A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘As it happens, she’s right.’

  ‘Is it the COPD?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Neither of us is getting any younger. Just calling to check you’re managing.’

  Rebus thought of something. ‘You still keeping your nose in a few books, John? Maybe you could help me. I’ve taken a sudden interest in Second World War prison camps.’

  ‘A cheery subject.’

  ‘There’s a list of documents and books I’m trying to track down.’

  ‘It’s not a library you need, it’s the internet.’

  Rebus had forgotten that since his retirement Neilson had developed an interest in computers. He’d boasted once of recovering a wiped hard drive. ‘How would I find out what sites are useful?’ he enquired.

  ‘Camps in Germany?’

  ‘The UK,’ Rebus corrected him. ‘Internment rather than POW, and specifically Camp 1033.’ He sensed Neilson picking up a pen and beginning to write.

  ‘I’ll send you some links. What’s your email?’

  Rebus spelled it out for him.

  ‘AOL, John?’ Neilson chuckled. ‘You really are a dinosaur. Leave it with me.’ He paused. ‘So the move’s gone okay? I know it can all be a bit traumatic. When do I get to see the place?’

  ‘Let me finish unpacking first. You’ll get that gen to me?’

  ‘Wee bit of police work–I miss it every bit as much as you do.’

  Rebus ended the call, started the Volvo and got back on the road.

  7

  He managed to drive past Camp 1033 without really noticing, mistaking it for tumbledown farm buildings. Realising his error, he doubled back, parking on the grass verge and trudging to a broken-down metre-high fence. He recalled from the photos in Keith’s garage that back in the 1940s a high fence topped with barbed wire had formed the camp’s perimeter, along with a tall gate. None of that remained. The replacement gate came up to just past Rebus’s knees and could be stepped over by those younger and nimbler than him. There was no lock as such, the height of the grass serving to keep it closed.

  A forceful push and he was inside the compound. Overgrown paths were laid out between the shells of elongated Nissen huts, their roofs mostly gone, windows shattered. There was a bit of graffiti, but not much. A large blue tarpaulin, weighted with rubble, showed where the history group’s archaeological dig was taking place.

  As Rebus moved further into the camp, he became aware that it was larger than he’d thought. He remembered the plans in the garage. They had shown not just accommodation blocks but a water plant, cookhouse, surgery, guardrooms and more. It was a bleak spot, which made it perfect. If anyone absconded into the hills, they might be lost for days, growing weaker and weaker without ever reaching civilisation. If they headed for the road, they would easily be spotted in their inmates’ garb. He peered through the gaping doorway of one of the accommodation huts. It would have contained bunk beds and a stove and probably not much else. There would almost certainly have been no insulation to speak of, just thin breeze-block walls and a corrugated roof.

  He took out his phone and noted that the single bar denoting already minimal signal had disappeared altogether. Rain was blowing in again. No cars passed him and there were no signs of livestock. No birds in the sky either. He had seldom felt further from the comforts of home. Having not heeded Travis’s advice, he felt his bladder make sudden complaint, so found a section of wall out of view of the road and unzipped his fly. When he was done, he trudged further into the camp, trying to visualise it filled with men–internees and guards both. Hundreds of the former; presumably dozens of the latter, armed with rifles and pistols.

  There was yet another accommodation block to his left, and in a slightly better state of preservation, in that both its roof and door were intact, though again what windows Rebus could see lacked the glass they would once have had. The door still possessed a handle, which he turned. Walking in, he noticed the skeletal remains of a couple of bunk beds. Blackened embers and grey ash showed where a makeshift fire had been lit a long time back, possibly by the partygoers who had left a couple of rusted beer cans nearby. There was something at his feet. A brown leather satchel. He picked it up, but it was empty. Then he saw the boots protruding from behind one of the bed frames. He sucked in a slow lungful of air and composed himself before taking a few steps forward.

