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

by Ian Rankin

  Hess’s eyes lit up suddenly, the years seeming to fall from him, until Rebus could see the young conscript, the zealot, the unlovable admirer of the local flirt.

  ‘My grandson has done nothing,’ he spat. He looked around the hallway as if seeking something, then padded off deeper into the house.

  Rebus did his own looking. No bike. There was a narrow close to one side of the house, but he hadn’t seen one there either. He took out his phone: no signal. He was putting it away again when Hess emerged from the gloom, brandishing a carving knife.

  ‘The hell are you doing, Frank?’ Rebus said, hands in front of him, palms facing the oncoming figure.

  ‘I could kill you, you know. You said so yourself – a man filled with rage.’

  ‘Unlike Jimmy, you mean?’ Rebus nodded as if in understanding, then flung out his left hand, wrapping it around Hess’s wrist, twisting until the knife dropped to the floor. He took a step forward, his mouth close to the old man’s ear.

  ‘You don’t ride a bike, though,’ he said in a quiet voice, before turning and leaving the house.

  He entered the close. A couple of old bicycles, one of them dating back to childhood by the look of it. A small rear garden. More junk: rotting wooden doors; a makeshift cloche constructed from discarded window frames in which only weeds seemed to be thriving; old car tyres and hubcaps. In one corner stood a small shed, bought not too many years back judging by its condition. He yanked open the door and peered in. A rotary lawnmower gathering cobwebs; boxes of tools; garden implements hanging from nails. No motorbike. He closed the door and stalked back to his car, checking his phone for signal as he drove. When he gained a single bar, he stopped and called Creasey.

  ‘You need a search warrant for Frank Hess’s house. And you need to question the grandson.’ He paused. ‘Grandson and grandfather both,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘And why is that, John?’ Creasey’s voice was in danger of breaking up. The single bar was fluttering.

  ‘I’ll explain when I see you. Just get on it.’ He ended the call and continued driving, finding a space outside The Glen. He walked in as Cameron was finishing mopping the floor.

  ‘Careful you don’t slip,’ the barman warned him.

  ‘I never slip, son, which doesn’t stop me falling on my arse sometimes. Question for you: does Jimmy Hess own a motorbike?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘He has all the accoutrements.’

  Cameron was nodding. ‘That’s because he sometimes borrows Callum’s.’

  ‘And who the hell is Callum?’

  ‘Him and his dad run Torries farm. Mad keen on bikes is Callum, though you’ll mostly find him on an ATV.’ He saw Rebus’s blank look. ‘You’d probably call it a quad bike. Handy for getting around the fields.’

  ‘So Torries farm, how do I find it?’

  Cameron started a complicated explanation, but Rebus cut him off.

  ‘Easier if you come with me.’

  ‘But we’re opening—’

  ‘Do what the man says.’

  They turned their heads towards the voice. May Collins was standing in the doorway behind the bar, drying her hands on a cloth. Her eyes were on Rebus.

  ‘Dad says you paid him a visit. Looks to me like you’ve got the scent of something, so what are you waiting for?’ She made a shooing motion with her fingers.

  ‘I’ll grab my jacket,’ Cameron said.

  In the brief time he was gone, Collins and Rebus maintained eye contact without a word being exchanged between them. But there was a faint smile on Collins’ lips as Cameron squeezed past her, shrugging his arms into his denim jacket.

  ‘Good luck,’ were her parting words as the two men left the bar.

  It was a twenty-minute drive, east at first and then winding inland. The farm’s main compound lay down a rutted track, Rebus taking it at speed. It was a hire car after all. At the sound of the approaching engine, a young man wearing a blue boiler suit appeared in the yard from one of the barns.

  ‘That’s Callum,’ Cameron said. Rebus stopped next to a muddy quad bike and got out. Cameron and Callum were shaking hands and exchanging greetings by the time he reached them.

  ‘I’m John Rebus, Samantha’s dad,’ he said by way of introduction.

