A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘You should tell him,’ he announced, just as the interview was winding down. His daughter gave him a hard stare. ‘He’ll find out anyway, if he’s as thorough as I think he is.’

  Creasey looked from daughter to father and back again, content to bide his time. Samantha focused her eyes on the wooden floor at her feet.

  ‘There was a guy I was seeing for a while. It’s finished now, but Keith found out. Hard to keep secrets in a place this size.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘A couple of months.’

  ‘This other man–a friend of his?’

  She shook her head. ‘He runs a commune. That’s what you’d probably call it. Keith and me were curious, so we visited one day. Keith didn’t go back, but I did.’

  ‘So Keith does know the man?’

  ‘His name’s Jess Hawkins. Far as I know they just met the once, and only really for a quick handshake.’

  ‘When Keith found out, he didn’t go looking for Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘I told him not to. Whatever it was, it had ended by then.’

  ‘How did he find out?’ Rebus asked. ‘Did you tell him?’

  She shook her head again. ‘A note–anonymous, of course.’

  ‘Someone in the village, then?’ Samantha shrugged. ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you seen Mr Hawkins since?’ Creasey enquired.

  An eventual slow nod of the head. ‘In social situations, yes.’

  ‘I appreciate you sharing this with me, and I have to ask if you think it could have anything at all to do with Keith’s disappearance.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘There must have been an impact on your relationship, though?’

  She glared at the detective. ‘I don’t remember booking to see a counsellor.’

  Creasey held up a hand in appeasement. ‘It’s just that it might explain Keith’s actions–he needs to go somewhere to clear his head, think things through.’

  ‘He’s had a couple of months to do that,’ Rebus reasoned.

  ‘Time for things to fester,’ Creasey countered. Rebus noticed that he hadn’t touched his tea. It sat on the floor on a ceramic coaster. ‘I’d imagine things were difficult, Samantha. Did he retreat into himself, or is he more the type who lashes out?’

  Samantha gave a snort. ‘Keith’s never ever raised a hand to me.’

  ‘You talked? Tried to work things out?’

  ‘When he was around.’

  ‘He started staying out more than usual?’

  ‘He had his hobby people. They probably saw more of him than Carrie and me did.’

  ‘What’s the hobby?’

  ‘Local history. There’s an old POW camp back towards Tongue. They’re looking at its history, doing some excavating. There’s a half-baked plan to open it to tourists.’

  ‘Maybe not so half-baked–you’re on the North Coast 500 after all. Plenty new visitors.’

  ‘Mostly speeding past in their sports cars,’ Samantha said dismissively. Creasey turned towards Rebus.

  ‘It’s a circuit that’s become popular with drivers.’

  ‘I know,’ Rebus replied. ‘I might live in the far-off lands to the south, but news sometimes travels.’

  Creasey decided to ignore Rebus’s tone and turned his attention back to Samantha. ‘What do you think’s happened to Keith, Samantha?’

  ‘Something.’

  ‘Could you be more specific?’

  ‘An accident maybe.’ She offered a shrug and checked her phone. ‘I need to fetch Carrie soon.’

  A glance at his watch told Rebus his daughter was exaggerating–school wouldn’t finish for another hour or two. He saw Creasey come to the same conclusion, yet nod all the same.

  ‘One last question then–when did you last see or speak to Keith?’

  ‘That same evening. After dinner, he said he was going out.’

  ‘He didn’t say where?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he seemed all right?’

  Samantha nodded slowly.

  ‘Then let’s leave things for now.’ Creasey got up from the sofa and handed her a business card. ‘I’ll file a missing person report, but if he does turn up or anything changes…’ Samantha gave another nod. ‘Are the keys to the Volvo here? I wouldn’t mind checking the interior. I’ll pop them through your letter box when I’m finished.’

  ‘On the table by the front door.’

  Creasey stretched out his hand to take hers. ‘People almost always come back,’ he said. She returned the handshake without looking in the least bit convinced.

  Rebus got up and said he would see the detective out. Creasey lifted the car keys while Rebus opened the door. Both men stepped outside, Rebus closing the door after them, making sure it wasn’t locked.

  ‘You reckon it’s nothing to worry about?’ he enquired.

  ‘Early days. If she’d not mentioned the affair and I’d found out after, I might have wondered what else she wasn’t telling me.’ He paused, studying Rebus’s face. ‘I know she’s not always had it easy. She was twelve, wasn’t she, when that nutcase got hold of her? Held a fearsome grudge against you.’

  ‘Thirty-odd years back.’

  ‘Then a hit-and-run in her twenties. She was in a wheelchair for a time. Still has a trace of a limp when she walks.’

  ‘Is this us playing detective Top Trumps?’

  ‘Aren’t Top Trumps a bit after your time?’

  ‘You’re forgetting I’ve got a granddaughter–plus a daughter who’s turned out perfectly well adjusted, despite your insinuations.’

  ‘I’ve not met too many folk who’re “perfectly” well adjusted, Mr Rebus.’

  ‘Go look at the car, head home, file your report.’

  ‘Leaving you here to do what exactly?’

  ‘Help my daughter as best I can.’ Rebus opened the door and disappeared back inside.

