by Ian Rankin
17
Camp 1033 was still cordoned off. Rebus pulled in next to a yellow Portakabin that had been placed adjacent to the gate. As he opened the door of his Saab, a gust caught it. He thought the hinges might snap as it blew all the way open. Climbing out, it took him two goes to close it again. The door to the Portakabin was locked, no one answering his knock. The solitary uniform the other side of the cordon gave him an unwelcoming look.
‘The very definition of a short straw,’ Rebus told the man as he approached.
‘Change of shift in the offing. Is there something I can help you with?’
‘I’m related to the deceased. Wondered if DS Creasey is available.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘I got that impression,’ Rebus said, looking around.
‘You the one who found the body?’
‘That’s me,’ Rebus admitted.
‘I was told I might be seeing you. Message is: bugger off and leave us to get on with it. I know you used to be on the force, so you’ll appreciate the sentiment.’
‘You’re only doing your job, son. Fact they’ve stuck you out here tells me all I need to know about the esteem you’re held in by your fellow officers.’ Rebus turned to head back to his Saab. ‘Make sure Creasey knows I need a word.’
‘I’ll be sure to do that, aye.’ The officer cleared his throat and spat on the ground.
Rebus sat in the Saab and considered his next move. His phone pinged, signalling the arrival of a text from May Collins.
4.30 meet here x
Plenty of time before then, so he drove a little further along the road, heading towards Tongue. A hand-made sign on a post caught his eye. It pointed down a rutted track. The only word on the sign was WELCOME.
‘Nice to feel wanted for a change,’ Rebus said to himself, manoeuvring the car along the track. It ran between a series of hillocks, clumps of thistles the predominant vegetation. Eventually he caught sight of what looked like a farm steading. Smoke rose from the chimney of the timber-framed main house. A couple of large barns stood behind it, and there was a smattering of tired-looking caravans. A man, topless, shirt tied around his waist, was splitting logs with an axe. Rebus recognised him as Mick Sanderson and gave a wave.
He parked the Saab next to a familiar-looking Volvo and got out. He saw powder marks on the Volvo’s doors, dashboard and steering wheel. Forensics had been busy–and hadn’t bothered tidying up after themselves. He approached the chopping block, noting a motorbike propped against a nearby tree. A couple of young women were scattering feed to some hungry chickens, while another couple worked on the vegetable beds. Sweat glistened on Sanderson’s torso.
‘Saab’s still working then.’ He nodded towards his handiwork.
‘Running better than ever,’ Rebus said.
‘We both know that’s a lie. If you want to get back to Edinburgh, you’ll let a proper garage give a diagnosis.’
‘I wanted to thank you anyway.’ Rebus held out a hand. Sanderson rested his axe against the woodpile and took it. ‘Also wanted to offer something by way of payment.’
‘No need for that.’
‘If you’re sure?’ Rebus gave a shrug, looking around at the young workers nearby. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Changes all the time. Some stay a few weeks, others longer.’
Rebus nodded, feigning interest. ‘I notice my daughter’s here. Maybe I’ll just go say hello…’
Sanderson started to say something, but Rebus was already heading for the farmhouse. Before he got there, however, the door was opened by a man in his fifties, face lined, long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore grubby denims and a blue shirt that had lost almost all its colour.
‘You must be John,’ he said, cracking a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. The eyes were blue and piercing, the pupils small. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his wrists were festooned with cotton bracelets of various designs. He leaned with one hand on the door frame, the other on his hip.
‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘I’m Jess.’
Rebus entered a large open-plan space. There was a log-burner in the fireplace, a chaotic kitchen area, futons and oversized beanbags instead of sofas and chairs. Against one wall were piled yoga mats in a range of colours. A woman sat at a table in the kitchen area, filling jars with cooked vegetables. Rebus nodded a greeting, but she ignored him. She was only a few years younger than Jess Hawkins, her face weathered, long straw-coloured hair starting to clump. On the floor next to her sat a contented toddler, chewing a toy of some kind.