  ‘Sorry for your loss,’ the young man said. He was brawny and red-cheeked, with wild hair and a no-nonsense manner. ‘What brings you out here?’

  ‘You’re friends with Jimmy Hess?’

  ‘Since school.’

  ‘He borrows your bike sometimes?’

  Callum gave a quizzical look. ‘He does, aye.’

  ‘When was the last time that happened?’

  ‘I’d have to think.’

  ‘Recently, though? Just over a week back?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did he say why he needed it?’

  ‘Jimmy just likes to hit the road sometimes, let off a bit of steam. His grandad’s not the easiest man to live with.’

  ‘I know I couldn’t do it,’ Cameron confirmed.

  Rebus turned to him. ‘You don’t need to, though, do you? Frank Hess hardly ever visits the pub.’

  ‘Never, actually,’ Cameron corrected him. ‘Says it’s because he’s not a man for the drink, yet if you visit the house … ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Plenty whisky bottles, and Jimmy’s definitely not a fan of malts.’

  Rebus focused his attention on the farmer again. ‘So how long did Jimmy have the bike for?’

  ‘Just the one day.’

  ‘Day and night?’

  ‘Being on a bike at night is a joy. You don’t need a destination, not up here. The drive is everything.’

  ‘If you thought about it, you could get me the exact date?’ Rebus persisted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when he brought the bike back, how did he seem?’

  Callum looked from Rebus to Cameron and back again. ‘Wait a sec, this is my mate you’re talking about.’

  ‘And you’re going to be talking about him a lot more, not to me but to a murder inquiry.’

  Callum was shaking his head, while Cameron looked stunned. Rebus’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. He lifted it out.

  ‘You get a signal all the way out here?’

  ‘Mast over that way.’ Callum pointed towards a distant hill.

  Rebus pressed the phone to his ear, turning away from both young men. ‘Yes, DS Creasey, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You know search warrants don’t come ten a penny? I need to convince my boss to convince a judge – which means you need to convince me.’

  ‘Best done face to face – where are you now?’

  ‘Just past Lairg, heading north.’

  ‘Thing is, as soon as Jimmy Hess’s grandad talks to him, we’ve got a problem. Anything that could be evidence is going to get ditched. And your way takes time, Robin.’

  ‘John … ’

  But Rebus had already made up his mind.

  Having dropped Cameron at the pub, he headed back to Frank Hess’s house and tried the door. Locked now. He rang the bell, but there was no answer. Peered through the letter box. No sign of the crash helmet or jacket. Cursing under his breath, he stalked down the close and into the garden. There was a door to the kitchen, but it was locked too. The window was grimy, but he could see in. The carving knife lay on the worktop. The drawer it had been taken from gaped open. A frying pan on the stove and pots and dishes in the sink. Two mugs on the drop-leaf table. No sign of life.

  He stepped back and stared at the upstairs windows. Both had their curtains closed. He headed to the shed and opened it, started rummaging, then decided it would be easier if he shifted the lawnmower. He dragged it out and got to work,
tossing tools behind him to make more space. Boxes of screws, nails of odd sizes, most of them rusted, hooks and pieces of wire and old three-pin plugs. Plastic flowerpots, rolls of twine, cans of oil …

  He noticed that the workbench had a drawer. It was stuck shut, so he left it. But having gone through the last box, he had nothing to show for his efforts. Sweat was causing his shirt to cling to his back. He checked that his inhaler was in his pocket, just in case. Then he looked at the drawer and decided to give it another go. This time he used a large screwdriver, wedging it into a gap. Some of the wood began to splinter, but the drawer moved out a fraction. He tried again; more movement. He gripped the sides of the drawer in both hands and—

  ‘You’re trespassing,’ Jimmy Hess said. Rebus turned towards him. Hess filled the shed’s doorway. ‘Criminal damage, too.’

  ‘Police are on their way, son,’ Rebus said, breathing hard. ‘But it’s you they’ll be talking to, not me.’ He reached a hand through the gap in the drawer and lifted out a laptop. He sensed Keith’s notebooks were in there too, at the back, harder to reach. ‘Best go prepare your grandfather.’