  3

  They got the living room and kitchen tidy, Samantha checking her phone every few minutes in case she’d missed a text from Keith.

  ‘So nothing at all out of the ordinary that day?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Keith came home from work, had dinner, then went out?’

  ‘Weren’t you listening when I told the detective?’

  ‘Just getting it clear in my mind. What time did you start to worry?’

  ‘Bedtime, I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose?’

  ‘I texted him.’ She waved her phone in front of her father’s face. ‘Take a look if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Of course I believe you.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it to me.’ She checked the time again. ‘Anyway, I really do have to go fetch Carrie.’

  ‘Creasey knows, you know.’

  She scowled at him. ‘Knows what?’

  ‘That you lied to get rid of him.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand it another minute.’ She lifted her coat from the back of a chair and started putting it on. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Does Keith keep anything about the POW camp here?’

  ‘In the garage.’

  ‘I might stick around then.’

  ‘Suit yourself. It’s not locked. And you can leave the door unlocked here, too.’

  ‘Everywhere used to be like that,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘A nice safe place to bring up kids,’ Samantha said, mostly to herself, wrapping a long scarf around her neck and making for the door.

  When she was gone, he wandered through the house. There were no bedside drawers in the main bedroom, just identical small tables. Her side: a half-empty blister pack of ibuprofen; nail scissors; phone charger; clock radio. His: a football biography; iPad; headphones. The iPad required a password. The screen saver was one of the framed photos from the living room–a beach holiday, father and daughter presumably with Samantha on the other end of the camera. He considered opening the clothes drawers and the fitted wardrobe but managed to
stop himself.

  Carrie’s room was a riot of colour and toys, including one he remembered buying her for her eighth birthday. There wasn’t much else apart from the small bathroom and a box room being used for storage, so he donned his coat and headed to the garage. Shelves filled with DIY stuff, tools and lengths of wire and cable. And in the centre, where a vehicle might sit, a large trestle table with a folding wooden chair. Rebus sat down and started examining the reams of paper, books, notebooks, plans and photocopied photographs.

  Camp 1033 was also known as Borgie Camp, named after the river that ran past it. Rebus got the sense that it had housed different sets of people at different times during the Second World War, from ‘aliens’ long resident in the UK to captured German soldiers. Keith had been diligent. There were books about the history of concentration camps and about specific camps in Scotland and elsewhere. He’d picked them up from dealers, the cardboard packaging tossed on the floor nearby. To Rebus’s mind, that spoke of an urgency, a hunger–maybe a way to stop thinking about what had happened with Samantha? Immersing himself. Losing himself. There was a long handwritten list of official documents and books that he had yet to get his hands on. The words ‘National Library?’ had been double-underscored.

  Rebus knew he could spend hours here without necessarily learning much that would help. All the same, he was curious. If Borgie was Camp 1033, presumably that meant there were at least another 1,032 camps like it scattered throughout the British Isles. Why hadn’t he known? One of the books was dedicated to another Scottish camp called Watten, near Wick. Not so far away in the scheme of things. There was also a flyer for a camp called Cultybraggen, near Comrie, which, practically intact, already operated as a tourist destination. Rebus saw that Keith–or someone – had made scribbled calculations about how much it would cost to do something similar with Camp 1033. The answer was several hundred thousand pounds. Whoever had written the figures had added a frowning face to the final underlined sum.

  He listened as a car drew up, engine idling for half a minute, before driving off again. He made his way from the garage to the bungalow, unsurprised to find the Volvo key fob on the floor of the hallway. Picking it up, he closed the door again and decided to walk to the lay-by. The wind whipped around him, making him wish he had a hat while also aware that he’d have had trouble stopping it flying away. He unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s side, closing the door on the elements. He turned the ignition and the engine sprang into life. When he tried the hi-fi, the radio was tuned to Radio Scotland, but there was no signal.

  The navigation system offered few clues, no destination having been set. Around here, it paid to know your routes rather than depending on technology to know them for you. As if to reinforce this, there was a road atlas in the passenger-side pocket. Rebus couldn’t quite reach it, so, leaving the engine idling, he got out and rounded the car, settling in the passenger seat. Quickly he realised it was damp. He got out again and pressed his palm to the seat. Definitely damp. He grabbed the road atlas and flicked through it, concentrating on the pages showing the local area. Nothing had been marked or circled. Leaning back into the car, he lifted the central armrest. The storage space below was empty save for a few chocolate wrappers and sticks of chewing gum. Keith wasn’t a smoker, though Samantha had admitted to Creasey that he liked the occasional night at the pub with his cronies, these mostly being people he worked beside. The pubs ranged from the local in Naver to as far afield as Thurso. No driving while inebriated, though–always a cab or a willing teetotal friend.

  The glove box held nothing other than the car’s log book and various garage bills. Rebus closed the passenger-side door and checked the back seats, then the boot, which contained a muddy cagoule, a pair of thick knitted socks, and hiking boots that had seen good use. Rebus imagined this would be Keith’s kit for trips to Camp 1033.