A staircase led from the centre of the room to the upper floor. It looked hand-made and not particularly safe, bearing in mind the toys and clothes that littered most of its steps.
‘Just thought I’d have a word with Samantha,’ Rebus said, keeping his tone conversational. Hawkins gave him a pained look.
‘She’s not in a mood for talking, John. Space to breathe is what she needs.’
‘I’m right here,’ Rebus yelled up the stairwell. ‘I just want to help!’
Hawkins had placed a hand gently on his forearm, but removed it when Rebus glowered at him.
‘Space to breathe,’ Hawkins echoed softly. ‘When the time’s right, she’ll come back.’
Rebus was still staring at him. ‘Like she went back to Keith after her little fling with you?’ He gestured towards the woman at the table. ‘What did your partner make of that?’
‘We’re as free to love as we are to live,’ Hawkins countered. ‘Would you like some green tea? Maybe just water?’
‘Keith Grant died not far from here.’
‘I’m aware of that–the police have asked their questions.’
‘After he found out about you and my daughter, he slept at the camp–you probably saw his car parked there. It’s not like you wouldn’t recognise it.’
‘What point are you trying to make, John?’
‘Maybe he came here.’ Rebus was letting his voice rise, hoping Samantha would hear it loud and clear. ‘It’s what I’d do in his situation.’
‘You see similarities between the two of you? Or is this you projecting?’ Hawkins sounded as if he really wanted to know.
‘Do you sleep with all the women here, or just a chosen few? Maybe that’s why you set this place up after making and losing a fortune on the stock market. Internet’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Your story’s right there for anyone to find–all the way from a council estate to the City of London, then you take one risk too many and you’ve gone from Moët to muesli—’
‘You’re hurting, John. I wish there were some way to help you…’ Hawkins looked almost pitying as he turned away and approached the table, standing behind the woman and touching the back of her neck. She gave a warm smile he couldn’t see. Rebus took a couple of steps towards her.
‘Angharad?’
She looked up at him. ‘We know one another?’ The accent was unmistakably English upper class. Rebus looked from her to the babbling infant, then fixed his eyes on Hawkins.
‘No wonder he hates you,’ he commented.
‘Who?’
‘Lord Strathy.’
Hawkins smiled again. ‘It’s not hate, John, it’s simple greed.’
‘You’ll have known about that in your time, eh?’
‘We’re all looking for answers in our different ways. You were a policeman. You looked out when you should have been looking in. You’ve spent your whole adult life as part of the state apparatus, doing their dirty work so they could keep their own hands clean.’
‘Without people doing the job I did, everything breaks down.’
‘You might not have noticed, but everything is breaking down. And that job of yours ended up costing you your family.’
‘Fuck off.’
Angharad Oates tutted without pausing in her task.
‘You can’t hide out here forever,’ Rebus went on. ‘The world doesn’t stop at that welcome sign you’ve put up.’
‘I wish I could help you,’ Hawkins repeated, stretching out his arms.
‘Then bring my daughter down here to talk to me.’
‘She doesn’t feel she has your trust.’
‘She’s wrong.’
‘Give it time–give her the time she needs.’
‘Does everybody fall for this quack psychology of yours? Do you even believe it yourself?’
‘All that’s on offer here is an alternative to the world you seem happy to live in.’
‘Anger and ill will,’ Oates intoned, handing the infant a sliver of apple.
‘Anger and ill will,’ Hawkins echoed. ‘Rising levels of greed and stupidity. You’d be a fool to look out there for answers.’ He waved an arm in the direction of the world beyond the steading.
‘So how come my daughter chose Keith over all this?’ Rebus asked.
‘I thought about it.’ The voice came from the top of the stairs. Samantha was standing there, arms by her sides, tears drying on her cheeks. ‘I thought about it but I couldn’t.’
‘Because of love,’ Jess Hawkins said, nodding his understanding. Angharad Oates reached up, taking Hawkins’ right hand and squeezing it.
