A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I think we’ve maybe been tugging the forelock, Malcolm. We need to start making people feel a lot less comfortable–cop shop’s a pretty good place for that, wouldn’t you say?’

  Fox considered for a moment, then nodded his agreement.

  21

  ‘You,’ Cole Burnett told Benny through lips cracked with dried blood, ‘you are fucking dead, my man.’

  Burnett was strapped to a rickety metal chair, the kind you’d find tossed into a skip when an office building was being refurbished. One of his eyes was swelling nicely and, stripped to his underpants by Benny, you could see where the bruises were starting to appear on his ribs and kidneys. Face pockmarked with acne; close-cropped gelled hair. It had taken longer than hoped to track him down, and then instead of getting into the car when told, the teenager had turned and fled. He was faster than Benny, and knew Moredun and Ferniehill better, heading down footpaths and across parkland, neither of which the car could deal with. After which he had become invisible. It had taken favours and a bit too much cash for Benny’s liking before the neighbourhood started to whisper in his ear. Texts came and went; rumours turned out to be unfounded. But eventually Benny had prevailed.

  Not that the boss was entirely happy. The club was open for the evening, meaning Benny’d had to bring Burnett to a garage workshop down a lane near Tollcross, a garage whose roller-shutter door was seldom seen open, except in the dead of night when a car might arrive requiring a change of number plates and maybe even a paint job. Place wasn’t soundproofed, but the locals knew better than to pry or complain.

  Burnett’s clothes sat in a pile near the chair. Benny had been through them, not finding much. A bit of grass and some tablets–now safely stowed in his own pockets. Couple of hundred in cash, ditto. The bank cards he’d left, along with the condom. Couldn’t take a man’s last condom–maybe Burnett would get lucky later, though Benny doubted it. He finished his latest cigarette and stubbed it out against the oil-stained concrete floor. The garage was empty tonight, the inspection pit covered over. Most of the tools were kept in a series of padlocked metal lockers, which was why Benny had brought his own bag from the boot of the Merc. It sat on a workbench, directly in Burnett’s line of sight.

  ‘Gie’s a smoke then,’ Burnett said, not for the first time. His other greatest hits included ‘Freezin’ here, man’ and ‘You know who I am?’ He was putting this last one to Benny yet again when Big Ger Cafferty arrived, giving Benny a moment’s withering look as he passed him on his way to the chair. The boss was dressed in a black puffa jacket, zipped to the neck. Steel-toecapped shoes, the kind you’d wear on a construction site. Black leather driving gloves. Black baseball cap. Without bothering to remove the cap, he crouched slightly so his face was level with that of the seated figure.

  ‘You know who I am?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re that cunt that used to be somebody.’

  Cafferty half turned to smile in Benny’s direction. ‘Some baws on the boy, eh?’ Then he swiped Burnett’s face hard with the back of his hand. The force was enough to send the chair toppling sideways, Burnett’s head connecting with the floor with a thud.

  ‘Bastard,’ the teenager spat.

  Cafferty squatted next to him. ‘Bastard is the right word, bawbag. But a bastard who knows all about you. Knows you think you’re the dog with two pricks. Right now I could slice both of them off and leave you howling at the moon. Cockless Cole, your old comrades will call you. How does that sound?’

  ‘Better than being an old sweaty bastard with a gut.’

  ‘I sweat when I get excited. And to tell you the truth, I’d almost forgotten how the anticipation of GBH gets me excited.’ He placed one hand around Burnett’s throat and started to squeeze. Burnett tried twisting himself free to no effect, his eyes bulging as he gasped for air. Cafferty gave it a good twenty seconds before easing off. ‘Got your attention yet, Cockless?’

  ‘Untie me and try that again.’ Burnett’s eyes were filled with rage. Cafferty turned once more towards Benny.

  ‘He reminds me what I was like before I learned better.’ Then, to Burnett: ‘Anger’s all well and good, but there’s such a thing as the survival instinct too–you might want to start using it.’

  ‘Fuck is it you want?’

