A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said.

  ‘All brisk and businesslike–good man.’ Cafferty settled himself in a leather armchair, unsurprised that Fox stayed standing. ‘So here’s the thing…’ He broke off. ‘Sure I can’t get you a drink?’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  Cafferty raised the glass he was holding. ‘I would, but it’s one of my five a day. Doctor says I’ve to take care of myself. Don’t want to end up like poor old Rebus, can’t even manage a flight of stairs.’ He gave a sigh when Fox remained mute and as still as a statue. ‘Here’s the thing then–your boss, ACC Lyon. Way I hear it, her career progression’s ongoing. Chief Constable will be put out to pasture in a year, maybe two at most. He’d be gone by now if he had his way, but they won’t let him. Poor bugger’s knackered, though, put body and soul into getting the organisation back on an even keel. Budget still needs sorting out, but I doubt that’ll ever change.’ He fixed Fox with a look, gave a wide smile. ‘As you can tell, Police Scotland has become a bit of a hobby.’

  ‘I’m still not hearing why I’m here.’

  ‘You’re here because Jennifer Lyon’s frictionless upward trajectory might be about to go into free fall.’ Cafferty’s free hand made a downward corkscrew motion. ‘Which would be a shame for her. And the irony is, it’s not even her fault, not exactly. It’s all because of her husband.’ He took a sip of his drink, eyes apparently on the view outside his window.

  Fox slid his hands into his pockets; not much of a reaction, but a reaction nonetheless.

  ‘So here’s what you need to do, Malcolm…’ Cafferty broke off again. ‘Sure you don’t want a seat, by the way? You’ve gone a bit pale.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  He took another sip of his drink first, seeming to savour it. Then, when he was good and ready: ‘I can make it all go away–the photos and the video. Now, she may not want to hear that, so if you like, what you tell her is that you can make it all go away. My name doesn’t have to feature, if that’s the way you want to play it. What matters is that this is your fast track to promotion once she’s installed in the top job.’

  Fox’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t going to give Cafferty the satisfaction of asking the obvious question. Cafferty smiled into his near-empty glass. The juice had left red stains around his mouth.

  ‘I still haven’t heard what it is you want,’ Fox said quietly.

  ‘The answer is: not much. And nothing illegal.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  Cafferty made show of rising to his feet. ‘Maybe a wee top-up first…’

  ‘Fucking tell me!’

  Cafferty eased himself back to sitting, a contented look on his face. Then he started to speak.

  The Scottish Crime Campus was based at Gartcosh in Lanarkshire, purpose-built on the site of an old steelworks, the land around it still largely undeveloped. Nominally, Police Scotland’s HQ was at Tulliallan, but everyone knew Gartcosh was where the serious business got done.

  ACC Jennifer Lyon always strode the corridors and open areas of Gartcosh with a sense of purpose. Fox had deduced long ago that this was more to do with deterring people from collaring her with a request than because she had anywhere she needed urgently to be. He’d been weighing up his opening gambits ever since starting the hour-long drive from Edinburgh. Even so, the sight of her walking towards him, multiple lanyards swinging from her neck, almost caused his mind to go blank. He was about to be the bearer of bad tidings, and recipients never forgot.

  ‘Malcolm,’ she said, by way of stony-faced greeting. ‘I take it there’s news?’

  ‘News?’

  ‘The murder case.’

  ‘Not as such, ma’am.’

  She tilted her head slightly. Her hair was straw-blonde, no slivers of grey allowed, and cut to resemble a protective helmet cupping her skull.

  ‘Well then,’ she prompted.

  Fox cleared his throat. ‘Best done in private, ma’am.’

  She looked around at the huge open atrium. Staff shuffled past quietly, some whispering into phones, others glancing in the direction of the feared and powerful ACC.

  ‘Please tell me I’m not going to have to cover your arse for something.’ Fox shook his head. ‘Well, that’s a blessing.’ She started walking again, Fox maintaining a slight distance.