  Jimmy Hess was shaking his head. His large, round face showed no emotion. Gone was the jovial figure who had sat at the table in The Glen; gone, too, the concerned and solicitous grandson who had brought an end to Keith Grant’s interview.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he told Rebus.

  And then he lunged, hands around Rebus’s throat, pushing him back until Rebus collided with the rear wall of the shed. He felt his airway constrict, his eyes bulging and watering at the same time, blurring his vision. He had his own hands around the younger man’s wrists, but couldn’t budge them. He sought a pinkie, intent on bending it back until it snapped, but his strength was already ebbing. His knees buckled and he sank towards the floor, sharp corners of various objects digging into him. Changing tactics, he reached for Jimmy Hess’s face, clawing at it, seeking the vulnerable eyes. But Hess just turned his head to and fro, making purchase impossible. The sea was roaring in Rebus’s ears now, and the world had turned blood-red like a sunset. Hess’s teeth were bared in effort. Rebus only wished he could have given his tormentor a more even fight … and been more help to Sammy …

  Sam …

  Samantha …

  His hands fell away and his eyes fluttered once before closing.

  A deep darkness lay beyond the roaring.

  40

  The Leith team were in high spirits, except for George Gamble, who sat with arms folded, having warned anyone who’d listen: ‘Don’t count your fried chickens.’ His chair creaked as he leaned back in it.

  Most of the team had gathered in the vicinity of the Murder Wall, perched on desks or standing expectantly while Graham Sutherland considered their next move.

  ‘I’ll talk to the Fiscal’s office,’ he announced, ‘that’s probably job one.’

  ‘Surely job one is getting Morelli in here and interviewing him under caution,’ DC Phil Yeats said. He was handing round the teas and coffees, this having become a routine he seemed to welcome. (‘Detective wages for a Tea Jenny’s work,’ had been Ronnie Ogilvie’s comment one night in the pub after Yeats had left.)

  ‘We need to remember he’s a flight risk unless we get him to surrender his passport,’ Malcolm Fox added.

  ‘In good time, Malcolm,’ Sutherland said. He had taken up position in front of the wall display, facing his team. ‘Car’s gone to the workshop at Howdenhall. If there’s trace evidence to be found, they’ll find it. I’m promised news by close of day.’

  ‘Search warrant for Morelli’s home?’ Esson piped up.

  ‘As soon as I’ve had a word with the Fiscal. Do we have any thoughts as to motive?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Siobhan Clarke offered, ‘but there’s premeditation there. I’m guessing he thought it less risky to head out of town to rent the vehicle. CCTV from the airport shows him dressed very unshowily. Malcolm and I have had dealings with him, and he’s always immaculate.’ The team had been handed printouts of the CCTV stills. They studied them as Clarke continued. ‘Hooded sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.’

  ‘What’s the backpack for?’ Ronnie Ogilvie asked.

  ‘How many people fly into Edinburgh with no luggage at all?’ Clarke answered. ‘He’s trying not to stand out. But the hoodie brings me to another thing – it’s what he was wearing the night he claims he was attacked.’

  ‘Claims?’

  ‘Remember what I said about the thought that’s gone into this: if Morelli’s viewed by us as a victim … ’

  ‘He’s less likely to seem a possible suspect.’ Ogilvie nodded his understanding.

  ‘All of which is great,’ Sutherland interrupted. ‘But it remains speculative.’

  ‘Pretty compelling all the same,’ Fox stressed. ‘Car at the murder scene; renter known to the victim; prearranged meeting. Don’t forget – last call on Salman’s phone was to his good pal Giovanni.’

  ‘Which we dismissed because of who Morelli was and what had allegedly happened to him,’ Christine Esson added. ‘When in fact he might just have faked a mugging by dunting his head against a wall.’