  ‘We want a phone.’

  ‘A phone? Is that all?’

  ‘The phone you took from the wee Chinese girl you thumped.’

  Burnett thought for a second. ‘It’s long gone.’

  ‘Then you’re going to get it back.’

  ‘What do you need it for?’

  ‘I don’t–but she does. And you’re going to tell her you’re sorry.’

  ‘Am I fuck.’

  Slowly Cafferty rose to his full height. He placed his right foot on Burnett’s left cheek and began to press down. ‘Shattered jawbone takes a while to heal. Milkshakes through a straw if you’re lucky.’ Burnett’s lips were mashed together so that Cafferty couldn’t make out what he was saying. Benny, holdall in hand, had taken a couple of steps forward, just in case he was needed. ‘I like you, Cole,’ Cafferty continued. ‘I like what I’ve heard about you. I think maybe we can come to an arrangement.’ He paused. ‘You know how things work in Dundee? Cuckooing, they call it. Find an easy target, set up a lab in their house, make the stuff quick and cheap and get it out on the street. Your hood’d be good for that–and I reckon you’ll know more than a few suitable locations. Give the phone back and I’ll bring you into the game. You’ll be a player rather than the ballboy. How does that sound?’

  He didn’t ease his foot off, not straight away. But eventually he did. Burnett’s nose was running with a mixture of mucus and blood, his underfed chest going in and out, breath coming in broken rasps. Cafferty gestured to Benny, who grabbed the chair and righted it, none too gently. Burnett glared at his abductor, then at Cafferty.

  ‘Give me the other options.’

  ‘They’re right there in my associate’s bag.’ Cafferty nodded to let Benny know the holdall could now be opened and its contents made known to Cole Burnett.

  Not much more than an hour later, Burnett was in his mate Les’s aunt’s place, swigging cheap alcohol, using it to wash down a few more pills. Nice buzz going, almost enough to distract him from memories of the garage. Les lived with his aunt. Burnett had wondered if he was even shagging her. They were related and everything and she had to be twenty years older than him, but she was still tidy. Les had always denied it, though, and whenever Burnett had tried giving her the chat, she’d told him to behave himself. She was out somewhere tonight and the usual crew were in her living room. The pizzas had been delivered. They had plenty of everything–except answers to the questions they were firing at Burnett.

  ‘Cafferty, though, man, what was he like?’

  ‘He give you that damage?’

  ‘Did you let him?’

  Burnett hadn’t bothered wiping away the blood. He wore it to show them all who he was, what he’d survived.

  ‘He’s an old man,’ he advised them through swollen lips. ‘His time’s well past.’

  ‘What did he want, though?’

  ‘He coming for us?’

  ‘Better bring an army with him, eh?’

  The can Burnett gripped in his right hand held super-strength lager. It had been out of the fridge too long and was beginning to get warmer than he liked, so he drained it. The voices around him took on the quality of chirruping insects. But there was another voice inside his head, and it was telling him to play along for now. Fetch the phone from the stash under his mum’s bed. Somehow get it back to its owner. Show willing. Be nice. He even had a few cuckooing houses in mind–he was sitting in one right now. Play along. Show willing. Be nice.

  For now.

  For now.

  But not forever…

  22

  Ron Travis had kept the café open for them. Rebus had thanked him and asked him to sit in. The two of them carried trays over to the table, where Joyce M
cKechnie and Edward Taylor waited. Drinks and slices of cake were doled out before Rebus took his

  seat.

  ‘I’ve been through everything in Keith’s garage,’ he said, ‘and done a bit of reading on the internet, so I know now that Keith thought Camp 1033 stood for all such camps, and that they showed us ourselves, good and bad. The good is that the community welcomed people like Stefan, Joe and Frank, helped them make their homes here. But on the other hand…’

  ‘The poisoning?’ McKechnie asked.

  ‘I was thinking more of the shooting.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Taylor said, ‘poor Sergeant Davies. He’d been seeing one of the local women.’

  ‘Helen Carter’s sister.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Taylor turned to McKechnie. ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Chrissy. Moved south around 1950.’

