A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Try out by the caravan,’ Collins advised.

  Rebus unlocked the back door and went outside. The rain had stopped, the sky bright blue. The caravan was small, maybe only a two-berth, dotted with lichen, its single window in need of a good clean. Rebus made the call. Creasey answered almost immediately.

  ‘Don’t,’ the detective said. ‘All we’re after is a better idea of how the deceased ties to Lord Strathy. We know they argued about the camp buyout and we know things got a bit heated when Keith barged into a social gathering at the castle.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Samantha’s being asked what she knew about any or all of it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’m sure she’ll tell you in the fullness of time.’

  ‘You’re stranding her in Inverness again?’

  ‘Relax, she’s a lot closer to home than that.’

  ‘You got the door unlocked at the station in Tongue?’

  ‘I wish you’d leave us to get on with our job, John.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything about the memory stick?’

  ‘Can I remind you for the umpteenth time–you’re not the detective here. In fact, you’re the father of our chief suspect. We don’t tend to share with anyone unless there’s good reason.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘Have you listened to it?’

  ‘Most of it.’

  ‘So you’ll agree there’s nothing there for us to get excited about? Apart from oral history buffs, I mean.’

  ‘The killer took his laptop, notes and phone. That has to mean something. Then there’s the gun…’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Say Keith was the one who took it. Maybe he thought with all our forensic advances there’d be evidence that could be gleaned from it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So where is it? Was it in the bag?’

  ‘John, the person who killed Sergeant Davies went to the firing squad.’

  ‘Someone went to the firing squad, certainly.’

  There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘So what are we talking about here–a fit young man overpowered and murdered by someone in their nineties? Or maybe you think a ghost did it–there are plenty on social media who do. We’ve had to chase half a dozen of them away from the crime scene this week.’

  Rebus leaned a hand against the side of the caravan. There were cigarette butts on the ground beneath him. He crouched to pick one up. The filter was a sliver of rolled-up cardboard. Spliffs. Looked like cider wasn’t Cameron’s only indulgence.

  ‘How long will you keep her?’ he asked Creasey.

  ‘Actually we’re done. That’s why I’ve got time to waste with you. Her friend is fetching her. Oh, and by the way–that news leak? Strathy and the anonymous note? Don’t think I’m not aware who’s behind it. So thanks a bunch for that, John. Cooperation is a two-way street, remember.’

  ‘Well, here’s me cooperating then, like a good citizen. The night Keith was killed, Ron Travis heard a motorbike.’

  ‘He mentioned it.’

  ‘There’s a bike at Hawkins’ compound. Available for anyone to use. Maybe ask if someone took it out that night. Oh, and the party at Strathy Castle, the one Keith was bundled out of? I reckon our friend Colin Belkin is in the frame for that. So maybe you could ease up on an innocent woman and go check those leads out…’ Rebus broke off, realising he was talking to himself. He studied his phone screen. He still had a signal. Creasey had ended the call.

  ‘Shitehawk,’ he muttered. Then, after another glance towards the remains of Cameron’s spliffs, he tried the door of the caravan. It was unlocked. He ducked under the lintel and took a step inside. The space was cramped and stuffy, the area around the sink cluttered with mugs and glasses. Didn’t look like the two-ring stove got much use. Breakfast cereal; some milk staying cool in a basin of water. The bed had been turned back into a table. There were American comics spread across the floor. The tiny toilet cubicle looked like it doubled as a shower, a faint aroma of waste water emanating from it.

  ‘Help you?’

  Cameron was standing just outside the caravan, tobacco and cigarette papers in his hand. Rebus tried not to look like the guilty party as he backed out into the courtyard.

  ‘Just wondering if you happened to have a revolver lying about in there,’ he said.

  ‘What use would I have for that?’

  ‘Maybe there’s a collectors’ market.’

  ‘Steal from May?’ The barman was focused on constructing his cigarette. ‘You think I’d do that after all the kindness she’s shown me?’ His eyes finally met Rebus’s as he licked the edge of the paper.

  ‘Okay, let’s say you’re the shining knight then, taking it to protect someone.’