‘Samantha, can we talk?’ Rebus asked. But after a moment, she shook her head and disappeared into one of the rooms. Hawkins opened his mouth to speak, but Rebus silenced him with a pointed finger. ‘Any more pish about living and loving, I swear I’m going to smack you in the mouth.’
He watched as Oates’s free hand curled around the paring knife in front of her, angling it towards him.
‘Try it,’ she said, baring her immaculate teeth.
‘You might want to leave now, John,’ Hawkins said as he patted her shoulder.
‘Carrie needs her mum,’ Rebus stated.
‘I know.’
Hawkins was still nodding as Rebus walked to the door and left.
18
‘They’re all here,’ May Collins said, coming from behind the bar to lead Rebus to the corner table. ‘Took a bit more arranging than I thought.’ Four people sat waiting for him. Two walking frames were parked nearby.
‘This is my dad Joe,’ May said.
The small, hunched man looked to be having trouble with his breathing. The hand he held out had a perceptible tremor, the skin like crêpe paper. He wore glasses with thick lenses and his head was more liver spot than hair. Next to him sat a woman who could almost have been his sister.
‘Helen Carter,’ May said. Then, raising her voice, ‘Helen’s a bit deaf, despite the hearing aid. Aren’t you, Helen?’
The woman clucked and nodded.
Across the table sat a man of similar vintage, taller and thinner than Joe Collins, with angular features and no apparent need of glasses.
‘Stefan Novack,’ May Collins said. ‘Helen and Stefan both live in Tongue. Stefan was kind enough to give her a lift.’
Rebus took Novack’s hand while looking at the figure seated next to him. This young man held up his hands.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘This is Jimmy Hess,’ May Collins was explaining. ‘His grandad’s not great today.’
‘Your grandad being…?’
‘Frank Hess–Franz, actually, just like Joe is Josef.’ Jimmy gestured towards May Collins’ father. ‘And as I always say, no, we’re not related to Rudolf.’
‘Not that we ever see Frank in here,’ May went on.
‘Not really a drinker,’ Jimmy explained to Rebus. ‘Not these days.’
‘Get yourself seated and I’ll fetch you a drink,’ May Collins told Rebus, giving him a pat on the arm.
‘Just sparkling water,’ he said, settling himself at the head of the table.
‘Very sorry for your loss,’ Jimmy Hess said. He was a large man and ungainly with it. Late thirties maybe, no sign of a wedding ring. Dark hair receding rapidly at the temples.
‘I appreciate you standing in for your grandfather,’ Rebus said. ‘But this is probably a waste of your time.’
Hess held up his hands again. It was something he obviously did a lot, probably without even being conscious of it. ‘Thing is, Grandad used to talk to me all the time about the camp, and I sat in when Keith was asking his questions, so maybe I’m more useful than you think.’
Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘As you all know,’ he began, addressing the table, ‘Keith was my daughter’s partner. Someone killed him at Camp 1033, and it looks like his computer and some of his notes were taken. I’ve been studying what’s left and I know the camp had become an obsession. I’m just wondering what he learned from talking to you.’
‘I didn’t catch all of that,’ Helen Carter said, leaning so close to Rebus they were almost touching. ‘You know I wasn’t a prisoner?’
Rebus smiled. ‘You worked in the dispensary. There’s a bit about it in Keith’s files.’
‘And you did marry one of the internees,’ Hess called across the table. ‘I’ve still got a toy horse Helen’s husband carved when he was inside.’ He looked to Rebus. ‘A lot of internees were let out to work the fields and take exercise.’
May Collins placed Rebus’s drink in front of him.
‘No nodding off now,’ she warned her father, whose eyelids were drooping.
‘Blame the conversation,’ he barked at her, his voice still heavily accented.
‘You were another of the prisoners who was able to leave the camp?’ Rebus asked him.
‘Of course.’
‘And you were a newly promoted officer, I think–meaning a different accommodation block to the lesser ranks?’
‘Correct.’
‘How did you end up in Camp 1033?’