  The face was turned away from him, the body twisted and stiff. Rebus knew a corpse when he saw one–and knew a likely crime scene, too.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Keith,’ he said in a low voice. He crouched and tried the throat and wrist for signs of a pulse, knowing it would be a miracle if he found one. Knowing too that this was not a time of miracles. A few flies were busy in the gaping wound visible at the back of the dead man’s skull. He tried waving them away, but then remembered that their larvae could be useful for establishing a rough time of death–Deborah Quant had told him often enough. He stood up again and checked his phone–no signal. How was he going to break it to Samantha? What was he going to tell her? Keith hadn’t run away, hadn’t committed suicide or been the victim of an accident.

  He studied the floor, seeking the weapon. He lifted his phone and photographed the empty satchel. Then, with a final silent apology to Keith, he walked out of the hut, taking a few steadying deep breaths as he headed to the Volvo.

  He was within sight of Travis’s hostel before he tried his phone again. Still no signal. Nothing for it but to pull up outside the café and go in. The bikers were finishing their scones and coffees. Travis was busy at the sink.

  ‘Can I use your landline?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Travis joked, before quickly realising the import of both Rebus’s demeanour and his voice. He led him behind the counter into a cramped office and then retreated. Rebus tapped in the number the detective had given him.

  ‘DS Creasey,’ the voice eventually answered.

  ‘It’s John Rebus. I’ve just found Keith Grant’s body.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Accommodation block at Camp 1033.’

  ‘The internment camp?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Did he fall or something?’

  ‘Hit from behind. His skull’s cracked open.’

  ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘Right now, just you and me.’

  ‘It’ll take me a couple of hours to get a scene-of-crime team there. I’ll call Thurso. I’m sure they can spare a uniform or two until then, secure the locus if nothing else.’ Creasey paused. ‘What took you there, John?’

  ‘Questions later,’ Rebus said firmly. ‘For now, get the ball rolling.’ He ended the call, staring at the handset while squeezing the bridge of his nose, trying to organise his thoughts. After a few moments, he walked back into the café. Travis was clearing the visitors’ table. Rebus watched their bikes roar off in the direction of Tongue.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Travis said, reading his mind. ‘They’ve no plans to stop at the camp.’ Then: ‘Sweetened tea’s supposed to be the thing for shock…’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘But I need to do a spot of guard duty–maybe a couple of filled rolls to take away?’

  ‘I can do you a flask of something hot to go with them?’

  ‘Great, aye, thanks.’

  ‘Am I allowed to ask what’s happened?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘The poor lad. I did warn him about sleeping there.’

  Rebus stared at Travis. ‘You did?’

  ‘He had a sleeping bag, mind, but you can still catch hypothermia, even in summer.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A month or so back. After the trouble at home. I was driving past one night and saw his car parked by the fence. He was in one of the huts. I told him I had a bed for him here, but he said no.’

  Rebus opened his phone and found the photo of the satchel. ‘Recognise this?’ he asked, turning the screen towards Travis.

  ‘Looks
like his bag. Kept his history stuff in it.’ Travis paused. ‘And his laptop, of course.’ He seemed to realise the import of the photograph. ‘It wasn’t the cold that killed him?’ he guessed.

  Rebus shook his head, saying nothing.

  ‘Oh.’ Some of the blood left Travis’s cheeks. ‘I’ll fetch you that flask,’ he said distractedly, shuffling off towards the kitchen area. ‘Ham or cheese for the rolls?’

  ‘Maybe one of each.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Five minutes later, Rebus was back on the road, having warned Travis not to say anything to anyone. He parked in the same spot as before but stayed in the car this time, one window lowered until the rain started blowing in. The radio was failing to find stations on any of its wavelengths. The flask was filled with lentil soup, which poured like sludge into the cup and was saltier than Rebus liked. Not that he really tasted it; same went for the rolls. Travis had added lettuce and tomato, Rebus tossing both onto the verge.