  Retreating to the driver’s seat once more, he stared out through the windscreen at a view of rising hills. The land here was greener than in nearby Tongue, less scraped and craggy. He knew from previous visits that dunes lay to the other side of the churchyard and led to a long, curving stretch of sandy beach. He thought he remembered Samantha saying Keith had grown up in Dundee, but that there were family ties to the local area–summer holidays with relatives; fond memories. He wondered if he should leave the key in the ignition, for when Keith returned. But Samantha had made the decision to take it home with her, so he turned off the ignition, locked the car and put the key in his pocket.

  When he reached the bungalow, there was no sign of Samantha, so he climbed into his own car and set off for the village proper. Its only real shopping street lay just off the main road. There was a bar called The Glen, a shop that doubled as post office and café, and a pottery. When he parked outside The Glen, the first person he saw was Creasey. He was in conversation with a couple of locals outside the shop. Rebus knew what he was doing: same thing Rebus himself intended to do. Namely: dig. He entered the pub and walked up to the bar. The place was dead, apart from a barmaid rearranging glasses on a shelf. She glanced in his direction.

  ‘Your friend’s just been in,’ she said.

  ‘What gave the game away?’

  ‘I know a copper when I see one. I’ll tell you what I told him.’ She faced Rebus, her hands pressing against the bar top. ‘Keith keeps his nose clean; knows when he’s had enough.’

  ‘He’s a regular, then?’

  ‘Sits over there with his history group.’ She gestured towards a corner table. ‘Couple of pints apiece and that’s them done.’

  ‘This is the same group that’s been researching Borgie Camp?’

  The barmaid studied him. ‘Your friend didn’t know its name.’

  ‘You told him, though?’

  ‘But now I’m wondering how come you know and he didn’t. Makes me think I might have jumped to conclusions a bit soon.’

  ‘I’m John Rebus. Samantha’s my daughter.’

  ‘You used to be police,’ she said with a slow nod.

  ‘So you weren’t far out in your assessment.’

  ‘Good to know I’ve not lost the touch. The other man was asking about Samantha–did she come in with Keith, did they seem to be getting along as a couple.’

  ‘Mind if I ask how you answered?’

  ‘A kid can put a strain on a relationship. Keith’s commute means he’s away long stretches of the day.’

  ‘And when he’s not busy at work, he’s got Camp 1033.’

  ‘Have you been there?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Can’t have been much fun for the prisoners–freezing in the winter and a gale constantly howling. And yet some of them stayed put when the war finished, settled down with local lassies.’

  ‘I get the feeling you speak from experience.’

  ‘My dad.’

  ‘You don’t seem old enough.’

  She rolled her eyes but didn’t look unflattered. ‘Second marriage for him when his first wife died. He was nearly fifty when I came along. He’d changed his name from Kolln to Collins. Christened me May after the month I was born–lack of imagination if you ask me.’

  ‘Is he still with us?’

  ‘In his nineties but wearing well enough.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, May.’ Rebus shook her hand across the bar. He’d had to revise her age upwards by around a decade–the climate hadn’t managed to leave its mark on her features. Dark shoulder-length hair, a face that needed little or no make-up. She held herself with the no-nonsense confidence of bar staff everywhere. ‘What else was DS Creasey asking?’

  Instead of answering, she offered Rebus a drink. ‘Just to keep me company.’ When he shook his head, she poured herself lemonade from the mixer gun, adding a slice of lemon.

  ‘We’re sophisticated up here,’ she said as she dropped it into the glass.

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  She was thoughtful as she sipped; Rebus got the idea she was trying to decide what to tell him.

  ‘He asked m
e if I knew Samantha’s history,’ she eventually confided. ‘That surprised me. I mean, she’s not the one who’s done a runner. Whereas Keith’s biography didn’t seem to interest him at all.’

  ‘Almost as if he suspects her of something?’ Rebus offered.

  ‘I refused to play along. Rumours are quick enough to spread without anyone aiding and abetting.’

  ‘Did he ask what you think might have happened to Keith?’

  She gave a slow nod, eyes fixed on her drink. ‘People leave all the time for any number of reasons. I’ve thought of it myself more than once.’

  ‘So what keeps you here? Your dad, I guess.’

  ‘Maybe–or maybe the same reason people move here in the first place: to turn their backs on all the shit happening elsewhere. That’s why I hardly ever switch that thing on unless a customer demands it.’ She gestured towards the TV that sat high up on the wall above the door. Rebus noticed the framed pictures alongside. They showed John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

  ‘Just been listening to him in the car,’ he commented.

  ‘We get a few fans in now and again.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He used to come here. Well, Durness really. Holidays when he was a boy. Then there was the accident.’

  Rebus walked towards the TV. One of the photos showed a car, its front severely dented.

  ‘He was bringing Yoko north to show her his childhood haunts,’ May Collins explained. ‘They went off the road, ended up in hospital in Golspie.’

  ‘I don’t think I knew that.’

  ‘That’s my kind of local history.’

  Rebus turned back towards her. ‘Did Keith’s group ever quiz you about your dad?’

  ‘They’re nothing if not thorough.’ She fixed him with a look. ‘You’re pretty thorough too, for a pensioner.’