A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

‘And neither of us with much to show for it.’

  ‘What about someone else in the office–Christine or Ronnie? You could pull rank on either of them.’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind.’ Clarke dug her phone out of her pocket and checked the screen. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, answering. ‘What can I do for you, Christine?’

  ‘We’ve just had the most colossal break in the case.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Time was you might have fallen for that.’

  Clarke could hear the soft clatter of computer keyboards in the background.

  ‘Getting a bit bored in the office, are we?’

  ‘Obviously, but I’m phoning to see if you think John Rebus might be up for a night at the theatre.’

  ‘The theatre?’

  ‘Remember I told you Lee Child and Karin Slaughter are coming to Edinburgh? Well, it’s tonight and my date’s dropped out, meaning I’ve got a spare.’

  ‘John’s still up north.’

  ‘In which case, this is your lucky day.’

  ‘Have you asked Ronnie?’

  ‘He only reads comics.’

  ‘Graphic novels.’ Clarke heard Ronnie Ogilvie correcting Esson from across the desk.

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said. ‘Has my absence been noted yet?’

  ‘The DCI’s had another summons from our lords and masters. Ronnie and me are about to bask in front of several hours’ worth of CCTV.’

  ‘I won’t keep you then. Bye, Christine.’ Clarke ended the call and then whistled for Brillo to come to her, readying his leash. She glanced in Fox’s direction. ‘It was nothing earth-shaking then, your trip to Gartcosh?’

  ‘No,’ he said with a shake of the head.

  ‘No updates from London about Middle Eastern hit squads jetting in and out again?’

  ‘Passenger lists have been scoured. Special Branch are nothing if not thorough.’

  ‘You stressed that we’re all working ourselves to death here?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘That’s fine then.’ Clarke had taken a couple of steps in the direction of Melville Drive, but stopped when she saw that Fox wasn’t about to accompany her.

  ‘I’m parked that way,’ he said, gesturing in the vague direction of the university buildings beyond the Meadows.

  ‘That’s miles away,’ Clarke said. He offered a slight wrinkling of his mouth.

  ‘Catch you back at base,’ he said, turning away from her.

  She watched him go. He half turned his head as if to check on her, then quickened his pace. Clarke started walking in the opposite direction, Brillo looking up at her, wondering if she might morph back into his owner. He seemed happy enough when she scooped him up into her arms, turning to follow Fox. There was no good reason that she could think of for him to have parked so far away. He had his phone out, looking at it as he walked. Clarke made a slight detour off the path and onto the grass. There were plenty of pedestrians about, plenty of dog-walkers and students playing with frisbees and footballs. An observant eye might still spot her, but there were no further backward glances from Fox as he headed up Middle Meadow Walk. He took a left at the first café, heading into the Quartermile complex. There was an underground car park there, but it was pricey. Too pricey, she reckoned, for the frugal Malcolm Fox. Reaching the narrow footpath that led down the side of the café, she saw no sign of him. The street ahead was clear. So either he had descended into the car park or…

  She tiptoed through the nearest gateway and glanced around a corner towards the entrance to the first of the modern apartment blocks. Its glass door was just rattling closed. She waited a moment, then moved towards the door, still cautious. Looking through the glass, she watched as the quartz display panel above the lift ticked over a series of numbers, pausing on a letter rather than a number.

  P for penthouse.

  Clarke met Brillo’s questioning eyes. ‘We know who lives there, don’t we, boy?’ she said in a whisper. Then, staring upwards, her neck arched: ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Malcolm. I really do…’

  As soon as he left Cafferty’s block, Fox got on the phone to Jennifer Lyon.

  ‘It’s tame stuff,’ he informed her. ‘They’re in the Jenever Club. Upstairs at first, till a flunkey hands them a card. It confers VIP status, so they head to that area of the club.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s a bit of dancing… kisses and cuddles.’ He cleared his throat.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it. They’re intimate, but there’s no actual…’

  ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘Cafferty says it wasn’t their only visit to the place, but my guess is, if he had anything more incriminating he’d have shown it to me.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘It really is fairly tame.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he was sleeping with her. If Cafferty releases the footage, Dennis would have some explaining to do.’