  It was the best part of an hour before he heard the approaching engine. The patrol car’s blue lights were flashing as it pulled to a skidding stop alongside the Volvo, effectively blocking the road. Rebus got out and watched four uniformed officers–three men, one woman–decant from the vehicle.

  ‘Blues and twos all the way from Thurso, eh?’ he enquired.

  ‘We were told to hurry.’

  ‘Well, you’ve successfully alerted every living thing within forty miles that something’s happened. Rumour mill will be grinding as we speak.’

  ‘Who are you anyway?’ the driver asked, reckoning attack a better tactic than defence.

  ‘I’m the one who alerted CID. How long till the SOCOs get here?’

  ‘So you found the body?’ All four officers turned to look towards the camp. One reached into the back seat of the patrol car and brought out a roll of blue-and-white tape with the word POLICE printed on it.

  ‘Whole camp is a crime scene until we know otherwise,’ Rebus said. ‘With you four guarding the perimeter, meaning the fence.’ He nodded towards the tape. ‘I’d say you’re probably a few hundred metres short if that’s all you brought.’

  ‘Who are you?’ the driver asked again, with a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘I’m a man who’s dealt with more than a few homicides in his time. If you don’t want a bollocking from the murder team when they get here, you’ll take instructions from me–understood?’

  ‘You’re not our boss,’ the driver stated, taking a step towards Rebus and sizing him up. ‘Far as I can see, you’re nobody’s boss. So do us all a favour and point us in the direction of the body. Then–and I say this with all due respect–piss off back to wherever you came from.’

  Two of his colleagues weren’t going to wait. They had already started climbing over the low gate. Seconds later they were tramping towards the nearest line of buildings. Rebus gave a shrug of resignation and retreated to the Volvo, watching as all four uniforms headed into the camp and out of sight. He knew he was going to stay put; partly because Creasey and his team would be on their way, but mostly to defer playing the role waiting for him back in Naver. He remembered Carrie watching him as he slept on the sofa.

  Where’s my daddy?

  I heard Mummy crying.

  Many more tears, he knew, would be shed before the day was finished.

  8

  There had been another attack overnight, a Chinese student shoved from behind, then kicked several times as she lay on the pavement. She had been checked at A&E and then released. Tess Leighton and George Gamble had been sent to interview her at her flat.

  ‘Her English wasn’t exactly fluent,’ Gamble said, his eyes on his notepad. ‘A friend did the translating.’

  ‘Didn’t help that she was in a state of shock,’ Leighton interrupted, arms folded tightly across her chest. They were in the MIT office, the rest of the team listening intently. DCI Sutherland had checked the crime scene on the wall map, circling it in pencil. Argyle Place in Marchmont.

  ‘It’s mostly shops at ground level,’ Leighton told him. ‘Pub on the corner. No real witnesses as yet. Another student on their way home heard her groaning. Helped her to her feet. Reckoned she’d tripped and fallen.’

  ‘Let’s do door-to-door,’ Sutherland said. ‘And check if there’s any CCTV. No description of the assailant?’

  ‘She had her eyes on her phone, earbuds in and music playing. First she knew about it was when she was sent flying.’

  ‘Universities and colleges are going to reinforce the safety message,’ Christine Esson added. ‘And the local media websites are leading with it.’

  ‘Did the assailant take anything?’

  ‘Just her phone,’ Leighton said. ‘Which makes me think it’s a straightforward mugging. Despite which, the media are already yelling race crime.’

  ‘Students and rich kids have always been seen as fair game,’ Fox cautioned. ‘No obvious reason to connect it to Salman bin Mahmoud.’

  ‘Which won’t stop social media doing exactly that,’ Sutherland growled. ‘So give me some good news.’ He looked around the room, his eyes fixing on Clarke and Fox. ‘Siobhan?’

  ‘We spoke to Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli last night–mostly about the attack on Mr Morelli. They seem to be bearing the loss of their friend pretty well.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Let’s say they weren’t exactly in mourning. Had a night out planned at the Jenever Club. They also didn’t look jittery, but that may be down to breeding. I’d say they’ve led pretty insulated lives.’