‘My platoon was surrounded. We had no choice but to surrender.’
‘And you, Mr Novack?’
Novack’s right hand moved with slow deliberation towards the glass on the table in front of him. His fingers curled around it without making any attempt to raise it. ‘Before 1033 was a British camp, it belonged to the Poles.’
‘You got on the wrong side of General Sikorski? So you weren’t here at the same time as Mr Collins and Mr Hess?’
‘Not quite, no–though Helen was a constant throughout.’ Novack looked at Helen Carter and gave a slight bow of his head.
‘I only caught a little of that,’ Carter said, fiddling with her hearing aid.
‘Offer her a post-prandial rum, however,’ Novack said quietly, ‘and you will find her hearing miraculously unimpaired.’
The sly glance she gave him confirmed the prognosis.
‘I returned here immediately after the war,’ Novack continued for Rebus’s benefit. ‘I had fond memories of the place and the people–and I’d found that there wasn’t much of a life waiting for me back in Poland. Camp 1033 was still operational then, of course. It only closed in 1947. Internees were used as unpaid labour–no need to send them home, as there had been no official armistice at war’s end. And of course the country needed workers.’
‘Is that when you were released, Mr Collins?’ Rebus asked.
‘Exactly so.’
‘And like Mr Novack, you chose to stick around?’
A further twitch of the shoulders. ‘I had fallen in love.’
Rebus turned to Jimmy Hess. ‘And your grandfather?’
Hess was nodding. ‘Same thing.’
‘Odd, isn’t it?’ Helen Carter broke in. ‘I don’t think many British POWs stayed in Germany after 1945.’
‘You only have yourself to blame for being so accommodating,’ Novack said. ‘I don’t mean you personally, Helen, but Scottish people in general.’
‘So nothing but happy memories of the camp?’ Rebus enquired.
‘There was hardship,’ Novack said. ‘The place was freezing in winter, stifling in summer. Even after British soldiers replaced the Poles, there were incidents. It was thought someone had tried to poison the camp’s delivery of bread–isn’t that correct, Helen?’
‘A lot of the men got food poisoning. Just one of those thing
s.’
Rebus’s eyes were on Novack. ‘You don’t think it was random chance?’
‘People were friendly in the main, but try to imagine it–exotic foreigners arrive in your midst and are free to walk around the community, charming your womenfolk…’
‘Leading to a certain resentment?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Best if Joseph tells it,’ Novack stated.
‘What is there to tell?’ Collins barked across the table.
‘A fellow internee died, Joseph.’
‘Died how?’ Rebus asked into the uncomfortable silence.
‘Firing squad. He’d shot and killed one of the guards.’ Novack’s attention turned to Helen Carter. ‘The guard was a friend of your sister’s, wasn’t he, Helen? I’m not quite remembering his name…’
‘His name was Gareth,’ she intoned in a voice that was almost a whisper, her rheumy eyes beginning to fill. ‘Gareth Davies.’
‘Two men, one woman.’ Novack offered a shrug.
Rebus turned his attention back to Joe Collins. ‘The revolver you kept on the wall behind the bar–what was that about?’
‘I found it washed ashore. Probably belonged to a guard, tossed away to mark the end of the conflict.’
‘You had it made safe?’
‘No need–the mechanical parts had seized; it was never going to work.’
‘When it went missing, what did you think?’
‘It is of no consequence.’
Behind Rebus the door clattered open, a shadow looming over the table.
‘What the hell are you up to?’ Robin Creasey demanded. Rebus turned to face him.
‘Just doing your job, DS Creasey. Someone has to.’
‘A word with you outside, right now.’
Rebus gave a sigh of apology as he rose slowly from the table, following the detective out onto the pavement.
‘You’ve been back to the camp,’ Creasey stated.
‘You got my message, then?’
‘So what is it you feel you need to tell me?’
Rebus made show of considering the question. ‘Now that I think of it, I’m not sure it’s anything you should concern yourself with. Probably got enough on your plate as it is.’
