance. ‘Do you ever stop?’
‘It’s all I seem to be good for.’
She was concentrating all her efforts on lifting two tea bags from the box, placing them in mugs next to the kettle. It took her a moment to work out what came next. She walked to the fridge, checking the date on the milk.
‘I’m not even sure what day it is,’ she said to herself. Then, to her father: ‘Go on then.’
‘They’ve found the murder weapon. It’s the revolver that used to sit behind the bar in The Glen.’
‘They hit him with it? Why not just shoot him?’ She thought for a moment. ‘I think I remember it. May’s dad found it on the beach.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you ever saw it here? In Keith’s bag maybe?’
She was shaking her head as she handed him his tea, having forgotten to take the tea bag out.
‘And he never mentioned taking it from the pub?’
‘No.’ She sat down again, her own tea forgotten about, the mug still over by the kettle. Her eyes met his. ‘Remember when that man abducted me, back when I was a kid? He did it to get at you. And afterwards, Mum took me to London. We couldn’t live in Edinburgh any more. Is that what I’m going to have to do with Carrie? Make a new life elsewhere? I’ll need to find a job, whatever happens … ’
‘I’ve got money. Best you have it now rather than when I’m gone.’
‘Jesus, Dad.’ Her head went down into her hands. ‘Is one fucking death not enough to be getting on with?’
‘Sorry.’
After a moment, her head lifted again. ‘Why did they use the gun?’
‘Maybe to make a point,’ Rebus offered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The camp, the revolver, the stuff still missing … ’
‘It’s to do with the camp then? Not me, not Jess?’
‘Creasey and his team might take a bit more persuading,’ Rebus cautioned.
Samantha remembered her tea, got up to fetch it. ‘I see Strathy turned up. I remember how excited Keith was the day he went to the castle. On his way to work he’d seen the vans – the marquee company and caterers. He knew what he was doing – maximum embarrassment for his lordship. He was like a kid afterwards, bouncing off the walls like someone had given him too much sugar, when all he’d really been given was a burst lip.’
‘Courtesy of the gardener?’
‘I told him he should report it, but he laughed it off.’
She checked the time on her phone.
‘I’m seeing Julie,’ she explained. ‘Means running the gauntlet again.’ She exhaled noisily. ‘I just want to go back to being me – does that make any sense?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Mind if I stick around?’ he asked. ‘Not here, but the garage?’
‘You’ll need to unlock it. Key’s on the hall table. Put it through the letter box when you’re done.’
‘You’ll be locking up the house?’
She gave a slow, regretful nod. ‘Everything’s changed,’ she said.
33
After a couple of hours spent in the garage, Rebus felt the need to clear his head. He walked to the rear of the bungalow. The garden was basically just lawn, a tool shed, a swing and a folded-away whirligig clothes line. After less than a minute’s battering by the wind, he changed his mind and climbed into his rental car. One bar of signal on his phone, so he called Creasey.
‘You’re worse than a bloody newshound,’ Creasey answered. ‘And there’s nothing to report.’
‘That’s not why I’m calling.’
‘In which case, I can give you two minutes.’
‘I’ve got a fair idea who wrote the notes,’ Rebus began.
‘She’s had another?’
‘I meant the one telling Keith about Samantha’s fling with Hawkins.’
‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘Angharad Oates.’
‘I suppose that’s credible. Not sure it makes any difference to—’
‘Are you forgetting the motorbike? They all get to use it. The night Keith was killed, Ron Travis heard it.’
‘So to your mind, because Oates wrote a couple of anonymous letters, she then murdered Keith, making it more likely that her lover Jess Hawkins and your daughter might be thrown together again?’
‘She’d know who the police would most likely point the finger at. Plus, chances are, it’d lead to Samantha getting out of Dodge.’
> ‘John … ’
‘Okay, how about this – the day Keith barged into that party at Strathy Castle, he was hauled away by Colin Belkin, who gave him a smack in the mouth as a send-off.’
‘And?’
‘And these are leads you should be following.’
‘I’ve got the lead I need right here at the lab.’