  ‘He could always deny it went any further.’

  Fox heard her sigh. ‘I’ve looked up this man Scoular online. He seems perfectly legit. Did Cafferty give you any more of a clue why he’s interested or what he thinks we might find?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then let’s go ahead and buy ourselves some time.’

  ‘By digging a bit deeper into Scoular’s life?’

  ‘As a salient part of the bin Mahmoud inquiry.’

  ‘Whatever you say, ma’am.’

  ‘I appreciate this, Malcolm. Don’t think I’ll forget it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When the call ended, Fox found he had a bit of extra spring in his step as he headed towards his car. One thing he didn’t think Lyon needed to know about–the brief foray by her husband and his lady friend into the alcove occupied by Scoular and his associates. The line of cocaine offered and accepted. Followed by champagne and laughter and the sheer look of relaxed pleasure on Dennis Jones’s face…

  *

  ‘See when I phone you, Benny,’ Cafferty snarled into his mobile as he stood by his apartment window, staring out across the city, ‘I expect you to pick up on the first fucking ring. Do you understand? I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a shit or a shag, nothing’s more important than my time.’

  ‘Sorry, boss. Need me to bring the car round?’

  ‘What I need you to do is get off your fat arse and go talk to a few people. Chinese student was mugged last night and her phone taken. If it’s some wee fud from the schemes, he’ll be blabbing about it. You need to go to those schemes and find out who he is.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because I’m telling you to!’

  ‘Sure, boss, absolutely.’

  ‘Attack happened in Marchmont, so maybe start in the south–Moredun, Gracemount… psycho country, in other words. You got any contacts there?’

  ‘Some, aye.’

  ‘Fuck are you waiting for then? News or no news, phone me in two hours.’

  Cafferty stabbed at his mobile, ending the call. He waited for his breathing to return to normal. Maybe sixty or seventy per cent of his job was act and attitude. He wasn’t like some of these younger thugs who needed to be tooled up to get what they wanted. A look and a word was usually enough–or it had been in the past. It was getting harder, the world was changing. The younger model of gangster tended to have no boundaries and no off-switch. They were creeping north from places like Manchester and Liverpool, muscling in on cities like Dundee where the last thing the resident population needed was a cheaper but altogether more venal and threatening source of drugs. So far Cafferty’s reputation had protected much of his Edinburgh operation, but he wasn’t sure that would last much longer. Even so, he still had his club, the boutique hotel in the New Town, the car wash and the betting shop.

  And then there were the flats he rented out, many of the classier ones to overseas students. Predominantly these days those students were Chinese. One of their number got attack
ed with no comebacks, they might begin to wonder if Edinburgh was the place for them. Wouldn’t matter so much if there were other nationalities to replace them, but with the uncertainty of Brexit… A large part of his income was clean these days and he wanted to keep it that way. Property had proven a solid investment, and he was considering moving into commercial land development–Stewart Scoular’s domain, to be precise. It was a world he hoped would bring him closer to people of quality, people like Lady Isabella and the bin Mahmoud family. People like Giovanni Morelli.

  And further all the time from Benny and his ilk.

  Cafferty cast his eyes around the room he was standing in.

  ‘Never enough,’ he said to himself.

  No matter how much and how far, it was never anything like enough.

  11

  The main street of Naver was busier than Rebus had seen it. Knots of locals deep in conversation, cars cruising up and down, their occupants drinking in every moment and interaction. Rebus knew that the media would be on their way, too, ready to swell the ranks of gawpers. He unlocked his Saab and turned the ignition. The engine started first time but didn’t sound one hundred per cent. When he pushed down hard on the accelerator, eyes turned to look at him. He turned the engine off and got out again.

  He kept his head down as he walked, ignoring the couple of questioning voices, people who obviously knew who he was. The house he wanted was towards the end of the street. He rang the doorbell and waited. A woman in her seventies, slightly stooped, opened the door and gestured him inside as if welcoming a refugee. She gripped both his hands in her own.

  ‘A terrible, terrible shock to all of us.’

  ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Mrs McKechnie.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. Please, this way. And call me Joyce.’

  The sitting room was small and cluttered, china ornaments everywhere, framed family photos covering the walls. The fire was lit and seemed to be sucking all the oxygen from the confined space. There was a metal tray on the coffee table, cups, best china, and biscuits laid out. A man a few years younger than Mrs McKechnie had risen to his feet.

  ‘Edward Taylor,’ he said, shaking Rebus’s hand.

  ‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ Joyce McKechnie commanded. ‘Let me sort this out.’ She lifted the teapot. ‘Edward takes his black.’

  ‘Spot of milk, thanks,’ Rebus told her, sloughing off his jacket. Taylor was offering the plate of shortbread but Rebus shook his head.

  ‘Dreadful news about Keith,’ Taylor said. ‘My condolences.’

  ‘Thank you.’ There was silence until McKechnie had settled herself. ‘And I want to thank you again for agreeing to speak to me.’

  ‘The very least we can do,’ McKechnie said. Her accent was local, but Rebus got the feeling Taylor was from further south.

  ‘Even from my short time here, it’s obvious to me that Keith loved the history group.’

  ‘He was our hope for the future,’ Taylor said. ‘The rest of us are in what some would call our twilight years.’

  ‘The other members?’ Rebus nudged.

  ‘I phoned Anna, but no answer,’ Joyce McKechnie said. ‘I don’t think they’re back from their holiday.’

  Anna and Jim Breakspear: the two other names Rebus had found in Keith Grant’s notes.

  ‘A select gathering,’ he commented.

  ‘On paper, we’ve well over a dozen members, but not everyone can spare as much time as they’d like.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ Taylor added, ‘Keith held down a full-time job and still played his part.’ He began to fiddle with one of the buttons on his dun-coloured cardigan.

  ‘You’re all fairly spry, though,’ Rebus reasoned. ‘I saw the digging you’d been doing.’

  McKechnie gave a chuckle. ‘We twisted a few arms and managed to rally volunteers from the youth club.’

  Rebus nodded his understanding and switched on his phone, finding the photo he needed. He rose to his feet, turning the screen away from him and holding it out. ‘Keith’s satchel has been found, but it was empty. What would you expect to be in it?’

  Taylor peered at the photo. ‘Maybe his latest notebook–he filled dozens of them.’

  ‘And his laptop,’ McKechnie added.

  ‘Any idea what he’d keep on the laptop?’

  ‘They’re not even called that these days, are they?’ Taylor interrupted before taking a sip from his cup. ‘Something to do with burnt knees and a lawsuit.’

  McKechnie had been pondering. ‘Notes about the camp, of course. And photos, maps, that sort of thing.’

  Rebus’s phone buzzed and he checked the screen, noting that he’d missed a few other calls. Two were from Laura Smith, crime reporter on the Scotsman newspaper. He switched the phone off and pocketed it.

  ‘Would you say the camp had become an obsession?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably,’ Taylor said, while McKechnie nodded her agreement.

  ‘Though I did wonder…’ McKechnie broke off, mouth tightening.

  ‘Anything you say could be helpful,’ Rebus prompted.

  ‘Well, the camp is practically next door to Stalag Hawkins…’

  ‘Stalag Hawkins?’

  She gave a thin smile. ‘Keith’s name for it–we all found ourselves using it in time.’

  ‘You mean the commune?’

  Taylor brushed a few crumbs from the legs of his trousers. ‘You know Samantha had become quite friendly with them?’

  ‘She told me about her and Hawkins, if that’s what you’re asking. But that was over and done with.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Rebus focused on McKechnie. ‘The camp was a way for Keith to spy on the commune? It’s not even visible from there, is it?’

  ‘But cars coming and going are.’

  ‘He told you this?’

  She shook her head. ‘We just wondered, that’s all.’

  ‘It hardly explains the amount of work he put in–all the costings to turn the camp into a visitor attraction.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ Taylor said, placing his cup back on the tray and refusing the offer of a refill. ‘The place got its talons into him.’