  ‘Still alive?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Helen.’

  ‘A detainee had certain feelings for Chrissy,’ Taylor continued. ‘Jealous of Sergeant Davies, he grabbed the man’s own gun and shot him in the head. Went to the firing squad for it.’ He studied Rebus. ‘Nothing in Keith’s notes?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’re right–it was certainly a story that intrigued him.’

  ‘No connection to the gun behind the bar at The Glen?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘That was found much later by Joe Collins–washed up on a beach, wasn’t it?’ Taylor looked to McKechnie, who nodded her agreement.

  ‘Either of you remember the name of the man who went to the firing squad?’

  ‘Hoffman? Something like that,’ Taylor offered.

  Rebus realised that he knew the name. ‘I saw a Hoffman mentioned on one of Keith’s lists–he was quite senior in the camp, wasn’t he? Deputed to make sure things ran smoothly?’

  Taylor was nodding. ‘Germans kept the camp regulated. Separate quarters for officers and lesser ranks.’

  Rebus noticed that Joyce McKechnie was playing with her watch strap, hinting that she had somewhere else to be.

  ‘Just a couple more things,’ he said. ‘I saw the calculations Keith had done. I know you wanted to turn the camp into something tourists would benefit from…’

  ‘Keith approached the Scottish government, Historic Scotland…’

  ‘And kept getting knocked back.’

  ‘It was pretty dispiriting,’ Taylor agreed.

  ‘And you couldn’t do it by yourselves without a lot of work and private funding. The land the camp is on is owned by Lord Strathy?’

  ‘The Strathy Land Trust, to be precise,’ McKechnie said, ‘but ultimately, yes, it belongs to the Meiklejohns.’

  ‘And did Keith have any direct dealings with the family?’

  ‘He tried, at least once. Never any answer to his calls and letters, so he drove over there. Don’t you remember him telling us, Edward? He interrupted some gathering or other–marquee on the lawn and all that. Reading between the lines, he made a bit of a scene. There were photos from the party in one of the glossies. I showed them to Keith and that’s when he told me they’d manhandled him off the property.’

  ‘Manhandled? Not by the gardener, by any chance?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You don’t still have that magazine, do you?’

  ‘In a pile somewhere.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you could…’

  ‘Effect some archaeology?’ McKechnie nodded and smiled.

  ‘You know about the golf resort?’ Taylor asked Rebus.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Meiklejohn was never going to sell. If he has his way, everything will be flattened, landscaped or built on.’

  ‘Which would entail doing the same to the steading currently occupied by Jess Hawkins and his friends?’

  ‘Ah, how much do you know about that?’

  ‘I know one of his lordship’s previous wives currently lives there, which gives him yet another reason to hate the place.’

  ‘Hawkins does seem to be somewhat of a marriage wrecker—’

  ‘I did think,’ Travis interrupted, leaning his elbows on the table, ‘that the nights Keith slept at the camp, maybe there was an element of reconnaissance.’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘To what end?’

  ‘Payback,’ Travis said simply. Then, after a pause: ‘One other thing–the night he died, a motorbike rumbled past here.’

  ‘Not so unusual,’ Taylor said. ‘Plenty of locals use them.’

  ‘And tourists, too,’ McKechnie added.

  ‘This was pretty late, though–I was in bed; I’m sure the sound woke me up.’

  ‘A big bike, then?’ Rebus enquired. ‘Like the Kawasaki they keep out at Stalag Hawkins? Have you told the investigation?’

  ‘I’m not sure they thought it relevant–it probably isn’t.’

  ‘And as I say,’ Edward Taylor added, ‘lots of folk around here use them–I’ve even seen your daughter on one.’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘Samantha?’

  ‘Riding pillion with Hawkins at the controls. Used to ride a bike myself back in my younger days.’

  ‘Mind you,’ Ron Travis commented, ‘size of some of our potholes, you could lose a bike in them if you’re not careful.’