  No one was waiting in the reception area attached to her office. Her assistant glanced up from her computer, recognised Fox and gave the thinnest of smiles in acknowledgement. Lyon was behind her uncluttered desk by the time Fox had closed the door. He stood for a moment, but her glare told him to sit. The chair was tubular, solid, and not built for comfort. Fox’s throat felt a little dry. He cleared it again.

  ‘It’s a message of sorts,’ he began. ‘Not from someone we’d classify as friendly. I’ll tell you who if you like, but ignorance might work in your favour.’

  ‘Maybe give me the message first.’ She leaned her elbows on the desk, angling her body forward a little to signal that he had her undivided attention.

  ‘Something about your husband, ma’am. Photos and video–I’m guessing involving him–that could prove an embarrassment to you and maybe even affect your career.’

  He watched as Jennifer Lyon digested the information. Her eyes lost their focus momentarily. She eventually lifted her elbows, leaning back in her chair, her shoulders stiffened.

  ‘All right,’ she said in a toneless voice. ‘Who was it told you?’

  ‘You’re sure you want to know?’

  ‘Just tell me, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

  ‘Aka Big Ger.’ She nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Photos and video?’

  It was Fox’s turn to nod. ‘Not that he showed me any.’

  ‘Unlikely to be a bluff, though?’

  ‘He sounded fairly confident.’ Fox paused. ‘You’ve always managed to keep your personal life private…’

  ‘You know who my husband is, though?’

  Yes, Fox knew. His name was Dennis Jones; he was vice chancellor of one of the newer west-coast universities. ‘I’m guessing it’s not financial impropriety,’ he posited. ‘Not sure that would yield much in the way of interesting footage.’

  Lyon’s mouth twitched. ‘An affair,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the desktop. ‘Not a student, before you ask–a member of staff, also married. Brief, stupid and finished.’

  ‘Speaking of stupid… Could the two of them have enjoyed a night out in Edinburgh? Maybe at a club on the Cowgate?’

  ‘Cafferty owns one, does he? Covered by plenty of cameras, I assume.’ She picked up a pen, studied it and tossed it back onto the desk. ‘Why are men such bloody idiots?’

  ‘You said it’s over–is that because you found out?’

  ‘And made the usual ultimatum.’

  ‘Recently?’

  She gave him a hard stare. ‘Does it matter?’ But then she relented. ‘A couple of months back.’ She sprang to her feet, walking behind her chair, gripping its frame with both hands. ‘So what now?’ she asked.

  ‘He says he can make it all go away if we do him a favour.’

  Lyon shook her head determinedly. ‘You know we can’t do that.’

  ‘If it helps, it’s nothing illegal. He just wants us to mount an operation, do some digging, maybe a spot of surveillance…’

  ‘Against a competitor?’

  Fox shrugged. ‘I’d assume so. We might have a better idea afterwards.’

  ‘What does he expect us to find?’

  ‘I’m not sure he knows.’

  ‘And who’s the target?’

  ‘A developer called Stewart Scoular.’

  ‘I know the name.’

  ‘He was an MSP for the shortest time. I happened to see him yesterday evening.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Drinking in Cafferty’s club. He was with a couple of friends of Salman bin Mahmoud.’

  ‘He’s part of your investigation?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘He’s no
t been flagged up as yet.’

  ‘Well, I’d say he’s been flagged up now, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Nothing as yet to suggest Saudi state involvement?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll keep Special Branch posted.’ Lyon considered for a moment before sitting down again. ‘I should meet with Cafferty.’

  ‘With respect, that would be reckless. I’m happy to act as intermediary.’

  ‘Do we have anything at all on this man Scoular? He’s not come onto our radar at any point?’

  ‘Is there any harm in looking?’

  ‘You tell me, Malcolm. How far would you trust your chum Cafferty?’

  ‘No distance at all. But he wants something and he thinks we’re his best chance of getting it. And I am intrigued by his interest in Scoular…’

  ‘So we humour him until we have an answer?’

  ‘Or until he hands over the photos and video.’