  Cameron reached into the back pocket of his denims and brought out a disposable lighter. He got the cigarette going and inhaled deeply, taking pleasure in releasing the stream of smoke in Rebus’s direction.

  ‘Look all you want, there’s no rusty old revolver in there.’

  ‘You knew Keith a bit–could he have taken it?’

  ‘Pub was always busy when he was in.’

  Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Easier if the place was quiet, no one behind the bar. Or it happened between closing time and reopening.’

  Cameron squinted through the smoke. ‘That would certainly narrow things down.’

  ‘Ever been in trouble with the law, son?’

  ‘Because I have tattoos and a few piercings, you mean?’ He gestured towards the roaches on the ground. ‘Smokes a bit of dope so he has to be a bad ’un.’ His mouth formed a sour smile. ‘Sam always said you were a bit of a dinosaur. I’m starting to see what she meant.’ A final draw on the thin cigarette and it was done. He flicked it to the ground. ‘Came out to tell you Joyce McKechnie left a bag for you. I’ve put it on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The two men’s eyes met again and both gave slow nods. Rebus watched Cameron head indoors, waited a few moments and then followed.

  The kitchen was empty, but a mug of tea sat where his soup bowl had been. He took a mouthful before opening the carrier bag. Magazines. McKechnie had folded down the relevant corners. Gatherings at Strathy Castle; events where Lord Strathy had been a guest. One showed him cutting the ribbon on an upgraded school playground. In another, he was opening a birdwatching facility in ‘the heart of the Flow Country’. To Rebus’s untrained eye, the Flow Country looked like miles and miles of bugger all: flat, treeless, colourless. But Strathy looked happy enough, or at least well fed and watered. If the society occasions were anything to go by, he liked his wine. Glass of red raised in almost every shot, mouth open as if he were about to start cheering. Pink-faced, paunchy, thinning hair and a roguish sparkle in the eye.

  From the dates of publication, Rebus reckoned he knew which party it was Keith had crashed. The names of the photographed guests meant little to him, but he recognised Lady Isabella Meiklejohn and Salman bin Mahmoud. Stewart Scoular was there too, off to the right in one shot, behind someone’s shoulder in another. Siobhan had mentioned an Italian friend of bin Mahmoud’s and there was one name–Giovanni Morelli–that fitted the bill. Handsome face, arm around Lady Isabella’s waist. Wait, though… here was someone else Rebus recognised. Martin Chappell, stood next to his wife Mona. Both were holding champagne glasses and smiling for the camera. Rebus had never met Chappell, but he knew who he was.

  He was Chief Constable of Police Scotland.

  In the photograph, Mona Chappell was sandwiched between her husband and Stewart Scoular, as if the three were old friends. Rebus took out his phone and photographed the page a few times from different angles. Stepping outside and finding a signal, he dispatched them to Siobhan Clarke. He waited a couple of minutes, wishing he still smoked. The smell from Cameron’s roll-up lingered in his nostrils, the taste clung to the back of his throat. For luck, he touched the inhaler in his pocket. Hadn’t needed it this whole trip. He wondered if it was the quality of the air.

&nb
sp; ‘Maybe just the lack of tenement stairs,’ he said to himself, heading indoors again, scooping up the mug of tea and making for the office.

  He knew the final recording would be Frank Hess. But when he clicked on it, he wondered if something had gone wrong–it wasn’t even half the length of the others. When he began to listen, he understood why. For the first few minutes everything was fine. Keith asked Hess about his post-war years, his various jobs–mostly labouring and building work–his family. But when it came to Camp 1033, Hess grew agitated.

  ‘I have erased it from my head–all of it.’ The voice was slightly high-pitched, Germanic but with touches of Scots intonation. ‘If others wish to remember, so be it. I want to be allowed to forget–that is my right, no?’

  Keith: ‘Yes, of course. But you must have happy memories of that time too. You were allowed out of the camp most days. I believe you worked on several farms and repaired some of the dry-stone walls, walls we can still see today. You mixed easily with the local community.’

  ‘So what? I ask you, Keith: so what? It was long ago and everyone I knew is now dead. Why would I want to remember any of that?’

  ‘Helen isn’t dead; Stefan and Joe aren’t dead.’