  ‘I think what Siobhan’s saying,’ Fox interjected, ‘is that if they knew why their friend had been targeted, they were pretty good at hiding it, and they seemed relaxed that they’re not about to share his fate.’

  ‘Nice bit of mansplaining,’ Esson said, pretending to clap.

  ‘I was just trying to—’

  ‘Enough.’ Sutherland held up a hand. ‘Last night’s attack will be investigated, but our focus remains the homicide. I still don’t know nearly enough about Mr bin Mahmoud. The Met are being their usual slow selves, and we’re getting precious little joy from either his bank or his phone and internet providers. More effort needed, people.’

  ‘Can we ask the government to apply some pressure?’ Esson asked.

  ‘That’s gone a bit quiet,’ Sutherland admitted. ‘If you ask me, the Saudis have shrugged their shoulders. If they wanted a result, they’d be letting ministers and diplomats know, and we’d be getting a regular boot up the arse.’

  ‘This is because the victim’s family isn’t flavour of the month?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘So no trade deals are in danger of being compromised, whatever the outcome.’

  ‘Unless it turns out he was bumped off by Saudi agents,’ Leighton said. When Gamble snorted, she turned towards him. ‘Stranger things have happened, George.’

  Fox, trying to avoid Clarke’s eyes, was relieved when his phone began vibrating. He lifted it and studied the screen. Number withheld. He looked to Sutherland for guidance. Sutherland gave a jerk of the head in response. Fox answered the call as he made his exit.

  ‘DI Fox,’ he said, closing the door after him.

  ‘Malcolm.’

  That steady drawl, slightly nasal. ‘Cafferty,’ he said. ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘Good to see you last night. I hope you got what you came for.’

  ‘We came to see if you were shifting any cocaine.’ Fox listened to the momentary silence and the barked laugh that followed.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The unvarnished truth.’

  ‘What is it you want, Cafferty?’

  ‘I hear there’s been another mugging. Anything taken?’

  ‘Victim’s phone–why?’

  ‘I was going to offer my services. Now that cops like Rebus are history, you lot have lost a valuable resource.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Snitches
, grasses, eyes and ears on the street.’

  ‘Human intelligence is the term these days. You’re offering to put the word out–mind if I ask why?’

  ‘Call me a concerned citizen. Not going to be in anyone’s interests if people are scared to go out at night.’

  ‘Night being when you do most of your business.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘Now that I’ve got you, though…’

  ‘Finally he gets to the point.’

  ‘Know what? That tone of voice is making me change my mind. Might be better taking it direct to your boss.’

  ‘I can give you his number.’

  ‘I don’t mean Sutherland.’

  Fox’s brow furrowed. ‘Who then?’

  ‘Your boss at Major Crime, Assistant Chief Constable Jennifer Lyon.’

  ‘And what exactly is it you think she needs to know?’

  ‘Best done face to face, Malcolm. You know the address?’

  ‘I was there last night.’

  ‘I mean my home address. Half an hour–probably best make some excuse to Siobhan. Your boss would want it that way, trust me…’

  Cafferty’s flat comprised the top three storeys of a contemporary glass-and-steel construction in what for a long time had been the grounds of the city’s main hospital, now rebranded as Quartermile. Fox was there within twenty minutes, having exited the police station without bothering to give a reason. He pressed the bell and was buzzed into the building, taking the lift to the penthouse. The door off the landing was open, Cafferty himself standing there, a tomato juice in his hand.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said by way of welcome, leading the way.

  The hallway led to a vast open space with a mezzanine above. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave uninterrupted views across the Meadows towards Marchmont and the Pentland Hills beyond. To the east could be seen Arthur’s Seat and Salisbury Crags, the outlines of hardy tourists visible on the peak.

  ‘Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Crime pays, as the saying goes.’

  Cafferty laughed, gesturing towards the kitchen area. ‘Coffee or anything?’ Fox shook his head.