  ‘Ghosts don’t have talons, Edward,’ McKechnie said with a thin smile.

  ‘Ghosts?’ Rebus looked from McKechnie to Taylor and back again.

  ‘Plenty of people perished in and around Camp 1033 during its short existence. Some from illness and natural causes, others by firing squad or other means.’

  ‘Other means?’ Rebus echoed.

  ‘Murder; poisonings…’

  ‘And Keith was interested in all that?’

  ‘Quite interested,’ Taylor agreed.

  Rebus rubbed a hand along his jaw. ‘I’ve been through all his notes I can find. I think I saw mention in at least one of the books he’d bought of deaths at other camps. But nothing about Camp 1033.’

  ‘He even recorded some interviews, didn’t he?’ McKechnie looked to Taylor, who nodded his agreement. ‘With those who remember the camp–and before you ask, Mr Rebus, it was slightly before my time.’

  Rebus managed the smile she seemed to be expecting. ‘Just so I’m clear, you mean interviews with people living right here?’

  ‘He also wrote to a few survivors overseas–internees who’d returned to Germany or Poland after the war.’

  ‘Or England or the States,’ Taylor added.

  ‘Filmed interviews?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘Audio, I think.’ Taylor looked to McKechnie, who offered a shrug. ‘Kept on a memory stick.’

  Rebus tried to remember if he’d seen any in the garage. ‘We can’t be talking about many people,’ he said.

  ‘And fewer all the time,’ Taylor acknowledged.

  ‘I know he spoke to May Collins, but he interviewed her father too?’

  ‘Joe Collins, yes. And Frank Hess, Stefan Novack, Helen Carter…’ Taylor’s eyes were on Joyce McKechnie again.

  ‘I’m pretty sure those are a
ll that remain,’ she agreed.

  ‘It would be a huge help to me,’ Rebus said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, ‘if you could maybe put your heads together and write down anything you can remember about those interviews and the deaths at Camp 1033. Would that be possible?’

  ‘The ghosts didn’t kill him, Mr Rebus,’ McKechnie said, not unkindly.

  ‘I’m just trying to get a sense of who he was. I really wish I’d taken the chance while he was alive.’

  ‘We quite understand,’ Taylor said. ‘And we’ll do whatever we can.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet.

  Samantha was in Carrie’s bedroom, packing a bag. Her eyes were red-rimmed when she looked at him.

  ‘Your stuff will be dry soon. Where did the clothes come from?’

  ‘May Collins.’

  ‘Her husband’s?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘She kept her dead husband’s clothes?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Carrie’s going to stay with Jenny.’

  ‘You’ve told her?’

  She puffed out her cheeks and expelled air. ‘Where have you been anyway?’

  ‘Talking to the local history group.’

  She gave him another look. ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘He was found at the camp, Sammy.’

  ‘Please–it’s Samantha.’ She zipped shut the bag, considered for a moment. ‘Toothbrush,’ she said, squeezing past him. He followed her the few steps to the bathroom.

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Keith’s satchel was at the camp. Looks like whatever was in it was taken.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You never mentioned a satchel. Or his laptop–that’s missing, too, unless you know better.’

  She froze, eventually turning to face him. ‘Who the fuck am I talking to right now? I really need to know it’s my dad standing there and not just another cop who’s pulled me in for questioning.’

  ‘Sammy—’

  ‘Samantha!’ She was choking back tears as she barged past him. By the time he caught up with her, she was circling the kitchen table, looking around her wildly as if trying to locate something irretrievably lost.

  ‘They all think I had something to do with it,’ she blurted out. ‘Eyes on me as I walk past. Facebook and the rest ready to burn me at the stake. Your lot need fingerprints, a hair sample for DNA; they need a statement, a formal identification. And they’re just getting started.’ The fire inside her began to die back a little. ‘We’d had a row that night. Not much of one in the grand scheme of things, but your pal Creasey won’t see it like that. I’m so tired and I’m at my wits’ end and Keith’s dead and I have to keep Carrie from seeing me falling apart.’ She blinked the world back into some kind of focus. ‘Any words of wisdom, Detective Inspector?’