‘Prints on the revolver?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ The line went dead. Rebus felt like punching something. Instead of which, he started the engine.
The cemetery lay a mile inland from Tongue, above the village and just off the road to Altnaharra. A low stone wall surrounded it, with high metal gates giving access for hearses. Rebus reckoned that at one time there’d have been a horse-drawn procession from the nearby communities. Maybe not even horses – the coffin carried aloft by family or friends. Only a handful of the gravestones looked new; most were weathered, their inscriptions faded. The grass had been mown recently, though, and fresh flowers had been added to several plots. Not an easy place to hide, and Rebus saw Helen Carter straight away. She was leaning on her walking frame, deep in thought – or more likely remembrance. Rebus approached her, clearing his throat to announce his presence.
‘I heard the car,’ she said.
‘And here was me thinking you’re stone deaf.’
‘I’ve got my hearing aid in.’ She pointed to one of her ears.
Rebus took up position next to her and studied the name on the headstone.
‘Anniversary of his death,’ she explained.
‘I know – I looked him up online. Thought he’d be in one of the war cemeteries.’
‘We guessed he’d want to be here,’ Carter said quietly. ‘Chrissy did anyway.’
Rebus took stock of the scenery. It felt like they might be the only living things in the whole landscape – no livestock visible, no birdsong. Then he turned his attention back to Sergeant Gareth Davies’s grave.
‘Age twenty-nine,’ he recited. ‘How old was Chrissy?’
‘Nineteen. Two years younger than me.’
‘I heard she died a few years back.’
‘She had a good life down south, and a long one.’
‘You kept in touch after she left?’
‘She didn’t often visit – too many memories.’
‘It was a terrible thing to happen.’
‘And such a stupid thing, too.’
‘Sergeant Davies’s killer must have harboured strong feelings for her,’ Rebus agreed. ‘That was what it was, wasn’t it – a crime of passion?’
‘It’s what was said at the trial.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
Helen Carter took a deep breath. ‘Chrissy wasn’t the bonniest of lassies – she’d tell you that herself. But she liked the attention of men, and she found ways to make sure she got that attention.’
‘She was a flirt?’
‘It went a bit beyond that.’ Carter almost had a glint in her eye. ‘Another good reason for her to head south – our parents weren’t going to stand for much more of it. They were religious, as was I, I suppose. They knew they could trust me not to get into trouble.’
‘But not Chrissy?’
‘No.’
‘Were you dating your future husband at this time?’
Carter considered for a moment. The breeze had caught her hair. She pushed some strands back behind her ear.
‘Should we go sit in the car?’
‘A friend is picking me up soon.’
‘Stefan Novack, by any chance?’
She smiled. ‘You are a detective, aren’t you?’
‘The pair of you just seemed comfortable with one another as you were leaving the bar that day.’
‘Well, maybe you’re right.’ She gave a slight shiver. ‘I can feel this wind getting into my bones.’
Rebus put his arm out for her to take, but she waved the offer away, gripping the handles of her walker and shuffling towards the gates.
‘Do you come here on Chrissy’s behalf?’ he asked.
‘I suppose so.’
‘You never did answer my question about your boyfriend … ’
‘Fred,’ she said. ‘Friedrich, actually. We were friends for a while, lovers eventually.’
‘Your parents approved?’
‘Not overly. There was always that element of “sleeping with the enemy”.’
‘Did they grow to like him?’
‘They grew to accept him.’ Her beady eyes drilled into Rebus’s. ‘Why are you asking about all this?’
‘I’ve listened to the recording Keith made of his interview with you. You told him Chrissy didn’t really know Hoffman. He wasn’t part of her coterie?’
‘They’d met on several occasions. The evidence pointed to him as Gareth’s killer.’ She offered a small shrug.
‘Could there have been another reason why Sergeant Davies was targeted?’
‘I can’t think of one.’
‘And none of her other admirers might have been jealous of him?’
‘I’d imagine they were all jealous of him.’
‘These were British guards or internees?’