  ‘As good as–and we will all be feeding the worms soon. This world is on a path to chaos. Have you not noticed? I have heard it compared to the 1930s. Everyone bitter and pointing the finger at the person they think is to blame for their misfortune. It was an ugly time then and it is an ugly time now. Please don’t ask me to dig it all up again.’

  ‘All I’m trying to do is—’

  ‘No, Keith, no–enough. I tried to tell you many times that this is not for me. Switch it off. We are finished here.’

  ‘There are so few of you left who remember. Just one last question about the revolver then—’

  ‘Enough, I said!’

  A third voice interrupted. Rebus recognised it: Jimmy Hess.

  ‘Christ’s sake, Keith, you trying to give him a heart attack?’

  ‘We’re just talking, Jimmy.’

  ‘Maybe so, but now you’re done. You okay, Grandpa?’

  ‘I feel terrible.’

  ‘I told you he wasn’t keen,’ Jimmy Hess was saying. ‘Pack your stuff up–I’ll see you for a drink later.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Frank,’ Keith apologised.

  ‘If that was true, you would not have come here in the first place,’ the old man barked.

  ‘Look, I’m switching it off,’ Keith said, at which point the recording ended.

  Rebus knew now why Frank Hess hadn’t made it to the pub that evening. Maybe he had been unwell, but it wasn’t just that. What was that quote about the past being another country? There were things in his own past he would rather not linger on, too many skeletons for just the one closet.

  ‘How’s it all going?’ May Collins asked from the doorway.

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘Not long.’ She gestured towards the empty mug. ‘Need a top-up?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Frank Hess isn’t the talkative sort, is he?’

  ‘Frank’s a grumpy old sod. By all accounts he was a grumpy young sod, too. His only daughter died in a car crash about ten years back. Her husband was in the car with her. He died too. Been to a party, drinking, not thinking it mattered–roads around here deserted and all that. Off the road and into a tree.’ Collins sighed. ‘Don’t think that improved his general outlook on life.’

  ‘So it’s just him and Jimmy?’

  Collins nodded. ‘Jimmy has two sisters but they’re down south. Either one of them would take Frank, but he won’t budge. They come up sometimes, give Jimmy a bit of respite.’

  ‘Families, eh?’ Rebus commented, for want of anything else to say.

  ‘I reckon we all live too long these days, that’s the problem. What’s that film where you only get to reach a certain age? Sci-fi thing.’

  ‘Michael York,’ Rebus said. ‘I forget the title, but I seem to remember they were culled when they reached forty.’

  ‘Bad news for both of us,’ May said with a smile. ‘Did you get any joy about Sam?’

  ‘They’re done and dusted with her. Few questions about Keith and Lord Strathy.’

  ‘The land buy?’ She watched as he nodded. ‘Joyce told me about the magazines. You reckon Strathy’s vanishing act is connected?’

  ‘Christ knows, May.’ Rebus ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Maybe I’m not so different from the ghost-hunters who’ve been heading to the camp.’

  Collins laughed. ‘I heard about that. They had equipment and everything–wands attached to machines. Waving them around, waiting for a reading.’

  ‘Pretty much what I’m doing here.’ Rebus nodded towards the computer.

  ‘You’re doing more than that.’ He sensed her reaching a hand out towards his shoulder again. He stood up and she lowered her arm. He crouched to remove the memory stick. By the time he’d straightened up, she was gone.

  28

  Siobhan Clarke had been to Gartcosh before, but not often and not for a while. An hour or so’s drive from Edinburgh; probably less than half that from Glasgow. The land surrounding it still had a bleak post-industrial feel. There were no houses, hotels or shops that she could see. Instead, the place sat in splendid isolation, far away from the world it investigated. The Scottish Crime Campus had the look of a modern polytechnic, albeit one protected by a high fence and whose only entry was via a guardroom. Her warrant card had been checked; she had been photographed and a visitor pass printed out.

  ‘Make sure it’s visible at all times,’ she was told.