  Lyon pointed a finger at Fox. ‘You need to be shown what he’s got, Malcolm. I don’t want to see it, but you should. Just so we know we’re not dealing with a bullshitter.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘And any digging that happens, the quieter it’s done the better.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘In fact, the case you’re attached to is perfect–just lasso Scoular and make him part of it. Can you do that without attracting undue attention?’

  ‘I doubt I could raise a surveillance operation.’

  ‘Depends what you dig up, doesn’t it?’ There was the merest edge of need to her voice and her demeanour.

  ‘I’ll do everything in my power, ma’am,’ Malcolm Fox said.

  9

  When Rebus answered the knock at the door, May Collins was standing there, solemn-faced and holding out two large carrier bags.

  ‘They’re yours if you want them,’ she said. ‘Belonged to my late husband. You’re about the same size. I mean, I’m assuming you’ll be staying put, and you won’t find many clothes shops around here…’ She broke off.

  Rebus accepted both bags and peered into one of them. ‘You’ve heard, then?’ he said.

  ‘Oh John, isn’t it terrible?’ Her voice cracked. ‘How’s Samantha doing?’

  ‘She’s taken Carrie to a friend’s.’

  ‘Were you the one who broke the news?’

  Rebus sucked in some air, nodding while exhaling.

  ‘That must have been terrible.’

  Terrible? Rebus wasn’t sure the word was strong enough. Samantha had backed away from him, lashing out when he tried to touch her, wailing and roaring and inconsolable. Shock soon replaced the look of horror: what would she say to Carrie? What words would lessen the blow? She had looked at her phone, checking the time. She would have to go to the school. Where was her coat?

  Her father: you need to sit down first. Just take five minutes.

  ‘Haven’t you done enough?!’ A yell of accusation, a howling at the only thing in the world at that moment close enough to deserve it. And when Rebus tried reaching out again, she slapped at his hands. ‘I’ve managed fine without you all these years…’

  Despite Rebus having given no answer, May Collins was nodding as if he had–a nod of sympathy and understanding. ‘I could make you a cup of tea, but I’m not sure that would help. A belt of whisky maybe?’

  Rebus shook his head, watching as Collins remembered something. ‘Mick got your car started. He’s not saying it’ll get you home, but I’ve got the key.’

  Rebus took it from her. ‘What do I owe him?’

  ‘I doubt he’d accept anything–especially now.’ She gave another sigh. ‘If you need me, you know where I am.’

  They both turned at the sound of vehicles speeding past. Two cars, one van, no markings. Professionals who were about to be busy at Camp 1033.

  ‘I’m not sure I should be asking,’ May Collins said quietly, ‘but did he do away with himself?’ Rebus’s face remained impassive. ‘An accident then?’

  ‘No accident,’ he said.

  Her mouth formed a large O, her eyes widening at the realisation.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose I’d better…’ She was twisting the top half of her body, motioning to leave while hoping he would invite her to stay.

  ‘Thanks for the clothes,’ Rebus said, going back into the bungalow and closing the door.

  In the bathroom he selected a few items and changed into them, then went into the kitchen and stuffed his own clothes into the machine, selecting the quickest wash available. A car was drawing up outside. He beat Creasey to the door and was waiting for him.

  ‘Mind if I come in?’ the young detective sergeant enquired, as solicitously as any funeral director. Rebus led the way to the living room.

  ‘Samantha’s at a friend’s.’

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Rebus could only shrug. ‘And the little one?’

  Another shrug. ‘I wasn’t there when Samantha told her – if she’s told her.’

  Creasey settled on the edge of the sofa. ‘It’s bloody awful news, of course, and it’ll take time to sink in…’

  ‘But you need to interview her all the same?’

  ‘You know we do. And Forensics are going to want to inspect the Volvo.’

  ‘They’ll find my prints.’

  ‘And mine,’ Creasey said. ‘So we’ll need yours and Samantha’s for purposes of elimination.’

  ‘You’ve been to the camp; you’ve seen him?’ Creasey gave a slow nod. ‘The empty satchel–he used to keep his notes and laptop in it, according to the guy who runs the café along the road.’