‘Both. As I say, Chrissy had a certain reputation and she was hell-bent on upholding it.’
‘She sounds a handful. I don’t suppose you were jealous of her, Helen?’ They had reached Rebus’s car. He opened the passenger-side door.
‘Maybe I was – just a little.’
‘But then you had Friedrich … ’
The car door was still open, but she seemed reluctant to get in.
‘As a friend, yes,’ she said. ‘But if I’m being honest, I had my eye on Franz, too. A bit naughty of me, but I think I was trying to stir Friedrich into action, if you know what I mean.’
‘Franz? As in Frank Hess?’ Rebus watched her nod. ‘Another of Chrissy’s admirers?’
‘Oh yes – until Gareth came along and swept her off her feet.’
‘And was Joe Collins part of that group too?’
Carter wrinkled her brow in thought. ‘Not that I remember. Josef was a bit gruff, a bit of a grouch. We always wondered … ’ She broke off.
‘What?’ Rebus asked.
‘We wondered if, given a gun, would he shoot the lot of us? I mean, we used to ask that question a lot – me and Chrissy and the other girls. They all seemed so polite and so charming, but until they surrendered, they’d been merrily slaughtering our menfolk. Plenty at Camp 1033 were still loyal Nazis. One or two even went to Nuremberg.’
‘Shall we get in?’ Rebus gestured towards the car’s interior, but she shook her head. ‘What if I told you,’ he continued, his voice dropping a fraction, ‘that Joe Collins’ revolver had been used to kill Keith Grant?’
Her face didn’t change. ‘Is that what happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I don’t really know what to say.’
‘Keith was bringing the past back to life, dusting off a few ugly truths some people might have wanted kept hidden.’
‘You can’t seriously think one of us … ? We’re almost ready for the grave ourselves!’
‘Maybe there was more than one attacker,’ Rebus commented. He saw she was becoming agitated. ‘Then again, it could all be a con trick – pushing the investigation one way when the truth is hiding down another track entirely.’ He heard a car approaching and turned towards it. ‘Looks like your ride’s here. Handy that Mr Novack’s still up to driving.’
‘Try and stop him,’ Carter said with a faint smile.
The Land Rover came to a stop next to them. Novack gave a wave through the window.
‘The walker goes in the boot,’ Carter told Rebus. He opened the passenger door for her, then stowed the walker while she eased herself into the car.
Rebus went to the driver’s-side window.
‘What brings you here?’ Novack asked, winding the window down.
‘Paying my respects.’
Novack’s look suggested that he doubted this. ‘You’ve heard about the revolver?’
‘Wasn’t sure word had got out.’
‘I assure you it has, along with the news that Joe and May are under arrest.’
‘What?’ Helen Carter froze with the seat belt half strapped across her.
‘They’re verifying the gun, that’s all,’ Rebus countered. He went around the car and closed Carter’s door. Novack lowered the passenger-side window.
‘Joe’s gun, though,’ he went on. ‘Used to murder a man.’
Rebus leaned in at the window. ‘Do you see your old friend Joe as a killer, Stefan?’
‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Carter snapped.
‘Maybe his daughter, then, eh?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Best not let rumours get started. You never know where they’ll stop.’ The window began to rise, Novack’s finger on the switch as he glared at Rebus, while his passenger couldn’t make eye contact at all.
You’re rattled, Rebus thought. You’re both rattled.
Rather than watch the Land Rover roll away, he marched back into the cemetery, stopping once more at Gareth Davies’s resting place.
‘She didn’t bring anything to mark the occasion, did she?’ he asked out loud. No flowers of remembrance, no card or note.
Just Helen Carter herself.
34
Siobhan Clarke’s mobile rang at precisely noon. She didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hello?’ she answered.
‘I’m calling because Issy Meiklejohn more or less demanded it. I have no intention of giving you my name, so please don’t ask.’
The voice was clipped, upper class, English Home Counties.
‘Define “demanded”.’
‘There’s rather a venomous streak to that young woman, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’ve always found her perfectly charming.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny? Anyway, you know why I’m calling?’