  Having passed through a set of glass double doors with an airlock, she waited for Fox to do the same. It was a short walk to the complex’s main entrance. During those steps, something happened to Fox. His gait became more confident and his shoulders slackened, his face relaxing. This was a place where his abilities made sense and were recognised. Clarke wondered, had their roles been reversed, whether she’d feel the same. As they crossed the atrium, he couldn’t help playing tour guide, pointing in the vague direction of the HMRC and Procurator Fiscal units. Having climbed the stairs, it was the turn of Counter-Terrorism. But they were headed to the other side of the concourse and Fox’s own domain, Major Crime.

  Fox’s staff card, swinging from a lanyard around his neck, was far from a flimsy visitor’s pass and could be used to unlock at least some of the secure doors around them. He ushered Clarke inside one of these and they walked down a narrow corridor. The offices either side were identical glass boxes. His colleagues sat at computers mostly, peering at screens, sometimes speaking quietly into microphone headsets. Others were making phone calls or huddled in discussion. It all looked as exciting as an accountancy firm, the men in shirts and ties, the women wearing unshowy blouses in muted colours. There were a few waves or nods of welcome in Fox’s direction as well as inquisitive looks towards Clarke. She had spoken on the phone many times to Major Crime personnel; knew some of their names from email correspondence. But she didn’t recognise a single face.

  Fox entered one of the rooms. Two desks, only one of which was occupied.

  ‘Where’s Robbie?’ he asked.

  ‘Getting a coffee,’ the bespectacled young woman said. ‘And good morning to you too, Malcolm.’

  ‘Sorry, Sheena,’ he apologised. ‘This is DI Clarke.’

  ‘Siobhan,’ Clarke added with a smile.

  ‘Post-it note for you on your desk,’ Sheena told Fox. He plucked it from his computer screen and read it.

  ‘Fraud unit,’ he explained to Clarke. ‘Far as they can tell, Scoular’s clean. Has dealings with offshore banks and corporations, but that’s not unusual in his line of work.’ He crumpled the note and flicked it into a waste-paper bin.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Sheena,’ Clarke said, following him as he made his purposeful exit.

  A coffee cart sat on the far side of the concourse, a small chatty queue in front of i
t. There were seats nearby and Fox approached one of them.

  ‘Hiya, Robbie.’

  The man looked up. He was in his thirties, head completely shaved. When he stood, Clarke saw that he was well over six feet tall and as lean as a picked bone.

  ‘Been away, Malcolm?’ he enquired.

  ‘But keeping busy–how about you?’ Fox realised that Robbie’s eyes were on Clarke, so he made the introductions.

  ‘Either of you want a coffee?’ Robbie asked, shaking Clarke’s hand.

  ‘Love one,’ she said before Fox could demur. They joined the queue. Robbie had binned his finished cup.

  ‘Where do you live, Siobhan?’ he asked.

  ‘Edinburgh. How about you?’

  ‘Motherwell.’

  ‘I go there for the football sometimes. You a fan?’

  ‘As it happens. What’s your team?’

  ‘Hibs.’

  ‘I feel your pain.’ Fox was beginning to look impatient with how slowly the queue was moving. ‘Malcolm’s not got time for football–or much else for that matter.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Fox said defensively.

  ‘Last film you saw?’ Robbie asked him. ‘Last book you finished?’

  ‘He’s always like this,’ Fox complained to Clarke. ‘Likes nothing better than trying to wind people up.’

  Robbie grinned, eyes still on Clarke. ‘Know why I get away with it?’

  ‘Because people need to keep on your good side?’

  ‘And why’s that, do you think?’

  ‘They’re always after some favour or other.’

  ‘Always after some favour or other,’ Robbie echoed, shifting his attention to Fox. ‘And it has to be done asap, especially if it’s Major Crime asking–does that pretty much sum it up, Malcolm?’

  Fox had reached the head of the queue. Without asking Clarke, he ordered two cappuccinos. ‘Robbie?’ he asked.

  ‘Same for me.’

  Having paid, there was then another long wait while the barista got to work.

  ‘Worth it, trust me,’ Robbie told Clarke. ‘So you get along to a game now and then?’

  ‘Not as often as I’d like.’

  He handed her a business card. ‘If you fancy a drink before or after the next time our teams meet in battle…’