  ‘We’re in the process of getting a statement from Mr Travis.’

  Rebus realised he had lowered himself onto the arm of one of the chairs–he wasn’t about to get comfortable.

  ‘Keith slept there a few nights after he found out about Samantha and Jess Hawkins.’

  ‘We’ll be talking to everyone, John, trust me.’ Creasey paused. ‘You are going to trust me?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because of everything I’ve learned about you; because you’ve worked your whole life in the central belt and you might think those of us based up here are a bit… rustic. I’m here to tell you that we know the job, and we’ll be every bit as thorough as you’d want and expect.’

  Rebus was staring at the floor. ‘It has to be something to do with that camp,’ he stated.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The missing laptop.’

  ‘The one thing any opportunist would take with them–portable and easy to sell on. His phone is missing too.’ Rebus was shaking his head, and Creasey gave him a disappointed look. ‘So what was it about the camp that was so important to Mr Grant?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the garage here is full of research. You need to talk to the local history group. They might have some answers.’

  ‘We’ll get round to it.’

  ‘I suppose the autopsy comes first? Cause of death as starting point? Fingertip search of the camp?’

  Creasey was nodding along.

  ‘With my daughter as a suspect, maybe even the main suspect?’

  ‘You’ve been in my shoes; you know how this plays out. It doesn’t mean we won’t show discretion. And Victim Support will be here for your daughter and granddaughter as and when they need it.’ Creasey rose to his feet. ‘Volvo keys on the hall table?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll take them with me then. Samantha may have a spare set, but she’d be wise to leave the car untouched until we’re finished with it.’

  ‘I’ll make sure she knows.’

  Creasey reached out his hand and clasped Rebus’s. ‘You need to be a father now, leave everything else to us.’

  Rebus met Creasey’s eyes as he nodded. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Did they take his cash and credit cards?’

  ‘His wallet was in his pocket, untouched by the look of it.’

  ‘And you still think robbery’s a possible motive?’

  ‘Everything’s a motive at thi
s point.’

  ‘Try not to forget that, son. Don’t get lazy.’

  He saw the detective to the door, watched through the living room window as he got into his car and drove off, heading in the direction of the crime scene. When the engine noise had faded, he put his coat on and headed out to the garage. Settling himself on the fold-down chair in front of the trestle table, he began to read more thoroughly about Camp 1033.

  10

  Fox was halfway back to Edinburgh when he decided to answer Siobhan Clarke’s latest attempt at calling him.

  ‘What’s with the Houdini act?’ she enquired.

  ‘I was summoned to Gartcosh–boss there needed me.’

  ‘Must be nice to feel wanted. But meantime I’ve had a text from John.’

  ‘On his way back?’

  ‘The exact opposite–a body’s turned up. His daughter’s partner.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Suicide?’

  ‘Text didn’t say and I can’t get him to answer his phone–it’s almost like he’s taking lessons from you.’

  ‘I was in a meeting.’

  ‘But you’re on your way back now?’

  ‘Another half-hour or so–where will we meet?’

  ‘I’m taking Brillo to the Meadows. Need to pick up a couple of things from John’s flat.’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’ Fox ended the call, checked his mirror, signalled, and pulled out to overtake. Almost thirty years he’d been driving, and never a ticket or a scratch or a dent. Because he was cautious. He stuck to the rules. He knew what he was doing.

  He wondered whether he would cross the line–and how far–for Assistant Chief Constable Jennifer Lyon. And for his own prospect of promotion.

  ‘He’s going to have to go into kennels,’ Clarke said, watching as Brillo tracked yet another of the Meadows’ innumerable scents.

  ‘You might be right,’ Fox agreed. ‘Still heard nothing more from John?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t keep him shut up in my flat all day–or his owner’s, come to that.’

  ‘Is there maybe a neighbour?’ Clarke’s eyes bored into his. Fox lifted both hands. ‘No, no, no. I told you, I’m not an animal person. Besides which, I’m working the same insane hours as you.’