  Sutherland was nodding thoughtfully. ‘Let me talk to the Fiscal, get things moving. But in the meantime let’s keep this under wraps – no leaks for a change.’ He paused. ‘Understood, George?’

  Gamble froze, digestive biscuit halfway to his mouth. ‘Don’t look at me, boss.’

  ‘Just making sure you’re paying attention. And let’s hear it for Siobhan and Malcolm. It’s because of them that we’re as far along as we are.’

  Sutherland started clapping, the others joining in. The applause was the usual mix: genuine enthusiasm and relief, topped with a sprinkling of resentment that the collar belonged to someone other than the celebrant.

  ‘Thanks, folks,’ Fox said, hands clasped together.

  ‘Don’t let it go to your big baldy head,’ George Gamble retorted.

  As they returned to their desks and Sutherland headed into his office to make the call, Clarke saw Fox run a questioning palm over his scalp.

  ‘He was winding you up,’ she told him in an undertone.

  ‘I know that.’

  But Clarke knew that next time Fox went to the toilets, he’d be angling his head in front of the mirror in an attempt to take a really good look.

  41

  He awoke with a start and lashed out, but the face above him belonged to Robin Creasey.

  ‘Bloody hell, John, thought I’d lost you there.’

  Rebus’s hand went to his windpipe. He sensed damage. Swallowing brought a searing heat to his throat. He tried speaking, his voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Keith’s computer was here.’ He gestured towards the drawer. ‘Jimmy borrowed a motorbike, the night Keith was killed. Ron Travis heard it.’

  Creasey switched on his phone’s torch and aimed it into the drawer. ‘Something at the back,’ he said.

  ‘Keith’s notebooks.’

  ‘I’ll get someone here to stand guard. And an ambulance for you.’

  Rebus shook his head, the action causing immediate dizziness. He accepted Creasey’s help as he made to stand. The world birled around him as he took his inhaler out, aiming it between his chattering teeth. Wasn’t sure it would do any good, but he took a couple of puffs anyway. As he made his way tentatively from the shed, he saw Frank Hess standing in the kitchen doorway. The man’s eyes were judging him.

  ‘Where will he have gone?’ Rebus demanded in the same strangulated whisper.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, John,’ Creasey said. ‘Let’s just focus on you for the moment.’

  Rebus grabbed a fistful of Creasey’s jacket lapel. ‘Let’s not,’ he said.

  ‘Jimmy is a good boy,’ Hess was intoning, more to himself than anyone else. Rebus thought he could see tears in the old ma
n’s eyes. He got Hess’s attention and pointed towards Creasey.

  ‘More you tell them, the better – for your grandson, I mean. You need to do the right thing now, Frank. Start making up for all your wrongs.’

  Hess glowered at him. ‘You and I are no longer young men. Keith was a young man, impatient, full of ideas. He thought he could change things.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘For how long were you a policeman? And did you change the world? Did you change anything?’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing I didn’t do – kill a man because I was jealous of what he had. But then you as good as killed a second time, didn’t you – framing Hoffman, seeing him executed? And to stop that coming to light, you sent your grandson to kill yet again. And my guess is you were fine with that.’

  ‘It was not planned! It was not!’

  Rebus turned his head towards Creasey. ‘Get the shed sealed off, dust those notebooks for prints, check if there’s anything useful in the house. Warrant might be a bit easier to arrange now, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’ll need a statement from you too. And I still think you should go to hospital.’

  ‘I promise I will – just as soon as you’ve got hold of Jimmy Hess.’

  ‘Don’t go looking for him, John,’ Creasey called out as Rebus headed on fragile legs towards the close. By way of answer, Rebus gave a little wave of one hand.

  42

  Interview Room B, Leith police station.

  Interview Room A did exist, but it had been out of commission for months due to a leak in the ceiling that would prove costly to fix. Siobhan Clarke had checked that the AV recorder in IRB was working. Graham Sutherland sat next to her. Malcolm Fox had argued that there should be someone present from Gartcosh, to which Sutherland had answered with a one-word question: why?