  The conversation continued for a further minute or so until they realised Rebus had long ago ceased listening, his mind somewhere else entirely.

  Samantha eventually opened the door to him, a pained look on her face.

  ‘What do you want, Dad?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘And Carrie?’

  ‘Still at Jenny’s.’

  ‘Have you told her yet?’

  ‘Yes.’ She attempted to blink back a tear. ‘I’m just here getting some of our stuff; we’re staying with Jenny and her mum.’

  ‘Julie Harris–I’ve met her. Can I come and visit?’

  ‘Not tonight.’ She angled her head, determined that the tears would not escape. ‘They took me to see him. To identify him, I mean. And they got my fingerprints. And all the time it was happening, I was thinking: this is what my dad used to do; this is how he spent his working life. No emotion, no warmth, just a job to be got on with.’

  ‘Samantha…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have one question that needs answering.’ She just stared at him, so he ploughed on. ‘You’re sure you’ve no inkling who sent Keith that note telling him about you and Hawkins?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you remember the wording?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘I’ve learned a lot about Keith these past couple of days. He had a good heart and he cared about people. That’s why the camp fascinated him–he saw echoes in it of things that might happen again.’ He watched her recover her composure as his words sank in.

  ‘You’re right about that,’ she said quietly.

  ‘But all that passion he had tells me he might well have wanted a face-to-face with Hawkins, maybe after you had that argument?’

  Samantha’s face darkened. ‘How many times do I have to say it? Jess has nothing to do with this!’

  ‘But is it true you sometimes went out on his motorbike?’

  ‘Ages back–and what the hell’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘We have to give them something, Samantha–the cops, I mean. Because if we don’t, all they’ve got is you. Creasey knows you took Carrie to the commune that day. I’m guessing someone there told him.’

  She scowled and turned away, disappearing down the hall. He wasn’t sure what to do, but she was suddenly back, thrusting a piece of paper at him. He took it from her. Just the one word, all in capitals, done with a thick black marker pen: LEAVE.

  He looked at her for an explanation.

  ‘Stuck through the letter box–someone without the guts to say it to my face.’ She gestured towards the note. ‘They think I did it, and they’re not the only ones, are they?’

  ‘I don’t think you did it, Samantha.’

  ‘Then
why are you so desperate to put someone else–anyone else–in the frame?’

  Rebus reached out and took her by the wrist while he tried to find the right words, but she shrugged herself free and took a step back inside the house.

  ‘I’m closing the door now,’ she said, almost in a whisper.

  ‘Is it the same writing as the other note?’ Rebus asked.

  Instead of answering, she shut the door.

  He looked down and realised he was still holding the piece of paper.

  After closing time again at The Glen, Rebus was perched on a stool, nursing a well-watered whisky. He’d asked May Collins if Helen’s sister Chrissy was still alive.

  ‘Died a few years back–I remember Helen heading south for the funeral.’

  She was in the office now, putting the day’s takings into the safe. Cameron was outside, smoking a roll-up. Rebus took out the note and unfolded it. He felt helpless and was struggling not to turn that feeling into anger.

  I don’t think you did it…

  Despite everything.

  He was rubbing his stinging eyes when Cameron barged back into the pub.

  ‘Someone’s just had a go at your car,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What?’ Rebus slid from the stool and strode towards the door. He followed Cameron outside. The Saab was parked kerbside about forty feet away, the closest he had been able to get to the pub at the time. As they approached the car, Cameron walked out onto the roadway, pointing to the bodywork. He flicked his phone’s torch on so Rebus could see the damage. A long, ugly line weaving its way along both rear door and front.

  ‘You saw them?’ Rebus asked, running a finger along the scratch.

  ‘Car pulled up, driver got out. I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Drove off again. Thought it odd so I came and looked.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I was checking my phone,’ Cameron said with a shrug.

  ‘The car, then?’

  Another shrug. ‘Mid-sized. Dark colour.’

  ‘Some eyewitness you make, son.’ Rebus looked around. ‘No other cars on his hit list?’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming it was a he?’

  ‘Think so.’